I flinch. "It's not—"
"Toby." He sets his hand on my shoulder, careful to avoid the bite mark he knows is there. "It's okay to not be okay. It's okay to take more time."
"I don't have more time. The kids are counting on me. Miss Glitterbomb is counting on me. And if I sit on that couch watching Disney movies for one more day, I'm going to lose my mind." I take a breath. "I need to do something normal. I need to feel like myself again."
Robin studies me for a long moment, then nods. "Okay. I'll drive you. And I'm picking you up after. We're getting Thai food and watching trashy reality TV and you're going to tell me how you're actually feeling."
"Deal."
He kisses my forehead and hands me a bakery box. "Lemon cookies. For story hour."
"You didn't have to—"
"I always bake for story hour. This isn't special treatment, it's routine." He grabs his keys. "Let's go."
The drive to the library is quiet. Robin doesn't push me to talk, just plays soft music and lets me stare out the window. When we pull up, he squeezes my hand.
"Text me if you need me to come early."
"I'll be fine."
"Text me anyway."
The library is quiet when I arrive. Luis waves from the circulation desk, and I manage a smile that hopefully looks more genuine than it feels. Margaret's office door is closed, which is a small mercy. I'm not ready to deal with her passive-aggressive comments today.
I spend the morning on autopilot. Shelving returns. Answering reference questions. Helping a confused elderly man find books on tape because he doesn't trust "those audiobook things on the computer." Normal library things. Normal me things.
It almost works. Almost.
But every time the front door opens, my heart lurches. Every deep voice makes me tense. Every flash of leather in my peripheral vision sends my pulse racing, even though it's always just a jacket, never a person, never him.
He's not coming. He promised to stay away. Robin made sure of that.
I should be relieved.
I'm not.
At 10:30, I head to the children's section to set up for story hour. The reading rug is already laid out, bright colors and cartoon animals inviting kids to sit. I arrange the cushions, set up the book display, check that the craft supplies are ready for after.
Miss Glitterbomb arrives at 10:45, resplendent in a purple wig and a gown covered in sequined butterflies. She takes one look at me and her theatrical smile softens into something more real.
"Oh honey," she says, dropping her bag on the craft table. "You look like someone ran over your dog, backed up, and did it again."
"I don't have a dog."
"It's a metaphor, sweetheart." She pulls me into a hug that smells like hairspray and expensive perfume. "Robin told me. That biker of yours finally screwed up, huh?"
"He's not mine."
"Honey, the way that man looked at you? You were his from the second he walked in." She pulls back, hands on my shoulders, studying my face with the kind of sharp perception that comes from years of reading audiences. "You don't have to do this today. I can handle story hour solo if you need to sit this one out."
"I'm fine." The words come out sharper than I intend. "Sorry. I'm just—I need to do this. I need to be normal."
Miss Glitterbomb nods slowly. "Then let's be normal. Today's book is about feelings, which seems appropriate. We'll talk about how it's okay to be sad sometimes, and then we'll make paper butterflies and everything will be sparkly and bright."
"Thank you."
"Thank me by not crying in front of the children. It upsets them."
