As I walk into that library now, calmness washes over me and settles in my belly, roots there like a little bunny under the perfect bush. This place is home, my home, despite being a magnetic castle welcoming visitors. The central library is not just a library but more akin to a museum of the artistic mind, which might sound geeky, but it’s true. We have three floors, an auditorium, high-tech presentations, a revolving art display, a play area for kids, a reading room, and even a café. When a new visitor walks into our location, you can observe their awe, the way their eyes look up, around, in front, and sometimes even behind their position to ensure they don’t miss any of the tiny details, from displays to murals. It’s a hustle-and-bustle location with never a dull moment, and in the busy downtown area, lunch hours are often filled with visitors who choose to enjoy the facility during their breaks. In the center of it all is the main library desk, where guests ask an information clerk for aid. On each floor and in each department, there’s a checkout desk.
I work on the third level, the best of all the floors, in my opinion, by far. “Three” offers shelves filled with romance, adventure, and mystery. I step onto the floor-three escalator—two has its own—and as I always do, I turn to watch all that is below. The group of schoolkids being hushed by their teacher and parent helpers. The man at the checkout desk impatiently glancing at his watch. The woman at a table eating her sandwich while flipping a page of a book in earnest. I will never get rich or famous working in this place, but I am rich in knowledge and experiences, enchanted by some new discovery I find here every day of my life.
I’m now passing level two, noticing a little girl exuding excitement as she surveys a selection of children’s books with glee. Her young mother—dressed in jeans and sneakers, as well as a long-sleeve T-shirt—is smiling, obviously pleased with her daughter’s excitement. There’s also a woman in the self-help section clearly fretting over her choice of books, her teeth worrying her bottom lip, her finger lingering on one title and moving to the next. If I were her librarian, I’d tell her to go home with both and find the voice that speaks to her. If I were her friend, I’d tell her to not just read the words but use them. And that little secret is easier said than done, or else I’d be a million exciting versions of myself I have never been.
My gaze shifts and lands on a man sitting at a table with a laptop in front of him, and I do a double take when I realize I’m not just looking at him—he’s looking at me. As has already been established, no one looks at me. In all my years here at the library, studying people, often creating a story for them in my head, no one has ever studied me back. I blink, and I’m certain I’ll discover he’s really looking over my head or around me, but as I bring his dark, longish hair and strong, if not sharp, features back into focus, he’s still looking at me. He’s youngish, in his thirties, maybe, though I can’t be sure. His fingernails are manicured, his watch expensive. I hold my breath, unable to process the moment with further articulate thought, and then he’s gone. The escalator has delivered me to a higher level, beyond the wall, my signal to turn or be dumped on the floor of the landing.
I whirl around just in time to step off and then quickly turn back to the escalator as if I expect the dark-haired man to be racing toward me. Seconds tick by and nothing happens. In a huff of breath, I grimace at myself. What am I thinking? He was not looking at me. The end. I refuse to think about it, or him, for one more second. And even if he was looking at me, it was probably with peculiar interest as to why my simple black dress, basic boots, and dark-rimmed glasses were, well, simple.
I’m back to the end.
Time to go back to work.
Chapter Four
When I was eight and shunned by the other kids for being too awkward and shy, my father built me the most incredible playhouse in the garage, where he worked most days. It had a play kitchen, dolls, and a little comfy chair where I watched him fret over his projects. When I was there, I was in my safe place.
When I was twelve and dolls were suddenly shunned at school, therefore shunned by me, my father swooped in for the rescue again and converted my playhouse into a library, where I’d spend hours upon hours journeying anywhere my reading allowed me to travel.
Floor three is my adult playhouse. It’s my safe place, my escape from the rest of the world, filled with books that deliver joy and adventure; therefore I’ve already left the man on floor two behind me. Some might say that I live between the pages more than I live a real life—okay, so Jess will say—but I’m happy here. And being happy matters.
Just as he was the day we met five years ago, my comanager of floor three, Jack Smith, is behind the half-moon-shaped service desk, assisting a single patron. Jack is my twin personality, a socially awkward book geek who lives for this place. But unlike me, Jack is not average. He’s tall and fit—and he wears thick-rimmed glasses that, when paired with his favored sweater vests and ties, are kind of a hot schoolteacher look. His dark skin is perfectly clear and glowing even under the library’s unforgiving overhead lighting, and I’m reminded that he’s quite good looking.
At least I think so.
Unfortunately, considering our mutual geek status, and dismal dating lives, we just aren’t that into each other, at least not like that. We tried. We went on a date, and two awkward people feeling awkward suffocated us both. It was just too much awkward. The best part of the night was when we burst into laughter and at the exact same moment said, “What were we thinking?”
I wave at him and motion to the back office we share just behind the service area, that holds two desks, facing opposite walls. It’s a small space that ensures everything from a cough to crankiness becomes contagious. I’ve just sat down and put away my purse when Jack appears beside my desk. “Kara wants you to call her,” he announces.
I inwardly cringe at our boss’s message, which means I’ll most likely be working with her on auditorium bookings today, rather than here on three, for fear I’ll seem ungrateful for my new duties. Kara pushing me to expand my horizons resulted in a much-needed raise, considering my ever-increasing rent. Now I’m saving for a house, hopefully ending my mother’s incessant pressure to stop wasting money on rent.
Jack, wearing a black vest, and checkered tie, motions to my desk, and my gaze lands on a napkin that seems to be covering a plate. “You missed Joan’s birthday cake, and I know how you love to have your cake and to eat it, too.” He waggles his eyebrows.
I laugh at his cheesy joke, because geeks together are geeks forever, and all that stuff. We’d known that from the day we met, when we competed for who knew the most quotes from books. He won round one. I won round two. And for the first time in my life, I experienced the phenomenon of instant friendship.
I rip away the napkin and eye the luscious vanilla icing. “Oh my God, this is from Julie’s Bakery. I freaking love that place.” I point a finger at him and chide, “You are never good for my diet,” but even as I do, I grab the fork he’s dutifully included on the plate and add, “But thank you. I love you, too. I really needed cake right now.”
“I love you, too,” he says, sitting down in the chair next to my desk, his back to a wall, his gaze on my face as I shove a giant bite of cake into my mouth. I’ve learned to appreciate certain things about being invisible, such as shoving almost half a slice of cake in your mouth in one bite and no one noticing. Okay, well, Jack notices, but he doesn’t care if I inhale cake. The thing is, he’s invisible, too, but not with me, and I’m not to him, but I also feel free as a bird with him. Jack just gets me. He doesn’t judge me. Jess is my people, too, but she’s different. She’s judgy; therefore I’m not free as a bird with Jess, but I’m okay with that. I’m also not invisible with Jess, or she wouldn’t notice when I’m a slob.
“Do you know why I knew you’d need the cake?” he asks.
“Why?” I ask, licking icing from my finger.
“Because you had lunch with Jess. You always come back from lunch with Jess stressed.”
Jess and Jack are what I call “my two Js,” my people, the only people I confide in, count on, call family, no matter what their bloodline or mine. The problem is, they don’t like each other. Not really. They’ll tolerate one another when necessary.
“She doesn’t stress me out. That’s silly.”