He grabs the laptop, tilts it sideways, and lemonade waterfalls onto the floor. The screen flickers ominously.
“This is the library’s fault,” he announces, dabbing at the keyboard with napkins. “The tables are too small. The cups are too full. The heat is messing with my head.”
Near the end, we circle back to logistics, and I mention—casually, professionally—that we should have attendees sign liability waivers.
“In case of what?” Jessica asks. “Literary emergencies?”
“In case of anything. Slip and falls. Allergic reactions. Someone getting too emotionally invested in an author reveal and requiring medical attention.”
“Has that ever happened?”
“It could. That’s why we have waivers.”
“So your concern is that someone might feel their feelings too hard and sue the library?”
“My concern is keeping us out of trouble.”
“That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said at a literary event planning meeting.”
“I’m not trying to be romantic. I’m trying to prevent a lawsuit.”
“And yet.” She grins. “Preventing legal issues. Be still my heart.”
I say something about indemnification clauses—I don’t even remember what, something dry and probably boring—and Jessica laughs.
Not a polite laugh. A real one, surprised out of her, bright and warm in the stuffy room.
I want to say funnier things. I want to make her laugh like that forever. I want to spend the rest of my life figuring out exactly which combination of words will make her eyes crinkle at the corners and her whole face light up.
I am in so much trouble.
By five o’clock, we’re all wilted and slightly delirious. The sun has shifted, casting long shadows through the windows, and the heat has mellowed into something almost bearable.
“Same time next week?” Michelle asks, gathering her things.
“Wednesday might be better,” Jessica says.
“Wednesday works. My place? I have functioning air conditioning like a civilized human being.”
“Sold,” everyone says in unison.
We file out of the library, past Mrs. Ziegler who’s now reading her murder mystery with the dedication of woman who’s given up on everything else. The evening air hits us like a blessing—still warm, but moving, carrying the salt smell of the ocean and the distant sound of waves.
Jessica’s walking ahead of me, her sundress swaying with each step, that yellow so bright against the fading light.
“Jessica,” I call.
She turns.
And trips over the library’s front step.
I catch her.
It’s instinct—my hands on her arms, steadying her before she can faceplant into the sidewalk. She stumbles into me, her palms flat against my chest, her face inches from mine.
We freeze.
“You okay?” My voice comes out strange. Hoarse.
