Chapter 26: Seven-Ten in Lisbon

Clara's whole life fit into two boxes and a backpack, and Beth carried the heavier box down the dorm stairs herself.

"I'm going to Boston, not the moon," Beth said, setting it on the sidewalk. "I'm going to text you eleven times a day."

"Twelve," Clara said.

"Twelve." Beth took off her glasses and wiped them on her sweatshirt. "Don't you dare get quiet on me. You do that."

"I won't."

"Say it out loud."

"I won't get quiet," Clara said. "I'll text you back."

Beth hugged her hard enough to knock the backpack off her shoulder.

Then she got in her car and drove away.

She cried the whole way to the end of the street, with the window down so Clara could hear.

Hannah Ferris was waiting in the doorway of the bookshop in her denim apron, holding a ring of keys.

The shop smelled of dust and old glue.

Behind the register a narrow stair went up to a room under the roof.

It had a slanted ceiling, a window over Main Street, and a bed made up with a faded quilt.

"It's yours as long as you want it," Hannah said. "The rent is you working the register three days a week, and not arguing with me about it."

"Hannah, I can't."

"You can." Hannah put the keys in her palm and closed Clara's fingers around them.

"He told me what you wouldn't let him pay for. This one is mine to pay for. It's a free bed and I like you."

Clara looked at the keys.

Nobody in her life had ever handed her something and wanted nothing back.