My throat tightens. “I know.”
“You’ve given so much to this library. The board appreciates that.”
This is worse than being yelled at. She’s using herkind voice—the one she uses on kids whose goldfish just died.
“We’ve had complaints,” she says carefully. “Not from patrons, but from…higher up. People are watching what happens here. We’re a public institution.”
My brows pull together. “What kind of complaints?”
Mrs. Luntz doesn’t meet my eyes. She taps her fingers once on the edge of the desk, like she’s stalling.
“Nothing specific. It’s…more about association. About certain connections that raise eyebrows.”
I stare at her. “I don’t understand.”
She gives me a tight, polite smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Carrie, you’re an excellent librarian. This isn’t about your work.”
“Then what is it about?”
A beat of silence.
She folds her hands in front of her, like she’s delivering news about a budget cut instead of turning my life upside down. “It’s been decided that your employment here is no longer tenable.”
I blink. “Wait—are you firing me?”
Her expression softens just enough to make it worse. “The board feels it’s best—for the library and for you—that we part ways. You’ll receive two weeks of severance.”
“I’m being fired because of who I’m dating?” I ask, voice rising despite my best efforts. “Is that what this is?”
She doesn’t answer right away.
And that silence is enough.
“You didn’t even ask me if any of those rumors were true,” I say, my voice low. “You just made assumptions.”
“There were discussions,” she replies. “And when public perception starts to threaten our reputation?—”
“You could’ve asked,” I repeat.
Mrs. Luntz looks pained, but she doesn’t backpedal.
“We’re not in a position to manage public fallout right now,” she says, still not meeting my eyes. “Budgets are tight. The board felt this was the most practical course of action.”
I let out a short laugh, but there’s nothing funny about it. “You could’ve just asked me. Asked what was real. What wasn’t.”
Her face folds with something that might be pity. “Carrie, I’m sorry. I truly am. I wish things were different.”
I push to my feet. “So do I.”
I don’t go back to the desk. I don’t stop to say goodbye.
I head straight to the staff room, moving on autopilot. My locker is still propped open from lunch. I toss my mug inside my tote bag, grab the worn cardigan I always leave hanging on the hook, and slide the framed photo of me and Jinn from behind the shelf where I keep it tucked away.
It’s dumb, but I stare at it for a second. We’re smiling. The kind of open, careless joy that only looks real when you don’t know what’s coming.
I wrap the frame in a spare T-shirt and slide it into my bag.
When I turn to leave, I catch movement through the narrow window in the break room door. Marla, the circulation manager, lingers by the copier, eyes flicking toward me and away again just as quickly. Beside her, James from IT gives me the smallest nod, his mouth pressed in a tight line. Someone else whispers something behind the reference desk.
