Page 35 of Tanner

To my surprise, Tanner sits across from me. We don’t talk for the long trip to Midtown but rather stare at each other. For a guy from the West Coast, he looks like he was born and raised in Manhattan.

He has a cool elegance to him—a swagger of someone who knows the city inside and out. Sure, he has that blond-haired, blue-eyed surfer thing going for him, but it’s overshadowed by the hairstyle, five o’clock shadow, relaxed attire, and the mere sexiness of a man who is comfortable in his own skin.

As the train is about to approach 42nd Street–Bryant Park, I rise, and Tanner does so as well. He leans over me as the train comes to a halt and steadies me when I almost lose my footing from the jolt. We walk out, side by side.

As we head toward the southeast exit, Tanner asks, “The library?”

I smash my lips and nod. “Yeah.”

He slightly tilts his head as his eyes narrow in wonder. I turn away from him, so I don’t trip but am compelled as to why he’s looking at me like this.

I ignore the look he’s giving me as we walk past the lion statues, up the marble stairs, and into the New York landmark.

I guide him through the main entrance and into the main lobby with thirty-seven-foot ceilings and marble on all sides. We walk up the grand staircase and gaze at the bold murals of biblical scenes. The building hosts a museum and various rooms for anything from map reading to periodical viewings.

I escort him past those rooms and into my favorite space—the Rose Main Reading Room.

Tanner’s eyes open wide to the intricate details lining the ceiling of the room that was restored a few years ago. We feast on the incredible architecture, murals, and grand chandeliers. I breathe in the smell of the thousands of books that line the open shelves.

My fingers graze the spines of each book as we pass through. We take turns, looking through books, each selecting one. I choose a biography on Jackson Pollock. He has an analysis on the complete works of Harper Lee.

There’s an open table in the back. We have a seat in the comfortable chairs and gaze out into the massive room. We open our books, reading quietly to ourselves.

Every few pages, I glance over at him and see his eyes on mine.

He smirks. I blush.

“This is your place.” It’s a statement, not a question.

“When I’m here, I don’t feel so alone.” I lean back in my seat and look up at the gold filigree on the ceiling. “To think about all the people who have entered these halls and sat underneath this amazing piece of art with hundreds of rosettes makes me feel like I’m a big part of the puzzle we call life.”

Someone shushes me, and I place my hand on my mouth with a smile.

Tanner ignores the person and gives me an appreciative look. “I didn’t take you as a woman who appreciated art as much as you do.”

He has no idea just how appreciative of art I am. The graffiti door comes to mind, and I desperately want to ask if it was him. I don’t know why I don’t just come out and ask. It’s silly, I know.

“Back in the day, people cared about art. They wanted to make everything pretty—ceilings, walls, or doors of run-down buildings. It’s a lost art—those who can take something abandoned and make it beautiful once again. Don’t you agree?”

I took my shot, and it feels like I’ve fallen short. When his vision jumps to mine, I think he’ll say something, but he doesn’t. Instead, he pulls the cord on the brass lamp on the wood table, and someone nearby gives him an evil glare. We stifle our laughs as we get up and continue to walk through the room with our books in hand.

We walk into another area where there aren’t as many people studying and navigate through the stacks. We’re in the back corner of the geology section when we take a seat on the floor.

“Do you come here for the art or the books?” he asks.

“Books are my escape. I’ve lived a thousand lives inside the pages of these books.” I stretch out my legs and let my head fall back against the bookcase behind me. “My mom used to bring me to our local library every Sunday. We’d each grab a book and read for an hour or so and then go for breakfast. I’d get chocolate pancakes, and she’d get eggs Benedict. Since I moved to the city, I try to come here as often as I can. I don’t check out any books. I’m a Kindle girl now. I just … I like to sit and think. Sometimes, I bring my work here.”

“That’s a beautiful memory of you and your mom.” There’s melancholy in his voice.

I let out a sigh. “It is, isn’t it?”

A sad expression crosses his face. “Has she passed?”

My eyes mildly tear up. I don’t usually talk about my mom’s condition. “She has advanced Alzheimer’s.”

He places a hand on my forearm. “I’m sorry.”

I try to brush the sentiment away and look down. “Nothing to be sorry about. That’s life, right? You can have a heart attack or cancer. My mom just happened to get Alzheimer’s at a very young age.” I play with the hem of my shirt. “I was six years old when she brought me to the library for the first time. To Kill a Mockingbird. That was the first book we took out. It was my mother’s favorite book.”