Every hour that I wasn’t working as a part time marketing assistant for a women’s charity—that couldn’t really afford to pay me a whole lot but least allowed me to dosomethingwith my college degree—I would spend sitting in softly lit corners perusing the pages ofJane Eyre,The Untethered SoulandAstrology for Beginners.
It worked. It was the only thing that did.
By immersing myself in words, I could fill my head so full there wasn’t room for anything else.
I was sitting in my usual corner one afternoon readingMahjong for Dummieswhen one of the librarians approached me.
She was moving out of New York and needed to backfill her role. She’d seen me around so much she couldn’t think of anyone who’d know the shelves and the lay-out of the place better than me, and clearly I had time on my hands. Well, I mean, she didn’t put it quite like that, but I read between the lines.
I agreed on the spot and she began training me there and then.
It was possibly the best decision I’ve made in all of my adult life. The library is my safe haven. I get to read, meet authors, talk to other readers, help them fill their TBR list (which they hate but secretly love) and fulfil a side of me—one that feeds mycuriosity and provides me with the quiet I need—that I didn’t know existed.
Plus, it’s harmless and out of sight. I’m not in anyone’s firing line and this is perhaps the last place a filthy-mouthed mob boss is likely to find me.
“Erin?” Mrs. Kline calls from the front desk. “Your group is here.”
I smile. “On my way.”
The girls from the foster center tumble in a moment later, loud and bright and wonderfully normal, all chatter and backpacks and questions about the reading corner we’re setting up for their after-school sessions. I guide them toward the beanbags and the piles of books I’ve already set out that I think they’ll like.
This reminds me that I had a choice. And this is what I’ve chosen. Books, structure and predictability. A life where the loudest sound is a dropped novel, not gunfire.
In the evenings, I help at a girls’ mentoring charity three blocks over. I hold reading groups and help to deliver confidence workshops. It allows me to feel like I can compensate for raising my daughter in the same house as a psychopath.
It wasn’t my fault, I know. Gerard kept his real self hidden from me until the very end, but a part of me will always feel foolish for not seeing it, and for not getting Paige out of there sooner.
The important thing is, she’s safe now. And while the girls settling into their reading corner haven’t had the best start in life, I can help them too, in my own small way.
“Earth to Erin.”
Mallorie’s voice slices clean through my thoughts as she drops into the chair across from me, eyeing the papers I’ve laid out like they personally offend her.
“You’ve been staring at that page for five minutes,” she says. “Either it’s the most riveting library budget spreadsheet in history or you’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“You really need me to say it?”
I lift my lids and glare at her. “I’m not doing that thing.”
“Yes you are. You’re thinking about him.”
She’s right, and I hate that she’s right, because it’s been eighteen months and no matter how many books I bury my head in, the image, the smell, the sound of him won’t leave my head.
Mallorie leans forward and takes my hands.
“It’s okay, you know,” she says, softly. “It was an intense couple of weeks. Those experiences leave their mark on someone. No one could blame you for thinking about it. But you have to stop pining at some point.”
My eyes narrow. “That’s offensive.”
She leans back with an arched brow. “Really? You had lots of yummy sex with an actual mafia God who gave you a six-figure bonus for the privilege. You inherited Gerard’s house, his investments, and half his assets. You’re living in a beautiful house in New York, volunteering, working a wholesome job. Paige is happy, your mother is… well, as happy as she can be… And you’re still pining like a Victorian heroine.”
“I amnotpining.”
She dips her chin. “You alphabetize your spice rack when you’re stressed and you still freeze every time an Italian accent appears in a movie,” she shoots back. “You’re pining.”
I look up, my shoulders sinking with a heavy sigh. “Okay, so what if I am?”
