Finally, the meeting adjourns, and the Red Unicorn makes no sign of moving. Florence rounds on him immediately. “So, who are you and what are you doing here and what do you write and are you single, in that order, please?”
I am also very curious to hear the answer to all of those questions, but Kathleen has the audacity to interrupt my eavesdropping with more notes about my writing: “…can see why Axel’s the hero. He sounds so hunky. But I think, with age, you’ll find that Wilfred is really the type of guy your heroine should go for…”
It’s impossible to focus on herandlisten to the Red Unicorn’s answers. Darn Kathleen and her fixation on Wilfred—normally I find it charming, but at the moment it’s all I can do to keep from screaming that for Pete’s sake, Kathleen, nobody cares about Wilfred!
By the time I manage to successfully end the conversation, the Red Unicorn has not only ceased revealing tidbits of information about himself, but he’s also left the room.
My heart sinks in my chest. As disconcerting as it was to have him here, as much as I know I’ll go back to seeing him semi-regularly at the library and that this is the extent of the relationship I want with him to avoid being disillusioned by his human imperfections—I can’t help but feel disappointed. It surprises me, this feeling. I thought that maybe…
What? He’d be so turned on by my prose that he’ll see me, really see me, for the first time, and it’ll turn out he really is the perfect guy, and we’ll live happily ever after?
This is not a romance, I remind myself again, for the millionth time.
I planned to get drinks afterward with Nina and Matilda, but Matilda has roped Nina into helping her wrap up the leftover muffins, so I go into the hallway to wait for them. Despite everything, I have a last, fleeting hope that maybe the Red Unicorn will be waiting for me there, but the corridor is empty.
I move to the drinking fountain, filling up my reusable water bottle and reminding myself, once again, that I am an idiot.
The door to the men’s bathroom opens and I jump at the unexpected movement, heart racing. The Red Unicorn holds up a hand in what looks to be an instinctive gesture, my startled reaction startling him. He smiles, just a little, as I stare at him, dazed. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him smile.
“Sorry,” he says. “Didn’t mean to spook ya.”
I wave him off. “No, you’re fine. I startle easily.”
The conversation has a surreal quality to it. I’m experiencing two simultaneous and contradictory emotions. The first is disbelief at the fact that I’m standing here, having a conversation with the Red Unicorn outside of normal library hours. And the second is surprise that this feels completely natural, because this man has played a central role in so many of my daydreams and fantasies that it feels like I actually know him.
I hold my breath, waiting to see if he’ll try to continue the conversation. Which he’ll need to do, because frankly I have no idea what’s supposed to happen next, and I don’t want to come across as a gibbering idiot.
He raises a hand, running it along the back of his neck. “I liked your story.”
“Oh, thanks.” I feel myself flushing, and in my self-consciousness, my mouth takes off without my permission. “There was a lot of sex in it.”
The faint flicker of a smile appears on his face. “I noticed that, yeah.”
“I don’t usually write that much sex, but my writing group has been telling me to go a little deeper.” I wince. “Stretch myself.” A flinch. “Wow, there really isn’t any way to say that that doesn’t sound like an innuendo, is there?”
He gives a short, coughing laugh, rubbing the back of his neck again. Is that a self-conscious gesture? If so, it’s strangely endearing. “Well, you should listen to your writing group more often.”
“It’s a great writing group. Was tonight your first time?” I, of course, know the answer to this, but he doesn’tknowI know the answer to this, and it’s a perfectly natural segue to find out why he’s here tonight.
He nods, glancing back toward the room. “Yeah. I saw the fliers in the library.”
I nod, too, in what I hope is a polite and not overenthusiastic way. “Do you write?”
“Well,” he replies, with another short, staccato laugh, “not really. I read, though.”
We are both half smiling, just looking at each other, and the moment feels strangely charged—charged enough that even I can’t miss it, and I can be oblivious to a lot of things like this.
Taking in a deep, bracing breath through my nose, I decide to be bold. “Detective novels, right? I recognize you from the library. I have a good memory for books.”
“Ah, yeah. I recognized you, too.” He extends his hand. “Thaddeus Hughes. I go by Thad.”
A name! The Red Unicorn has a name. I’ve held off on this moment for so long that I have to fight a wince at hearing it, but I suppose it was inevitable that at some point he would have to move beyond a fictionalized character in my mind. Still. It feels, somehow, terribly intimate, to know this very public piece of information.
Thad Hughes. I test it out, trying to wrap my head around it. I hesitate only briefly before taking his hand. This is the most physical contact I’ve had with a nonrelated male in a very long time, and I don’t want to do anything too weird.
His palm is warm, his fingers firm but not too tight as they close around my hand. I am so worried about making the situation awkward that I feel like I’ve turned to stone at his touch, afraid to move or breathe too quickly or grip too tightly. But he doesn’t seem to feel any such compunction. His thumb brushes over the back of my hand, then again, like he’s touching an especially soft blanket and can’t quite help himself. Goose bumps break out on my arms, and my skin suddenly feels incredibly sensitive, responsive. “Helen Flanagan,” I manage to say, though my voice sounds a little too breathy for just a simple introduction.
We’re still holding hands, just kind oflookingat each other, and for a moment I panic, worried that he might think I’m strange for not pulling away, until it occurs to me that he hasn’t pulled away yet either, and what is happening?!
