Flannel and Frost
Copyright© 2026 by Art Samms
Chapter 12
A couple of days later, more rain arrived. Thankfully, however, it came in modest amounts, in blessed contrast to the earlier deluge.
The library was unusually quiet for a late afternoon—the rain had kept most people home, and the usual bustle of students and retirees hadn’t fully returned after the flood. Fluorescent lights purred softly above as Evelyn restocked a cart of returns, sliding each book into its neatly labeled place. She tried to stay focused, but her thoughts kept drifting back to the porch step, to the warmth of the sun on her shoulders, to the way Ryan had looked at her—not cautiously, not warily, but openly. Like he was finally letting her see something real.
She hated how much that mattered.
From behind the circulation desk, Tori watched her with narrowed eyes, the kind she usually reserved for patrons attempting to sneak coffee inside their bags.
“So,” Tori said at full conversational volume, “are you going to pretend nothing is happening between you and Mr. Moody Hardware, or—”
“Tori.” Evelyn froze mid-shelving, gripping a hardcover like it was a lifeline. “No.”
“Oh, it’s definitely a yes,” Tori said, leaning forward on her elbows. “You’ve had exactly two working brain cells all day, and both of them are named ‘Ryan.’”
Evelyn shot her a look. “I don’t— It’s not— We just talked, okay? After the flood. People talk.”
“Uh-huh.” Tori pushed her glasses up her nose. “And does this ‘just talking’ usually involve you staring into someone’s soul like you’re cataloging their emotional metadata?”
Evelyn made a strangled noise and shoved a book onto the shelf a little too hard.
Tori lowered her voice as she approached, softening but not backing off. “Ev. I am your niece. And I’m also your friend. Which means I get to point out the obvious.”
“No,” Evelyn muttered. “No, you do not.”
“Yes,” Tori insisted gently. “Because you’re scared. And pretending not to be scared doesn’t make it better.”
Evelyn stopped moving. The quiet around them felt suddenly dense, like thick wool absorbing sound.
Tori continued, her tone all librarian calm mixed with friendly bluntness. “You’re afraid of letting someone in who could leave. So is he. But you’re already orbiting each other.”
Evelyn swallowed hard. “I’m not— We’re not— orbiting anything.”
“Oh please.” Tori leaned against the end of the shelf. “You two are basically two planets trapped in gravitational pull, pretending you’re just passing by. The rest of us can see it from space.”
Evelyn let out a shaky laugh despite herself. “He’s ... complicated.”
“So are you,” Tori said simply. “That’s not a problem. That’s compatibility.”
Evelyn turned a book over in her hands, tracing the embossed lettering with her thumb. She didn’t know how to explain the fluttering uncertainty inside her—the warmth that lingered in her chest after they talked, the strange ease between them, the fear of opening a door she might not be able to close again.
“He’s been through a lot,” she finally murmured. “And I don’t want to make anything harder for him.”
Tori smiled—softly, knowingly. “Then don’t make it harder. Make it honest.”
Evelyn blinked at her. “You make that sound so simple.”
“It is simple,” Tori said. “Not easy. But simple.”
The cart’s wheel squeaked faintly as Evelyn pushed it forward again, shelving another book without really seeing it. Her heart felt too big, too vulnerable, like someone had cracked open a door she’d kept shut for years.
She whispered, barely audible, “I don’t know where this goes.”
Tori nudged her shoulder. “You don’t have to. Just stop pretending you’re not already walking toward him.”
Evelyn stared down at the book in her hand—Atlas of the Night Sky—and tried not to think about gravity, orbit paths, or the impossible pull between two bodies that didn’t realize how close they already were.
The rain had finally thinned to a mist outside, tapping softly against Evelyn’s apartment windows like a gentle reminder that Willow Creek was still catching its breath. Inside, her small makeshift recording corner—wedged between a tall bookshelf and a vintage writing desk—glowed with the warm amber light of her desk lamp. The microphone stood ready, its matte-black frame swallowing the light, pop filter angled just so.
Evelyn adjusted her headphones, rolling her shoulders to ease the lingering tension from the last few days. Flood recoveries, porch conversations, unexpected looks exchanged through shop windows—her mind had been too full, too loud. Recording usually helped her sort herself out. Stories always did.
She opened her notebook, flipping to the page marked with a pressed wildflower. The story she was reading tonight was an old folktale—one her mother used to tell about two travelers who meet on opposite sides of a washed-out road.
“Symbolic,” she muttered, setting the notebook on the stand. “Thanks, universe.”
She hit record. Her voice slipped into the warm cadence she reserved for her subscribers—low, steady, inviting.
“In the days when the mountains still whispered to the trees,” she began, “there were wanderers who crossed the valley paths, searching for home and finding strangers instead...”
She read the first paragraph smoothly, but a memory burst forth mid-sentence—Ryan leaning over sandbags, soaked and focused, passing supplies to townsfolk with quiet determination. The soft apology in his voice at the library. The way he’d looked at her—really looked—on that porch step.
Her voice caught, just barely. She inhaled too sharply, clipped a consonant. She stopped recording.
“Great,” she muttered. “Very professional.”
She restarted the take.
“In the days when the mountains still whispered...”
But now her throat felt warm, too warm, and her mind refused to empty. Annoyance washed over her—not just at herself but at the way he had settled like an echo into her routine, her focus, her breathing pattern.
She exhaled slowly. Reset her posture. Tried again.
This time, her voice found its rhythm. She let the story unfurl, describing how the travelers came to trust one another slowly—warily—as they rebuilt the road together stone by stone. She read it cleanly, even warmly, but the parallels weren’t lost on her. Her pulse hummed in her ears with each line.
When she finished, she clicked off the mic and removed her headphones, setting them down with more force than she meant to.
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.