Page 7 of Bonfire and Bliss Bookstore

She replies in Portuguese—which I don’t understand—but when she stands up to scurry for a towel, I gather she’s okay.

I take the cloth from her to pat myself down, though the liquid soaked through my bra and burned the tender skin.

“I think I need to clean off in the bathroom.”

“Go up to Monty’s room. He’s got shirts.”

My heart skips a beat at the thought. “It’s okay. I only need to dry off. Milk isn’t worth crying about.”

She frowns as if she doesn’t understand me. Maybe the saying got lost in translation.

“No milk. I’ll make more tea, though,” she says, ushering me toward the stairs with a wave of her hand before disappearing back through the kitchen, and leaving me alone in the foyer.

I gaze up the stairs, then turn longingly back toward the front door. I can’t leave now, though. That would be rude, and besides, my bra is soaked and the fabric of my top sticks to my skin. I groan.

I’ve never been inside Monty’s room. And this isn’t how I imagined it happening.

Like the rest of my classmates, I enjoyed the famous Montgomery fall bonfire nights. Monty’s parents would hire a musician or two to play down by the water, and a few kids would throw a football around while others watched and laughed from the side, munching on s’mores.

I would always set myself up under the maple tree, my back resting against the bark and a book in my hand.

I enjoyed people watching, but interacting wasn’t my strong suit. Monty would play football with the guys for a while, but then he’d grab two s’mores and settle in beside me. Sometimes we wouldn’t even talk. He’d just read over my shoulder. Those moments are some of my favorite memories.

I still remember the smell of smoke mixed with the salty ocean breeze and Monty’s cologne. To this day, it’s the only thing that has ever rivaled the scent of autumn leaves.

But Monty and I never snuck into his house, never climbed these stairs and pushed his bedroom door open. He never pressed me against the wall and touched my pulse point. And he certainly never laid me down on his bed and—

“It’s the second door on the left!” Ana calls up to me now, pulling me out of my daydream.

I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here, so I rush up the steps and push the second door open before I lose my nerve.

This room smells like Monty. Maybe I’m imagining things, but it’s almost as if the smoky scent of bonfires from years ago lingers in the air, too.

I chide myself for making up stories again. Monty was here once this spring, but I couldn’t tell you when he’d last visited home before that.

Home. I doubt he calls it that. New York is Monty’s home. Not Hope Harbor. Not anymore.

I stop at the sight of the poster beside his bed. It’s one I gave him for his birthday when we turned eighteen and he’d just finished his first novel. It’s a simple design that reads: “There is no friend as loyal as a book.” —Ernest Hemingway.

I had no idea he’d hung it beside his bed.

As I shift, the dampness of my shirt reminds me why I came in here to begin with. I peel off the soaked shirt and bra—just to air the cotton out for a second—while I grab a T-shirt. I’m sure there’s something in here that will fit me.

I make my way over to the dresser pressed against the far wall and open the top drawer to reveal a stack of T-shirts. As I grab the first one, I can’t help but raise it to my nose.

It smells as if it’s just been pressed up against Monty’s skin, in the space between his shoulder and neck. Whenever he’d hug me, I’d always place my head there. I close my eyes on a sigh. Sometimes I wish I had more of Monty than a few shared texts and old memories.

Chapter 3

Monty

My grandfather, the original Jake Montgomery, was a loud Irishman who loved turning on the radio and spinning my grandmother around the living room at all hours. Sometimes, when I came home from school, I’d catch them slow-dancing, her hand in his, pressed against his heart, his eyes only on her.

After dinner, my parents would often join them. It was truly a happy time and I used to love sitting on the couch with a smile on my face, watching the four of them until inevitably my mother grabbed me, my father grabbed my vovo, and my grandfather sat in his chair by the fireplace, looking over all of us with a contented smile on his face.

The man could not have a conversation at a normal decibel, his excuse being that his big ears did nothing for hearing. I used to tease him that if he turned the radio down once in a while, this wouldn’t be a problem. He’d grin and ask me what the fun was in that.

I shake my head to clear it of the memory as we pull up to the familiar navy Victorian, preparing myself for the quiet that will greet me when I walk in. That was the hardest thing to get used to after his death. The absence of sound. And the joy that left when he did.