"Okay," he says, and now there's a rueful edge to his tone thatalmostmakes me want to smile. "I'm a moderately fast learner who will be significantly more careful around curbs going forward."
I raise an eyebrow. "And awnings."
"And awnings," he agrees solemnly, like we're negotiating a peace treaty instead of basic job expectations. "And... whatever else might be structurally vulnerable in a three-block radius."
I sigh. Pinch the bridge of my nose. The headache that's been building since this morning sharpens.
"Fine. You're hired. Technically you were already hired, but now it's official." I gesture to the espresso machine. "You know how to make coffee?"
"No."
The word comes out flat and honest, no attempt to sugarcoat it or pretend otherwise. I appreciate that, even if it does make my headache throb a little harder.
"Okay, what about shelving books?" I try instead, grasping for something, anything, he might actually be able to do without requiring a construction crew on standby.
"Yes." He nods once, decisive. "I can do that."
Small victories. I'll take them. "And talking to customers?" I press, because that's kind of essential in a business that involves, you know, customers. "Without scaring them?"
He hesitates. The pause stretches long enough that I can practically see him weighing his answer, mentally reviewing past interactions, calculating odds.
"Depends on the customer," he finally says, and there's something almost diplomatic in the way he phrases it. Like he's trying to be realistic without being discouraging.
I level him with a look. "Stone."
His jaw shifts. Those dark eyes meet mine, and I catch something in them—not quite resignation, but definitely awareness that his answer wasn't what I was hoping for. "I'll try," he says, and the earnestness in his voice is so genuine it actually makes me twist a little. "I will. I'll try."
It's not the answer I want. But it's honest. And honestly, I've had employees lie with more confidence and less follow-through.
"Okay." I grab the stack of salvageable books. Hand them to him. "Biography section. Alphabetical by author's last name. Can you handle that?"
"Yes."
He takes the books. Moves toward the shelves. Slowly. Carefully. Like he's navigating a minefield.
I gaze at him for a moment. The way he ducks slightly even though the ceiling is high enough. The way he checks each step before he takes it.
He's trying.
It's clumsy and awkward and he's already caused more property damage in ten minutes than my ex caused in two years.
But he's trying.
I turn back to the counter. Pull up the prescription reminder. The payment app. The to-do list that never gets shorter.
Behind me, I hear the soft sound of books sliding into place.
One at a time.
Alphabetical.
Careful.
The biography section is a mess.
Not Stone's fault. It was a mess before he got here. Before the awning incident. Before I decided reinventing my life at thirty-two was a reasonable plan.
I've been meaning to reorganize it for weeks. Kept putting it off because there were always more urgent fires to put out. Prescription pickups. Espresso machine malfunctions. The lingering suspicion that I've made a catastrophic mistake and should crawl back to the library with my tail between my legs.
