Another hour passed. Still nothing.
By lunchtime, I’d checked my phone approximately forty-seven times and had developed a new nervous tic involving tapping my pen against my teeth whenever I thought about the unanswered message.
“Still no word from the mystery builder?” Brenda asked as she joined me in the break room.
I shook my head, unwrapping my sandwich with perhaps more force than necessary. “Not a peep. I think I scared him off.”
“Nonsense,” Brenda said firmly. “You made a perfectly reasonable request for a professional consultation. If he’s so easily frightened, he’s not worth your worry.”
“But what if?—”
“No ‘what ifs,’” she interrupted. “Eat your lunch. Help Mrs. Watkins find her large-print mysteries. Dust the reference section. The world continues to turn whether your phone buzzes or not.”
She was right, of course. I had a job to do, a library to run, patrons to assist. I couldn’t spend the day obsessing over a text message.
And yet…
Throughout the afternoon, as I shelved returns and helped a ninth-grader navigate the Dewey Decimal System, I kept feeling phantom vibrations in my pocket. Each time, I’d check my phone with a surge of anticipation, only to find no new messages.
By closing time, my anxiety had morphed into a dull resignation. He wasn’t going to respond. I’d pushed too hard, asked for too much, and now my mysterious ladder expert had vanished back into the digital ether from whence he came.
“Don’t look so glum,” Brenda said as we locked up. “Perhaps he’s simply composing the perfect response. Some people actually think before they text.”
I attempted a smile. “Maybe. Or maybe he’s decided I’m too much trouble and has blocked my number.”
“Then he’s a fool,” Brenda declared, “and you’re better off without his ladder expertise.”
I appreciated her loyalty, but as I walked home through the gathering dusk, I couldn’t shake my disappointment. It wasn’t just about the ladder anymore. Over the past few days, I’d developed a strange connection to this mysterious Rion—a connection built on brief exchanges about structural integrity and cross-bracing, yes, but a connection nonetheless.
There was something about his directness, his precision, his unexpected moments of dry humor that had wormed its way into my daily routine. I’d found myself looking forward to his texts, to the little glimpses of his unusual mind.
And now I’d ruined it by pushing for more than he was willing to give.
It’s probably for the best,I told myself as I unlocked my apartment door. Getting attached to a mysterious stranger who won’t even tell you what he does for a living is definitely in the top ten list of “Bad Life Choices for Otherwise Sensible Librarians.”
I’d just settled onto my couch with a cup of tea and my current novel when my phone buzzed.
My heart leapt into my throat as I lunged for it, nearly spilling hot tea across my lap in the process.
The message was from Rion.
“I apologize for the delayed response. Your situation requires more consideration than a hasty reply would allow.”
I held my breath, waiting for the inevitable “but” that would precede his refusal.
Three dots appeared, indicating he was typing more. They pulsed for what felt like an eternity before the next message appeared:
“A meeting may be possible. Under specific conditions.”
I stared at my phone, hardly daring to believe what I was reading. He was actually considering it? After days of deflection and avoidance?
What conditions?
And thank you for considering it. I know you’re not comfortable with the idea.
The three dots appeared again, disappeared, then reappeared. Rion seemed to be struggling with how to phrase his response.
Finally:“Location must be public yet private. Minimal exposure to others. After business hours. Dim lighting preferred.”
