24
Mor
“I’m off.Thanks for your hard work today, Assistant Librarian.” I give Bo a salute as I slip my purse over my shoulder.
His snow-pale cheeks redden. “You don’t have to call me that.”
“I know I don’t. But I’m a librarian. You’re my assistant. Therefore, you are an assistant librarian.” Holding his eyes is easy when they’re such a pretty blue. “I’m being accurate. Feel free to use it on a résumé for future jobs.”
Bo slips his hand up to the back of his neck, massaging the thick column. The first few times I watched him make the move, I thought his neck might be paining him. Now I theorize it’s a move he makes when he’s embarrassed.
“Do you not want to be an assistant librarian?”
He stares downward, still tugging on his neck. “I-I guess I do.”
I’m still baffled how such a big, powerful, conventionally attractive man could be so insecure. What kind of life did hehave in that trailer? What world did he live in seventeen years ago that curved his shoulders with so much invisible weight?
Now, it’s not like I wish Bo were a cocky asshole. We’ve got enough straight white cis mystics who think they are the gods’ gift to the world.
But the more I get to know Bo, the more of his kind core I spy under his stony exterior. Every workday, he shows up and is helpful, humble, and curious.
Three of the most attractive qualities in a person. I find I like knowing he’s nearby. That he’s watching over my library when I get distracted by some half-legible passage about god objects in an ancient grimoire.
I trust Bo.
Which means he’s more than earned the title of assistant librarian.
“We should get name tags,” I declare, embracing the sudden urge to emblazon the job title on a little metal pin that he can wear for everyone to see. Where he can’t doubt the truth. “One for me and one for you. It’ll make it easier on patrons.” That last bit is bullshit. Most everyone who comes here is a local or a professor at Ramla. They already know my name, and Bo’s is easy enough to remember.
But who cares? Name tags are happening.
“Uh … okay?”
“I’ll order them next week.”
Bo drops his hand and nods. Then he steps out from behind the front desk and follows me toward the front door. Even though he was a few steps behind me, somehow, he manages to grab the knob before I do and holds the door open for me, showing some of that Southern gentleman charm I didn’t think I cared for until Bo started doing it.
“In addition to name tags,” I say, not sure this is the best segue, but I keep going, “you also have access to health insurance. As a full-time employee.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Now for the tough part. The theory I hope to broach without making Bo retreat.
“That includes vision.”
“Hmm.” The hum sounds like he’s humoring me. Because he doesn’t know why I’m bringing this up.
I sigh, then dive into the deep end. “Bo, I think you get headaches when you read because of your eyesight. Not because of your intelligence. You should schedule an appointment. It’s fully covered under your insurance.”
I hand him a business card for Galen’s Gaze, Folk Haven’s optometry.
“Oh.” He swallows hard and accepts the card. Then he squints at the tiny text.
Proving my point.
I grasp his wrist and guide him to flip the card over, where I wrote the phone number in bold, large print.
“Thank you,” he mumbles, cheeks reddening. When I release his hand, he tucks the card into his back pocket.
