I stood in front of my closet, staring at its contents as if they might spontaneously rearrange themselves into the perfect outfit if I glared hard enough. The clock on my nightstand mockingly displayed 7:23 PM, each minute ticking away with sadistic precision.
“This is ridiculous,” I muttered, yanking out a sensible cardigan only to shove it back a moment later. “It’s a meeting about a ladder.”
Yet here I was, having rejected twelve outfit combinations already. Too formal. Too casual. Too librarian. Not librarian enough. Too desperate. Too aloof.
My floor now resembled the aftermath of a clothing store hurricane. I’d started this process at 6:00 PM, convinced I had plenty of time to find something appropriate. Now, with less than two hours until I was supposed to meet a complete stranger in a dimly lit café, I was still wearing my bathrobe and beginning to contemplate showing up in it.
I picked up my phone and considered texting Brenda for fashion advice, but quickly abandoned the idea. She’d been teasing me mercilessly about this “not-a-date” all day. The last thing I needed was more ammunition for her good-natured ribbing.
Instead, I took a deep breath and approached the problem methodically. What impression did I want to make on Rion?
Professional but approachable. Competent but not intimidating. Someone who takes ladder emergencies seriously but isn’t defined by them.
With renewed determination, I pulled out my dark blue jeans, a soft blue sweater that wasn’t too tight but didn’t make me look like I was wearing a potato sack, and my favorite ankle boots with just enough heel to give me confidence without risking a catastrophic fall. Perfect for looking put-together without seeming like I was trying too hard.
I laid the outfit on my bed, nodding with satisfaction. Librarian-chic with a touch of “I have a life outside book cataloging.” The sweater was casual enough for a café meeting but nice enough to show I took this consultation seriously.
“Nailed it,” I said to my empty bedroom, mentally high-fiving myself before the anxiety gremlins could resurface.
With the outfit crisis temporarily resolved, I sat on the edge of my bed and allowed my mind to wander to the meeting itself. What would Rion be like in person? His texts had been so terse, so focused on the technical aspects of ladder construction, I had very little to go on.
I’d built several mental versions of him over the past few days. Version one was a reclusive genius type—tall, gangly, perhaps with wild Einstein hair and thick glasses. The kind of personwho spoke entirely in technical jargon and might not make eye contact.
Version two was more of a quiet craftsman with strong, calloused hands and a measured way of speaking. The kind of person who thinks carefully before every word. Maybe with a beard. Definitely flannel.
Version three was the most dramatic. A mysterious, scarred figure, perhaps with some tragic backstory that explained his reluctance to meet in person. In this scenario, he wore a dramatic coat and spoke in cryptic sentences about the philosophy of ladder-making.
I snorted at my own imagination. The reality was probably much more mundane. He was likely just a normal guy who valued his privacy and happened to know a lot about construction.
Which brought me to the thought I’d been trying to avoid. What if he was physically unattractive? What if he had some feature he was self-conscious about, and that’s why he’d been so reluctant to meet?
The moment the thought formed, I felt a wave of shame. What kind of shallow person worries about that? I scolded myself. Personality is what counts. And anyone who spends days texting a stranger about ladder repairs clearly has a good one.
Besides, I reminded myself firmly, this wasn’t a date. It was a professional consultation. His appearance was entirely irrelevant to his ability to advise me on ladder construction.
With that settled, I glanced at the clock again. 7:42 PM. Time to get ready.
I showered quickly, blow-dried my hair into something approaching a style rather than its usual chaotic state, and applied just enough makeup to look polished without appearing like I was trying too hard. As I dressed, I rehearsed potential conversation starters.
“Thank you so much for meeting me.” Too eager?
“I really appreciate your help with this ladder situation.” Better, but still a bit desperate.
“So, do you build a lot of ladders?” Terrible. Like asking a doctor if they treat a lot of patients.
By the time I was fully dressed and gathering my materials, I’d cycled through approximately thirty-seven different opening lines, none of which seemed quite right. I slipped the folder with the ladder measurements into my bag, along with a small pouch containing fragments of the old ladder to show him the quality (or lack thereof) of the materials.
A final glance in the mirror. I looked… good. Professional. Approachable. Like someone who had her life together and definitely wasn’t overthinking a meeting about library furniture.
“You’ve got this,” I told my reflection. “It’s just a ladder consultation.”
My reflection looked unconvinced.
The Night Owl Café was a fifteen-minute walk from my apartment, which meant that leaving at 8:30 PM would get me there fifteen minutes early. Perfect for securing a good booth and calming my inexplicably jittery nerves before Rion arrived.
As I locked my apartment door behind me, my phone buzzed with a text from Brenda:
“Good luck with your handyman! Remember: if he turns out to be an ax murderer, the library needs at least two weeks’ notice for your replacement.”
