The late afternoon sun slanted in through the windows of New New Franklin’s community library, highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air. I liked it best this time of day. The foragers were still out in the abandoned old town of Franklin, and the builders were working hard to expand our growing settlement. And the best part? Most of the children were still in their evening classes, and the library was quiet and still.
Well, almost still.
I froze with a copy ofFifty Ways to Cook Canned Beans Without Cryingin my hand as a tiny, furry blur of gray darted across the stacks. I didn’t quite stifle the shriek in time, and my scream rang out through the library.
“What’s wrong?” Max asked as he came running from the front counter, wielding a heavy stapler in one hand like a weapon.
Max was a tall, skinny young man who looked more suited for a college campus than a post-apocalyptic settlement. He was the new hire brought on now that Kiera spent most of her time traveling with her hunter. He took over part of her old job of categorizing and logging pre-bug websites, as well as helping around the library.
“Mouse,” I said before taking several calming breaths. “It’s just a mouse. Surprised me, that’s all.”
I wasn’t actually scared of the little rodents, not when we’d spent the last few years fighting the much larger and deadlier space bugs that now roamed Earth. But that hadn’t stopped the scream that naturally came when seeing something moving where it wasn’t supposed to be.
“Someone must’ve brought food into the library again.” Max’s keen eyes scanned the shelves. “Aha!” He reached up high and picked up a piece of wax wrapping from the top shelf.
We exchanged a look. That was from a Xarc’n food bar. The things were so tough that it was rare to find humans eating them as is, and there was only one Xarc’n warrior who’d stepped foot in the library in the past week or so: Rajiv’k!
I took the evidence from Max. “I’ll talk to Natalie the next time I see her.”
Max followed me back to the tables piled high with the new books I’d been sorting all afternoon.
Most of them were romance novels and thrillers, with a few technical manuals, which was great because those were the types of books most in demand. It was hard to keep them on the shelves, especially during the cold winter months when we were all stuck indoors with not much to do but read, craft, or tinker with old tech.
Over the last few years, New Franklin’s official library had grown from a half dozen boxes of salvaged books to nearly overflowing out of the space we’d allotted for it. That was why we’d had to make the big move over to the community center. There was a lot more space here to grow. And people actuallycame now, not just to research how to do X, Y, and Z, but just to escape for a little while inside a good book.
“Ooh, look at all those goodies!” Max exclaimed, his eyes on all the new thriller titles we’d acquired.
“Want to switch for a while? You get these processed, and I’ll take the front desk?”
“Yes, do I ever!”
I’d known Max was a perfect fit for the library the moment I saw the way his eyes lit up at all the books. Today was Saturday, which meant both Max and Kiera were in, and I didn’t technically need to be here, but I was hiding from a certain purple warrior.
I’d seen him again the next morning after the knitting group. I’d been hungover as hell and kind of glad he didn’t approach me. But the way he looked at me made me feel all funny inside, in the best of ways.
Since then, I’d kept noticing him around, almost like he was trying to find me but just missing the mark. It was probably because I’d been avoiding him the best I could. I’d even disappeared into the ladies’ change room once, and let the surprised yells of all the other women do the dirty work for me.
Okay, so that was a little cheap, but I’d been desperate! And since then, he’d been easier to evade because he was a lot more tentative about going through closed doors.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want him to find me. Hell, my sex-starved brain kept making up NSFW scenarios of what might happen if he did. But I’d been out of the dating scene for so long—it had been decades since my ex-husband courted me, and our kid was grown—and I didn’t know what to say.
Hey, sexy stranger, thanks for the kiss?
Sorry for drunk-jumping your bones the other night?
Hi, I’m Dottie, and I swear I’m totally not a lush?
Everything sounded so lame. And part of me worried that he’d finally catch up with me, and I’d have to explain that I wasn’t interested in anything more. And the other part of me worried that he’d catch up and be disappointed. He was sexy as sin, a total silver fox. And I was… I was Dottie, the post-menopausal divorcee who’d given up on men.
Sure, I loved who I was. I loved my books. I loved almost any fiber craft, from knitting to spinning to tatting. And no, I didn’t knit because I was old; I’d been brandishing knitting needles since I made my first tube top as a teenager. I’d snuck out of the house wearing it, much to my mother’s dismay. I collected candles and crystals before they were popular. I was me, and I wouldn’t change myself for anything.
But wouldhelike me as I was? Just asking the question felt wrong. It was the opposite of what I was and what I stood for. I shouldn’t care at all becauseI didn’t need no man. I’d gone through the whole marriage thing once already, and I was done.
I had handed my good-for-nothing ex the divorce papers the day after our kid left for college. My duty was done, and I was ready to actually live my life. Martin had acted like it was the biggest surprise, like literal years of telling him that I didn’t feel loved or cared for hadn’t mattered. Like the porch light that hadn’t worked for over a decade because he kept saying he’d fix it, but got angry whenever I asked about it, didn’t count. Like all the times I had to give up something I loved because he wouldn’t budge an inch were worthless.
After the divorce, I’d gotten a glow-up. Or was that a glow-down because I ditched the pastels and brought in the black and jewel tones? I gave up on contacts and went for heavy cat-eye frames. Instead of the demure short French tips Martin had thought perfect for polite company, I painted my claws a bold burgundy or purple. Then, when that streak at the front of my hair turned white, I dyed it pink. And for the first time in my life, I finally felt like me.
And my ex? He’d gotten remarried almost immediately, trading in for a newer model who’d been a cookie-cutter version of me when I was twenty, prim and proper, clad in pastels, and ready to be his bang maid. I wondered if she knew she’d be giving up her freedom for the rest of her life? Needless to say, I got the better deal.
