I scoot my chair over a little to give her room as she inputs a password into the computer and then clicks a few buttons to open up a spreadsheet.
“We’ll probably only keep about ten percent of the books, honestly,” she admits. “For the rest, we’ve been lucky to partner with a bookstore owner in Omaha the last couple of years. He buys and resells all the books we don’t keep. That’s why this fundraiser and all these donated books are really important; even if the books themselves don’t make it to the shelves, the library ends up with a lot of money.”
I nod tightly and look up across the room at the stacks and stacks of boxes lining the far wall. There are probably thousands ofbooks in those boxes. They’ll be my job for the next however-long it takes.
I clear my throat. “So, how do I decide which ones to keep?” It seems like a decent-enough question. But Sharon gives me a look that isn’t really inviting, and I shrink back into my seat as she continues without directly answering me.
“What you need to do first is sort all of the books. Enter every one into this spreadsheet, regardless of whether it’s a duplicate or it’s obviously trash,” she says.
I’m shaking, though I don’t know why. It’s been this way all morning. Off and on—shaking and anger and even this random stabbing headache that comes and goes. I clench my jaw and try not to outwardly react or show her how much I’m struggling.
She goes over all of the information I have to enter into the spreadsheet. Then, after she’s repeated that information twice, she explains the sorting process she wants me to follow. I write down a few notes as she talks, if only to give myself something to focus on, and then she leaves me so I can get started.
Despite the overwhelming volume of books for me to sort, I find myself actually enjoying the work. It’s tedious, yeah, but I get into a sort of rhythm with it, and it passes the time. More importantly, I have to keep myself engaged with the work, and there’s not really any room for my mind to wander to the dark place it wants to go.
In fact, I don’t even realize how much time has passed until there’s a quiet knock at the door.
My eyes dart up, and I see Caitlin, the library assistant, standing in the doorway. She smiles at me as she tucks a short lock of her jet-black hair behind her ear, and then she scans the piles of books I’ve unboxed and begun to sort. When her eyes meet mine again, she laughs lightly and shakes her head.
“I’m really not at all jealous you’ve got this job this year ratherthan me. Although I can’t say my group of summer school students is much better,” Caitlin jokes easily, stepping into the room. She stops at the end of the table where I’m working, still a good few feet away, and picks up one of the books I just added to the pile for nonfiction books in good condition.
As always, my entire body tenses up at her closeness. Hell, even my chest feels tight, and it’s suddenly difficult to breathe. It fucking sucks, and I hate it, especially now. I swallow hard, trying to push the feeling away, because I need to. Caitlin is my work colleague, even if this job is only for the summer, and the last thing I need is to do something idiotic enough that she complains about me to Sharon. I need to keep this job. Now more than ever.
But my stomach twists up into a knot anyway, and I shrink down into my chair. I can’t stop it, and I can’t hide it. Fucking anxiety.
Unlike Sharon, Caitlin seems to notice my discomfort. She purses her lips and tilts her head slightly, and then she smiles again, although it’s maybe a bit more reserved than her first smile.
“Um, I came in to tell you it’s time for your lunch break, actually. Sharon says maybe you lost track of the time? And I don’t know if you brought lunch or anything, but several of the kids didn’t show up today, so we’ve got extra sandwiches and bags of chips and stuff. It’s all in the activity room. Feel free to grab whatever you want.”
“Oh, uh, yeah, thanks,” I mumble. She’s right that I lost track of time. I also didn’t bring lunch and sort of planned to just keep working through lunchtime, really. That sounded a lot safer than taking a break and allowing my mind time to wander and think. But my hand shifts into my pocket, and I grip my phone, remembering that it buzzed several times earlier.
Maybe Alex texted.
I haven’t spoken with him at all today.
He wasn’t awake when I left his house, and I’ve been working nonstop since I got here, trying to put a dent in the mass of books.
So maybe Ishouldtake a break, even if just for a few minutes. I can check my texts, or hell, maybe I can even call him. My fingers tighten on my phone at the thought of hearing his voice, and suddenly, lunch sounds like a really, really good idea after all.
I force myself to look back up at Caitlin. “Thanks,” I repeat, and I cough to clear my throat, hating the way I sound so unsure all the time. I try a little harder to sound more normal. “I think I’ll try one of those sandwiches.”
She gives me a small smile and nod and turns to leave, but then she stops and faces me again. She seems like maybe she wants to ask me something, maybe something she knows she really shouldn’t. But when I tear my eyes away, pretending to get back to work studying the spreadsheet, she just lets out a long sigh, and I hear her footsteps moving away, toward the door.
My stomach churns anyway, even though she’s moving farther away, putting space between us, and I grip my phone tighter in my pocket as the footsteps stop.
“I am really glad to have you here this summer,” she says quietly, and even though it makes no sense at all, her comment causes my stomach to hurt more. I shrink down again but force myself to look over at her. She’s watching me, and there’s something maybe a little too knowing about her expression. “I hope you feel comfortable enough. This is actually a pretty decent place to work. And it’s quiet most of the time, as you’ve probably seen. Sharon can seem like kind of a hard-ass, but she’s a good boss, too. And she cares about this library a lot. So, um, just, you know, do your best at whatever she asks you to do, and if you have any questions, don’t be afraid to ask.”
She sounds kind and genuine enough. But all I can do is nod and force out another quick “thanks.”
After she disappears through the open door, I turn back to the computer, save the file I was working on, and then push myself to my feet. I pick out half a turkey sandwich from the platter in the activity room and grab an apple as well, and I head out the side door. There’s a small courtyard with a lawn where the fifteen or so summer school students have all gathered, chatting or playing on their phones while they eat. Caitlin is sitting with a group of the younger kids—maybe six- or seven-year-olds—and when she sees me, she gives me a bright grin and small wave before focusing back on the conversation the students are having.
There are a few benches positioned around the courtyard, but most are already occupied by library patrons or the couple of parent volunteers helping with the group of students. I walk as quickly and unobtrusively as I can through the courtyard to the single unoccupied bench, which is thankfully off in one corner by itself and is right under a nice, large oak tree that provides a good amount of shade.
I’m sort of hungry but really sort of not. So rather than force myself to eat, I just set the plate with my sandwich and apple next to me on the bench and finally pull my phone out of my pocket, trying to ignore as my stomach knots itself up in the most uncomfortable way.
It’s like this every day now, every time I take out my phone to look at my messages. Because even though I already blocked his number, it could still behim. Patrick. Somehow, Patrick could be contacting me again. Threatening me. Accusing me.
Or it could be my mom, which would maybe be worse.
