“That was years ago. The police have already caught all those people.”
I smirk. “Not funny.”
Thankfully the food arrives, another bartender setting our plates in front of us and briefly asking us about condiments and such. I think maybe I’ve escaped this conversation, but no such luck. Apparently I’m the one not ready to end it. “How many messages do you have?” Translated to:How badly do I stack up?
She unrolls her silverware. “None. I haven’t gone live yet. I plan to after my meeting. Read your messages.”
“No,” I say. “Absolutely not.” I shove my phone into my purse. “You have a meeting, remember?”
“Fine, yes,” she concedes. “I do have a meeting, but are you going to help me with my article? And before you answer, I won’t use your name.”
“You already said that.”
“I know you. You need to hear that promise more than once. Come on, Mia. It will be fun, just you and me.”
Easy words spoken casually but with a big impact.
My entire adult life and hers, too, we’ve leaned on each other.
Jess’s parents died in a car accident a month after she was hired at the magazine. She hadn’t talked to either of them in over a year. They’d disowned her. Turns out, she still inherited everything. And yet, despite this, and her instant success at her new job, we were in the same understated apartment.
Flash forward three months later, despite her already proving to be a shining star at her new job, and me working part-time at a small library branch while working on my master’s, we werestillin that tiny apartment. We lived there until I graduated andI insistedshe buy a place of her own. She resisted, but I knew it was time for me to go and for her to stop babysitting her college friend.
“Mia,” Jess presses.
“I’ll think about it,” I say, because as much as I want to say no, this is Jess. I’m always there for her, and she’s always there for me. As if I just said yes, she says, “I’ll be over tonight, and we can read the messages together.”
I set my fork down. “I do this alone or not at all.”
“Then you agree?”
“I’ll think about it.”
And that’s just what I do. I think about those messages through the rest of lunch, and even as I walk back to the library. I decide there’s no harm in just reading a few messages. What could go wrong?
Chapter Three
My mother was the first person to take me to a library. I was two, and the influence of that trip on my life was captured in a Polaroid photograph of me and my mother. Me, looking cute as a button back then, in pigtails, holding a couple of books that were as large as me, with a grin on my face. The joy I’d felt inside a circle of books radiates through that image. Beside me, my mother’s face had glowed. On that day, in that photo, we’d seemed the enchanted fairy-tale story of a mother and daughter destined to become best friends. As an adult I see that moment as one of my mother’s early attempts to mold my views to her own.
She’d sought to create a mini-me daughter addicted to knowledge. Instead, she’d gifted me with my addiction to the written word. Some might argue knowledge and the written word are the same thing, but I would disagree quite dogmatically. When one hunts for knowledge, it’s generally with a narrow agenda, such as my mother’s infatuation with statistics. With the written word, the view is unlimited, our dreams often stirred, our lives influenced by perhaps only one turned page that opens our minds to new possibilities.
As for me and my mother, I’d wanted to read a book. She’d wanted to play a game that focused on problem-solving. I’d done as she wished to please her, but the joy I’d felt in that library wasn’t present in those moments. That’s really where our divide began, in those joyless moments, and so I’d faded into the background of her number-chalkedschool boards in academia. The day I told her I was going to focus on attaining a master’s in library science, she cried. The day I got a job in a small corner library, she bit back scorn. The day I was promoted to the main library, I didn’t bother to tell her, despite being a kid rewarded with the biggest piece of candy in the candy store.
As I walk into that library now, calmness washes over me and settles in my belly, roots there like a little bunny under the perfect bush. This place is home, my home, despite being a magnetic castle welcoming visitors. The central library is not just a library but more akin to a museum of the artistic mind, which might sound geeky, but it’s true. We have three floors, an auditorium, high-tech presentations, a revolving art display, a play area for kids, a reading room, and even a café. When a new visitor walks into our location, you can observe their awe, the way their eyes look up, around, in front, and sometimes even behind their position to ensure they don’t miss any of the tiny details, from displays to murals. It’s a hustle-and-bustle location with never a dull moment, and in the busy downtown area, lunch hours are often filled with visitors who choose to enjoy the facility during their breaks. In the center of it all is the main library desk, where guests ask an information clerk for aid. On each floor and in each department, there’s a checkout desk.
I work on the third level, the best of all the floors, in my opinion, by far. “Three” offers shelves filled with romance, adventure, and mystery. I step onto the floor-three escalator—two has its own—and as I always do, I turn to watch all that is below. The group of schoolkids being hushed by their teacher and parent helpers. The man at the checkout desk impatiently glancing at his watch. The woman at a table eating her sandwich while flipping a page of a book in earnest. I will never get rich or famous working in this place, but I am rich in knowledge and experiences, enchanted by some new discovery I find here every day of my life.
I’m now passing level two, noticing a little girl exuding excitement as she surveys a selection of children’s books with glee. Her youngmother—dressed in jeans and sneakers, as well as a long-sleeve T-shirt—is smiling, obviously pleased with her daughter’s excitement. There’s also a woman in the self-help section clearly fretting over her choice of books, her teeth worrying her bottom lip, her finger lingering on one title and moving to the next. If I were her librarian, I’d tell her to go home with both and find the voice that speaks to her. If I were her friend, I’d tell her to not just read the words butusethem. And that little secret is easier said than done, or else I’d be a million exciting versions of myself I have never been.
My gaze shifts and lands on a man sitting at a table with a laptop in front of him, and I do a double take when I realize I’m not just looking at him—he’s looking at me. As has already been established,no onelooks at me. In all my years here at the library, studying people, often creating a story for them in my head, no one has ever studied me back. I blink, and I’m certain I’ll discover he’s really looking over my head or around me, but as I bring his dark, longish hair and strong, if not sharp, features back into focus, he’s still looking at me. He’s youngish, in his thirties, maybe, though I can’t be sure. His fingernails are manicured, his watch expensive. I hold my breath, unable to process the moment with further articulate thought, and then he’s gone. The escalator has delivered me to a higher level, beyond the wall, my signal to turn or be dumped on the floor of the landing.
I whirl around just in time to step off and then quickly turn back to the escalator as if I expect the dark-haired man to be racing toward me. Seconds tick by and nothing happens. In a huff of breath, I grimace at myself. What am I thinking? He wasnotlooking at me. The end. I refuse to think about it, or him, for one more second. And even if he was looking at me, it was probably with peculiar interest as to why my simple black dress, basic boots, and dark-rimmed glasses were, well, simple.
I’m back tothe end.
Time to go back to work.
Chapter Four
