I manage a weak laugh. "I'll do my best."
The kids start arriving at 11, trickling in with parents and grandparents and nannies. I greet each one by name, compliment their outfits, ask about their weeks. Normal. This is normal. I can do normal.
Lily rushes in last with her grandmother. "Are the ice cream sandwich men coming?" she asks as she passes me.
"Not today."
She shrugs and finds a seat.
Story hour starts. Miss Glitterbomb does most of the heavy lifting, reading with voices and gestures and dramatic pauses that make the kids shriek with laughter. I sit in my usual spot, adding commentary, helping with the interactive parts, being normal.
The book is about a little cloud who feels sad and doesn't know why. The cloud tries different things to feel better—playing with friends, eating treats, taking naps—but nothing works until it finally learns to just feel its feelings and let the rain come.
"Sometimes we feel sad," Miss Glitterbomb says, looking around at the circle of small faces. "And that's okay. It's okay to cry sometimes. It's okay to feel your feelings."
A little boy raises his hand. "My goldfish died and I cried."
"That's very sad. I'm sorry about your goldfish."
The kids share their own stories about feeling sad—a lost toy, a cancelled playdate, a grandparent who moved away. I listen and nod and add the occasional comment, and the whole time I'm thinking about how none of them know that their librarian cried so hard he made himself sick.
But that's the thing about being an adult. You learn to hold it together. You learn to function even when you're falling apart inside.
Story hour ends. Craft time helps. There's something soothing about helping small hands fold paper butterflies, applying glitter glue in wobbly lines, praising every lopsided creation like it belongs in a museum. The kids are loud and messy and completely in the moment, and I let myself get lost in it.
Eventually the parents start gathering their kids, taking cookies, and the noise level drops as families trickle out.
"You okay?" Miss Glitterbomb asks quietly, crouching down next to me as I pick glitter out of the carpet.
"No," I admit. "But I will be."
"That's the spirit." She squeezes my shoulder—the wrong one, the one with the bite mark, and I flinch. "Oh shit, sorry. Did I—"
"It's fine. Just a bruise."
She doesn't look convinced, but she doesn't push. "Robin's picking you up?"
"Yeah. Thai food and trashy TV."
"Good. You need it." She stands, adjusting her wig. "For what it's worth, Toby, if that man has any sense at all, he's miserable right now. Probably can't eat, can't sleep, can't stop thinking about how badly he fucked up."
I think about what Jason said—that Knox has shifted and won't shift back, that he's destroyed, that I matter.
"Maybe," I say.
"No maybe about it. You're a catch, sweetheart. Anyone who hurts you is going to regret it for the rest of their life."
She heads off to pack up her things, and I'm alone in the children's section with paper butterflies and glitter glue.
Robin's waiting in the parking lot when I come out, leaning against the Audi with his sunglasses on even though it's overcast. He straightens when he sees me, pulling me into a hug before I can protest.
"How was it?"
"Fine." I pull back, adjusting my bag on my shoulder. "It was fine."
He doesn't call me on the lie. Just opens the passenger door for me like I'm fragile, which I hate, even though I kind of am right now.
I pause before getting in. "What happened to the door?"
