Buoyed by the reminder, I grab my satchel, slip out from behind the counter, and stop at the table where Tom is studying. I wish I could say that I am some kind of child whisperer and that Tom and I have formed a magical bond during his hours spent at the library, but we mostly maintain a friendly distance from each other. For most of my life, children weren’t something I considered a possibility, so I didn’t put much time into practicing for future motherhood, and I can’t say it’s something that’s come naturally to me now that it’s (sort of) on the table. Still, I’m trying.
Tom looks up at me expectantly. There’s really only one thing I’ve found to bridge the gap between our ages. I know nothing about video games, manga, or sports, so those are off the table, but we’ve found one common language that we share.
“Lemon bars,” I tell him, pulling out my Tupperware. “They turned out okay. Tell me if you think there’s too much lemon zest.”
He’s wolfed down one of the bars before I can even finish talking. “It’s good,” he says, mouth still mostly full.
That’s pretty high praise, coming from Tom. I linger awkwardly for a moment, then give a half wave-salute. “Okay. Well. See you next Monday.” Sunday nights are my baking night. I can’t—or rather,shouldn’t—eat the entire yield of the recipes myself, so I always share with Tom when he’s here on Monday afternoons. “Enjoy!”
Tom grunts in response. Yes! Another gold star interaction with a youth.
“Hey, Helen of Troy!” A voice catches me as I make my way behind the counter again.
I turn to see one of the library regulars, Shane, standing at checkout. He is a mid-twentysomething, way too young to be considered a true romantic possibility, but I nonetheless enjoy his sweet puppy dog energy. Tall, lanky, and with an impressive mane of corkscrew curls that stand out in every direction, Shane radiates energy, cheerfulness, and a contagious enthusiasm for learning.
In true form, he has a small stack of books under his arm. I inspect them as I take them for checkout. “Quantum mechanics?” I raise an eyebrow, impressed. “Very ambitious.”
At least once a week, Shane chooses a new topic to do a deep dive into, but usually it’s more along the lines of jellyfish, or black holes, or clocks. Quantum mechanics is raising the bar substantially.
Shane nods eagerly. “Well, yeah, I gotta do something to impress the pretty librarian.”
How pathetic is it that it actually takes me a moment to realize he means me? I know by now not to take Shane seriously—he is a chronic flirt, with anything and everything that has a pulse—but I still blush, more from being out of practice with compliments than being genuinely flustered. “I’ll let Erica know,” I joke back at him.
He grimaces. “Please, no. The last time I smiled at Scarica, I got an alarming number of ‘accidental’ texts from the library system, reminding me about Singles Saturday.” He leans in toward me, waggling his eyebrows. “Definitely not interested in that, by the way, unless the Face That Launched a Thousand Ships will be there?”
I smile back at him, though not for the first time, I feel a little ping of uncertainty. Is he really just being friendly, or is the truth about me so transparently obvious that he pities me and is just trying to make me feel better about my sad, pathetic life?
“I’m not much of a Singles Saturday kind of girl,” I hedge carefully.
“Darn.” Shane’s face seems guileless, his smile cheerful as he takes his stack of books back from me. “Wish me luck! I failed biology in high school.”
“It’s not biology,” I try to call after him, but he’s already halfway out the door, whistling to himself as his spiral curls bounce in time with his footsteps.
With Shane gone, a stillness settles over the library once again as I return to my desk. Glancing surreptitiously around, I pull up my document. I don’t normally try to sneak in so much writing when I’m on the clock, but I’m supposed to do a reading for my writing group in a few days, which means my pages need to be sent out by tonight.
The cursor blinks at me tauntingly, reminding me I still haven’t come up with the right verb. Something about my interaction with Shane has deflated some of my romantic energy, making it seem even more daunting than before to finish the paragraph. Which is stupid, because it’s the moment when the hero and the heroine finally let down their inhibitions and give in to their passions. The entire novel is building to this literal (and figurative) climax, and yet I suddenly find that I have zero inspiration to finish it.
So I push aside the little squiggly moral inhibitions that tell me it’s wrong and allow Axel’s fictional face to be filled in by one decidedly more substantial and familiar. The Red Unicorn’s features come to mind—his blue-gray eyes, his cleft chin, his strong, stubbled jaw. His tousled auburn hair, always looking slightly windblown, as if he is forever just finishing running his fingers through it.
Imagining someone I actually know as one of my characters always feels strange and a little sordid, especially when I’m writing love scenes. I know—it’s skeevy! But I justify it to myself in a few ways, namely because the Red Unicorn is more a character to me than a living, breathing person. Despite seeing him around the library for weeks now, we’ve barely exchanged more than a handful of words and a few fleeting moments of eye contact. Further, the heroine of my story, Rosamund, is nothing like me. She is beautiful, daring, forthright—all qualities that could never be said to describe yours truly. So it isn’t like I’m imagining the Red Unicorn doing a series of naughty things tome—and somehow, I hope, that makes it less creepy.
Suddenly, Axel comes to life in my mind—the subtle woodsy, masculine smell of him, the flash of his blue-gray eyes. Rosamund is helpless against him, overwhelmed by him—and yes, indeed, it is a keeningwhimperthat escapes her throat as his tongue lavishes her breasts.
That ought to be enough to please the ladies of my writing group, I think as I finish the paragraph. They’re always encouraging me to be a little bit racier with my love scenes, to go into more detail, and I’m really trying my best here, letting my imagination fully run away with me.
I just hope it will be enough to keep them off the scent, and that no one will realize they have a thirty-one-year-old virgin—and former nun—in their midst.
Chapter 2
Helen
It isn’t that I think there’s anything inherently wrong with virginity. Objectively, I know that what people do with their own bodies is their own choice, and that society shouldn’t have any say in when or if a person decides to have sex. I also know that age shouldn’t really be a factor—some people might be emotionally ready at seventeen, others might take significantly more time. Circumstances, sexual orientation, health, religious beliefs—all of these things can factor into a person’s choice to remain celibate, and it doesn’t make anyone more or less worthy of romantic love.
I can logically reason about all of these things, but every time I think about a romantic prospect finding out I’m still a virgin, I shrivel with mortification.
Being a former sister is a logical excuse as to why I was still a virgin at twenty-seven, when I made the choice to no longer renew my vows so I could try to live a normal life with a job, marriage, babies, and the like. Obviously, it made sense that someone who pledged to live a celibate life should remain celibate. This part of my story I think would be fairly easy for a romantic prospect to understand.
Four years after leaving the order, however, I’m still as much a virgin as when I first left. I’ve had a small smattering of blind dates and a brief dabbling into online dating (though I closed all accounts before I actually went on a date with anyone, because I am a coward).
