"What?" says Mistral, coming to look over my shoulder. "It doesn't say that."
"You're right. It doesn't say that." I snap the book shut and look at the cover. "Why do we have a book on bitumen, and, more importantly, why on earth would I need to read it?"
I haven't been at the library long enough to do a comprehensive evaluation of the collection, but clearly, I need to find the time.
"I gave you the wrong book. I meant to give you this one."
The book she meant to give me is entitledThe Art of Romance.
While my conscious brain rushes to bury any suspicion about why she might hand this particular book to me, my unconscious one betrays it by sending a wave of heat through my body so fierce I feel like I've been internally steam cleaned.
I deflect the obvious question by asking, "How did you mistake a book on bitumen for one on romance?"
"Honestly? I wasn't looking properly."
I peer at the cover and say, “You weren’t lookingat all.” It's pink and has a cherub shooting a heart with its arrow, which is far too trite to convince anyone it has authoritative and useful information. Apart from Mistral, it would seem.
I turn it over and skim the blurb on the back, then guess the Dewey number it's been assigned and check the spine label to see if I got it right. I'm off by a tenth of a classification, which still allows me a small amount of smug, but...
...I can't really delay The Question any longer. "Why do I need to read this book?"
Mistral turns back to the computer screen to continue scanning returned books. "Okay, so, have you watched Bess' TikToks about modern romance?"
I shift in my seat. "I don't need to. I know what she thinks."
"And yet, you do nothing to get her attention romantically." Everything about her delivery is casual – the tone and pace of her words, the way her hip is cocked with one leg bent, the foot resting atop and at right angles to the other – like she hasn't just thrown a conversational grenade between us.
I react like a typical person facing the inevitability of their fate. With complete paralysis and an overwhelming sense of doom.
When I eventually will all one hundred and fifty million air sacs in my lungs to inflate, my voice is almost lost to the same volume of air seeking rapid escape. "Why would I need to?"
I hungrily chase the next breath.
Mistral looks at me over the top of her non-existent glasses. "To be fair, Ed, anyone with the tiniest skill in observation can see you're smitten."
I...feel very vulnerable all of a sudden. "Tiniest, huh?"
"How she doesn't see it, I don't know."
Mistral can't be right. Everyone can't know. Can they?
The elderly woman Bess was spying on the previous evening enters the library and I jump at the chance to run away from this conversation. I exit my chair with such enthusiasm, I send it skittering backwards to crack against Mistral's desk. "Mrs Kavanagh. Nice to see you this morning."
Her eyes drop toThe Art of RomanceI still, unfathomably, have in my hands and she smiles up at me.
I toss the book on a shelf under the counter and smile back.
"Good on you, Ed. Time waits for no man."
Christ. Does she know, too?
Not willing to entertain the paranoia Mistral has attempted to seed, I try to redirect things. If indeed they needed redirection. "How's Mr Kavanagh?"
Her smile wavers. "Feeling a bit poorly this week. He's taking it quiet."
She hands me her returns. A book on rose care, a murder-mystery calledBody Partsand a domestic thriller calledDivorce in Death.
I try not to feel unsettled, but I'm already sitting at a fairly lofty height on the unsettled scale, so I fail in my attempt.
