Hesitantly, he accepted my answer. Opening the door, he stopped again, and I’d shit myself if one more thing got said. “Bye, Reece.”
“Bye, bud.”
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck me.
Laken paused, looking at the ground. With a slight shake of his head and faint grin, he closed the door behind him, and I literally thanked the Gods.
Collapsing onto the floor, I questioned my entire existence. Turns out, I’d been wrong. Things had gotten weird. I needed to scream into a pillow.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Bye, bud?
What in the he-wants-me-he-wants-me-not fuck was that?
Or was it, what in the I-want-him-I-want-him-not fuck?
I didn’t know. I knew nothing, ever. I knew I’d hated Laken Augustus for the past three years, and I knew I’d told myself I’d never let love in again. But… did I still want that?
Walking through town, I’d made it to Wilson’s before I could even get a grip. Grateful for the distraction, I blinked the thoughts away.
“Mr. Wilson?” I called at the elderly man carrying lumber way too heavy for him into the library. Running, I tried to catch up before he dropped it on his head or foot or something else. I turned the corner to see a shattered window.
He didn’t do it, but his front window had been broken and he’d swept a glass pile into the corner by the door. Stepping through the threshold, it became apparent the window wasn’t the only thing damaged inside. Bookshelves leaned to the sides, books were scattered from where they’d fallen, and a corner part of the ceiling had fallen through.
“Mr. Wilson.” I caught his attention after he safely dropped the wood. “What happened?”
The thin-shouldered, frail, aged man stood up and his eyes brightened once he saw I’d entered. “Oh, it’s you, Reece.” He used his blue shirt caked with dirt and dust as a rag and wiped the sweat from his hairline. Blood had dried over his brow from a deep cut.
“Are you alright?” I gestured to the wound.
A cheap smile stretched across his face. “Oh, of course. A loose board fell earlier and caught me.” He gave a very unconvincing laugh.
I jumped at the realization: “Here!” I pulled my bag off my shoulder. “I have some of our lotion with me, you can have it.”
“No, Reece, it’s fine.” He shook his head, waving a hand.
I gave him a good glare and insisted he take it. His library was in bad enough shape, he didn’t need to worry about a cut too when we could just take care of it now. The lotion is expensive, but I was happy to lose one little jar for him.
As he applied a layer to his forehead, my fingers glided over the surfaces slick with rain. My own heart contorted in my chest; I couldn’t imagine how it felt to him, to see hisbeloved library like this. No books flew overhead, no wanderlust tugged at my bones. Water edged his eyes as he stood with his hands on his hips, looking around at what used to be a beautiful library.
“The storm hit us hard and…” His voice failed. “And my library took a good hit.”
I forgot where I needed to go; it didn’t matter. This mattered. “Well, you aren’t fixing this on your own.” Examining the room, I didn’t wait for his approval or disapproval. This place meant enough to me, too. I wanted to help.
The damage seemed bad, but it looked worse than it actually was. A few new boards here and there, some new nails to better support the shelves, and a curtain or something until a new window could be ordered. “We’re going to fix it. It’s going to be fine.”
Mr. Wilson gave me a look, and I wasn’t sure if he felt touched over me offering to help, or if he doubted I could. But I could do this. I could hammer in a few nails, right?
Right, I mindlessly reminded myself repeatedly as my arms ached and sweat dripped from my brows. Mr. Wilson owned a raggedy rolling ladder for stocking books. Meaning, after an hour of fixing boards, both my arms and legs burned from using the shelves themselves to anchor myself.
As I climbed up and down where shelves were knocked crooked, a couple others came in and out to help. Goldie dropped off some nails and swept all of the shattered glass into a trash can. Some locals, mostly a father and his daughter, helped dust off fallen books, some soaked from the rain.
Dust clumped into soggy piles, almost like mud. My arms ached, my fingers cramped, and taking a glance around, the library didn’t look much better off. I wasn’t a fast worker, or a smart one, or even a good one at that—okay? But I was a worker. My knowledge on fixing bookshelves came in next to zero, but fixed is fixed… enough.
Needing a few more nails, I reached for my little stock in my pocket but came up empty-handed. Hesitantly, I climbed down and searched for where Wilson had stashed them.
Behind his chestnut desk, he’d left the box of nails from Goldie, along with other items luckily untouched. It surprised me how well organized his belongings were. One shelf for cleaning: dusters, rags, and spray. One shelf for writing ink and parchment. One recently made empty judging by the dust, and one more holding something that caught my eye.
