Chapter 1
Helen
This is not a romance.
…at least, not a very good one, not yet. I furrow my brow in a way that I hope looks as though I’m encountering a complex issue with the microfiche database, instead of struggling to find the right verb choice for my work in progress.
Moaned? Groaned? Whimpered? What should Rosamund do when Axel laps at her nipple through her lacy bra with his rough tongue? My go-to is usually a whimper, but I’m worried I’m beginning to overuse the word. Not that most of my writing group is probably paying that much attention to my synonyms or lack thereof, but I live in almost constant fear of betraying myself—making the one mistake that will out me for what I truly am.
“Kimberly. Hello, Kimberly?”
It takes me a belated moment to realize my coworker Erica is trying to get my attention. It’s an easy enough mistake to make on my part, considering the fact that my name isn’t Kimberly—it’s Helen. Yet in all our time working together, Erica has never called me by the right name. It’s been Kimberly since my first week, and that was almost two years ago now.
When Erica first called me the wrong name, I tried to correct her, but she always insists the misnaming is intentional: “Because you look like that girl, Kimberly? FromThe Magic School Bus, you know, that educational cartoon from when we were kids.”
I tried my best to see the nickname as a sort of endearment, only when I pulled up an old episode of the show to see what Kimberly looked like, I discovered there is no character named Kimberly.
It’s impossible to know whether Erica’s a little deranged or a mastermind manipulator, having cornered me into years of responding to the wrong name.
I quickly minimize my Word document, even though Erica is still across the room. “Yes, Erica?” Notice thatIhave managed to use her correct name. Just saying.
“Can you take over checkout?” Erica nods toward the clock, then clasps her hands together in the motion of a prayer, her lacquered pink nails gleaming under the fluorescent light. “I’ll be late to my appointment if I don’t go now.”
I stifle a sigh. This is another point in favor of either Erica’s delusion, or her genius. She has a standing weekly appointment with a “chiropractor” due to a “chronic back illness,” though more than once my coworkers and I have spotted Erica at places that are definitely not the chiropractor’s office during this time period: the movies, the nail salon, and perhaps the most depressing of all, just sitting in the back of a McDonald’s by herself, eating a McFlurry and scrolling through her phone.
But Erica remains adamant that she has to get to her appointment every Monday at three, and so every Monday at two forty-five, out she goes.
“Sure.” I log out of my computer, moving to the checkout counter. I can’t blame Erica exactly, since I myself am using a little downtime at the library to fix the latest chapter of my WIP, but at least I wouldn’t lie about it if anyone asked me. Or at least, not so egregiously.
As I approach the counter though, Erica suddenly straightens, pivoting back toward the computer. “Um, actually, I can stay a few more minutes.” She tosses her hair a bit, sticking out her breasts.
This is all the warning I get as the Red Unicorn approaches the counter, carrying his usual haul of books in a way that nicely showcases the muscles of his forearms.
The Red Unicorn has become a frequent patron of the library, and he’s earned his nickname (of which he is completely unaware) because he has a trifecta of qualities unusual in a man: the first is a sexy, if spotty, Southern accent; the second, a love of reading across multiple genres, including genre fiction and poetry, often scorned by men of his age/demographic; and the last is that he is an attractive ginger, which I don’t personally think is all that unusual, but my friend Matilda assures me is a true rarity, especially combined with the other two aforementioned qualities.
It would be easy enough to find out what his real name is; I have it on file, after all, available every time he uses his library card. But I prefer to think of him as the Red Unicorn, a perfect fantasy man who may or may not exist as I imagine him, but who happens to stop in at my library at least twice a week.
In his presence, all thoughts of Erica’s chiropractor appointment seem to have disappeared, and she is suddenly all attention—and all breasts, as she practically puffs out her chest on display, easy to do in her low-cut blouse that is unbuttoned just one button too low. I say this not out of judgment, but a little envy. I get nervous if even my clavicle is on display. Turtlenecks are usually my go-to, a few sizes too big.
“Hi there.” Erica’s voice is almost as low as her blouse, and unusually breathy, too, like she has asthma, but the sexy kind. “See anything you like?”
I can’t blame her, honestly. The Red Unicorn is attractive enough to justify an over-the-top cleavage display and ASMR sexy voice. I might have tried the same myself, but it’s hard to pull off a good boob display in a men’s extra-extra-large turtleneck, and my sexy voice sounds unnervingly like Minnie Mouse.
Instead, I awkwardly linger, watching as Erica continues her aggressive chest-thrusting, and waiting to see how the Red Unicorn will respond.
“Just these, thanks.” He seems distracted—not unusual, since he normally seems distracted and a little distant, but I thought Erica’s breast showcase might have been enough to catch his attention. Clearly Erica did, too. With his lack of response, she looks a little crestfallen and loses some of her swagger.
Her dejection doesn’t last long though, and she rebounds quickly with a lingering hand graze as she takes the last book from the Red Unicorn—brazenly enough that I can’t help my eyes from widening, both astonished and a little impressed by Erica’s moxie. This is one of my curses, I’ve been told; people can always read my every thought on my face. I like to imagine I would be extremely GIFable, were I to venture into reality television.
“Is there anything else I can do for you today?” Erica purrs.
“No.” The Red Unicorn gathers the books, adding a curt “Thanks” before leaving without bothering to give either of us a backward glance.
An awkward moment follows, before Erica checks her watch again and groans in frustration. “Ugh, Kimberly, I’m going to be so late!” And with that, she snatches her purse and is gone so fast she leaves nothing but the faintest whiff of Juicy Couture behind her.
Silence descends. The room is virtually empty now, except for the few patrons using the public computers and Tom, a middle-school-aged child, doing his homework at one of the tables. He’s here often enough that I know him by name. His mother will pick him up in about an hour and a half, looking frazzled and asking him which meal in a sack he prefers for dinner tonight.
Not for the first time, I remind myself that there are worse things than being perpetually, eternally single. My time is my own. I only have to worry about taking care of—and feeding—myself. I can only imagine how stressful it must be to be a single parent, working full-time, at the mercy of the public library system for free babysitting when necessity demands it.
