"I'm working."
"You know she works at the library. My library. Our library. The library you now have a reason to visit regularly. I'm just saying."
"Goodbye, Jocelyn."
"I'm justsaying?— "
I hang up. She'll call back in an hour. She always does and I’ll answer. I always do.
I finish the baseboard and check Nora's list. Leaking faucet in room four, a window that won't latch in the upstairs hallway. I spend the morning with my hands full of pipe fittings and caulk and my head full of Evelyn Porter.
I keep it contained because I’m a master of compartmentalization. Twenty-one years in the military teaches you how to put things in boxes, close the lid and function while something inside you is screaming. I'm good at it. I was the best at it, actually, which is how I survived a wife who left me for my best friend and four additional tours I volunteered for because the structure was easier than the grief.
But the box I've put Evelyn in is not staying shut.
She keeps leaking out. The way her glasses slipped. The way she talked to herself under her breath while shelving and didn't know she was doing it. The sound she made when she laughed and the sharp little inhale right before, like her body wanted to and her brain wasn't sure it was allowed.
I want to hear the laugh again. I want to be the reason for it. I want a lot of things I haven't wanted in a long time, and every single one of them is five foot eight with black-framed glasses and a nervous habit of sorting books by color.
It’s noon when I'm done at the Summit House. Nora's list is finished. The guys over at Riker’s Outfitters haven’t called me back about the hole in their drywall. I have no reason to be anywhere.
I drive to the library on autopilot, can’t help myself. I sit in the parking lot for four minutes talking myself into and out of going inside, which is a thing I have never done in my life. In the end I settle on this logic… I've rappelled out of helicopters. I can walk into a library. So I do.
There's a loose shelf in the reference section. Jocelyn mentioned it weeks ago. She said it was pulling away from the wall and needed to be re-anchored. I ignored it then because I didn't care. But I’m finding I care now. I care deeply about the structural integrity of the Iron Peak Ridge Public Library's reference section shelving.
I grab my tool bag from the back of the truck and push through the door. The bell chimes when I walk in. The sound makes June look up from the desk, and her face pulls into a too wide grin I choose to ignore.
"James. Twice in two days. We're honored." She holds her arms out in a gesture that I think is supposed to be welcoming but instead makes me feel like a real jackass.
"Hey, Jocelyn mentioned the shelf in reference. Figured I'd take a look."
"Mmm." June's eyes are doing the thing that women's eyes do when they know exactly what you're doing and are choosing to let you do it. "Reference is in the back. Evelyn's shelving in that section."
Of course she is.She winks at me and I raise an eyebrow.
"Thanks."
I walk past the circulation desk. I pass the reading chairs where two old men are aggressively not acknowledging each other over separate newspapers. I keep moving through the kids' section with the braided rug. When I finally arrive at the reference stacks, I see her.
Evelyn is here, third aisle in. She’s standing on her toes reaching for a high shelf with a book in one hand. Her cardiganis riding up and there's a strip of skin showing at her waist. It’s just an inch or two, but my brain empties out like someone pulled a plug when I see it.
I stop walking and take her in.
She hasn't seen me yet. She's focused on the shelf with her lower lip between her teeth. She’s stretching, and her messy bun is already half collapsed. Her glasses are sliding and she's wearing jeans that fit her like they wereengineeredfor the specific purpose of making me lose my train of thought.
"Need a hand?"
She startles and a book slips. I'm already moving. It takes me two steps to put an arm over her head. My palm presses flat against the book’s cover before it clears the shelf. My chest is six inches from her back.
Then she turns around and we're close. Too close. My heart rate ticks up. Her back is against the shelf and I'm right here, close enough to smell the soft floral scent coming off her. Her dark eyes are wide behind her glasses and her lips are slightly parted. She's looking up at me like she doesn't want me to move.
So I don't.
"Hi," she says. Her voice is breathy. Barely a sound.
"Hi."
Her eyes drop to my mouth. It's only a flicker of a second, but I catch it. My blood goes hot in a way that has nothing to do with the walk from the parking lot. I step back before I do something stupid. I slide the book onto the high shelf with one hand, then give her space.
