Oh no.
“Please be Mark,” I whispered to my phone, as if it could somehow correct any potential error through sheer force of will.
I set the device face down on my desk, deciding that staring at it wouldn’t make a response come any faster. Besides, I had work to do—ladder or no ladder.
The mythology display couldn’t wait, even if I could only use books on the lower shelves for now. I grabbedMermaids: Sirens of the Deepand began arranging it alongsideThe Psychology Behind Sea Monster Sightings.
The books brought an immediate sense of comfort. This was my element—stories of creatures that straddled the line between reality and imagination, between science and magic. I’d been fascinated by mythology since I was eight years old and found an illustrated book of Greek myths in my school library.
That fascination had carried me through a Masters in Library Science with a focus on Folklore and Mythology Studies, and eventually to this small-town library where I’d been given free rein to modernize the collections and create engaging displays.
If only that freedom came with proper equipment.
I worked methodically through the lower shelves, organizing books into thematic sections—water creatures, beings of fire, shapeshifters, and guardian monsters. My anxiety about thetext faded as I lost myself in the familiar routine, mentally composing informational cards for each section.
When my phone finally buzzed twenty minutes later, I nearly knocked over a carefully balanced stack of werewolf novels in my haste to check it.
No text message. Just a calendar reminder about tomorrow’s story hour.
“Get it together, Clara,” I muttered, smoothing my cardigan and tucking my hair behind my ears.
I returned to the remaining books, eyeing the upper shelves with growing frustration. The beautiful leather-bound edition ofMythological Atlasneeded to be the centerpiece of the display. The hand-painted illustrations inside were breathtaking, exactly the kind of thing that would draw visitors in.
I stood on my tiptoes and stretched upwards, fingers barely grazing the lowest part of the shelf I needed to reach.
Maybe if I used the desk chair? The one with wheels? The one that spun alarmingly if you shifted your weight too quickly?
Absolutely not. I’m clumsy, not suicidal.
I tried jumping, which accomplished nothing except making me feel ridiculous.
This was hopeless without a ladder. I needed Mark and his theoretical ladder. Or any ladder, really. I was not picky at this point.
By the time I locked up that evening, I still hadn’t received a response to my text. The knot of anxiety in my stomach had been slowly tightening all afternoon. I’d tried to rationalize it—maybeMark was out of town, or busy, or simply didn’t check his phone often. But the worry that I’d texted the wrong number, that I’d sent that mortifying message to a complete stranger, had taken root.
I should call him.Just to make sure. Except that calling seemed even more forward than texting, and if I had the wrong number… I’d have to talk to a confused stranger.
No. Better to just wait.
My apartment building was one of those old brick structures that had seen better days but still held onto a certain faded elegance. I climbed the three flights of stairs to my floor, my footsteps echoing in the empty stairwell. The building had an elevator, but it made sounds like a dying whale and often got stuck between floors, so I usually took the stairs. My hip throbbed in protest with every step.
On the landing outside my door, I lingered for a minute, looking across at Mark’s door, hoping it would open so I could “accidentally” run into him. But his door remained firmly closed and I didn’t quite have the courage to knock. Instead, I let myself into my apartment with a defeated sigh.
CHAPTER TWO
Once inside my apartment, I tossed my keys into the ceramic bowl by the door—a lopsided creation I’d made during a “Find Your Inner Artist” workshop that had primarily helped me find my inner impatience—and kicked off my flats. One sailed gracefully under the couch. The other landed in my small collection of potted plants, most of which were valiantly clinging to life despite my erratic watering schedule.
“Sorry, Ferdinand,” I murmured to the fern, retrieving my shoe from his fronds.
My apartment was what real estate agents charitably called “cozy”—a one-bedroom with just enough space for my essentials: books, more books, and the minimum furniture required for human habitation. Bookshelves lined every available wall, each one categorized by a system that made perfect sense to me and absolutely no one else. Fiction by mood rather than author. Non-fiction by how much it had changed my worldview. A special shelf for books with particularly satisfying endings.
I changed into my comfort clothes—ancient university sweatpants and a faded t-shirt proclaiming “Introverted But Willing to Discuss Books”—before padding into the kitchen. Dinner would be whatever I could cobble together from my refrigerator’s sparse offerings, which tonight appeared to be half an avocado turning suspiciously brown, some questionable cheese, and three eggs.
“Gourmet dining at its finest,” I mumbled, pulling out a frying pan.
As I waited for the pan to heat, I checked my phone. Again. Still nothing. I tried to convince myself that Mark’s silence was perfectly normal. He was probably busy. Working. Living his life without obsessively checking his phone every three minutes like some people.Some people meaning me.
Stop it, Clara. He’s not obligated to respond to your ladder crisis.
