by Grey, R. S.
Sometimes I work up the courage to step closer and touch her. I cradle her cheek in my hand and she accepts the comfort so willingly. Other times, I jerk awake before I get the chance.
Either way, I’m frustrated in the morning.
* * *
It’s been a few weeks since my arrest. My lip and eye have healed up, and other than a small scar beside my eyebrow, I’m good as new. Life has carried on as normal except for the misdemeanor charge hanging over my head. Much to the chagrin of my father and Judge Mathers, I stuck with my guilty plea and accepted my sentence: 100 hours of community service. After I’m done, I’ll have the misdemeanor expunged from my record. It’s silly that I’m going through with all this—I didn’t assault Mac and his friends. We were all in there, throwing punches, taking our anger out on each other. Andy even had a few bruises to show for it, and he wore them proudly around the office before they faded. I swear he was a little sad to see them go.
I don’t have to do the community service. Mac isn’t going to know whether or not I weaseled out of my punishment. Hell, he probably assumes I did, but I’ll know, and I guess, for some stupid reason, that matters.
Normally in situations like this, the courts would demand that the offender volunteer or pay restitution to the organization directly impacted by the crime itself. Since mine was a misdemeanor involving a simple assault, and since Judge Mather’s heart wasn’t really in it for the sentencing, he tossed a list of organizations at me and told me to pick one. I skipped over the soup kitchen, hospital, and retirement home. The last option on the list was the local library, a place I haven’t set foot in since I was a kid.
I chose it on a whim and now here I am, ready to report for my first day. It’s 5:00 PM on Friday and I’ve had a long week at the firm. Andy and I currently have more clients than we can handle. We’ve brought in four junior associates in the last two years, but somehow, the workload just keeps piling up. I could use a break, a night of just kicking back and shooting the shit with my friends, a real weekend where I’m not holed up at the office.
In truth, the last thing I need is another commitment on my plate, so now, more than ever, I’m kicking myself for getting into this mess. Was it really worth it to land that solid punch across Mac’s face?
Yes. Yes, it was.
I park in the visitor’s lot and hop out, glad I changed clothes before I left work. I’m not about to show up to volunteer in a suit.
It really has been a while since I’ve been here. Like I said, the firm has been keeping me busy, but I also avoid this place because it carries a lot of memories I’d rather not dwell on, like Saturdays with my mom, especially. I walk up the imposing staircase, past the statue of my great-great-great-grandfather cast in bronze, and then pull open the heavy door. Inside, there’s a security guard perched at an ancient oak desk. When I ask him about a volunteer station, he looks at me like I’m from a different planet. Right. I’ll find it myself.
Like most buildings around Clifton Cove, the library is ridiculously over the top for the function it serves. This isn’t your standard one-story brick building with mismatched furniture and stained carpet from the 80s. The floors are marble. The walls are paneled and finished with crown molding. The ceilings stretch to heights usually reserved for churches, and the artwork hanging on the walls is no doubt on loan from various museums around the country.
The bronze guy outside—the original Mr. Rosenberg—endowed the city with the funds and oversaw the design and build of the library. Of all the buildings in the city that carry my last name, this one is my favorite.
I walk past the quiet study rooms, past two symmetrical staircases with wrought iron rails, past the magazines and periodicals. I’m looking around for some kind of help desk when a short guy wearing khaki pants and a blue gingham button-down walks right up to me like he’s on a mission. Based on the fact that he’s approaching me at all, I assume he’s an employee who’s seen me ambling around, obviously looking lost.
“Could you point me in the direction of—”
“Oh my god. Are you here for Madison?”
“What?”
He straightens his shoulders and shakes his head, affecting a gentler tone when he continues, “I just mean…after what happened…” His brows furrow in confusion behind his thick black-framed glasses. “Never mind, forget I said anything.” His hand shoots out. “I’m Eli.”
I accept his handshake. “Ben—”
“Rosenberg. Yes, I know.” He drops my hand and steps back, frowning. “Are you here to check out library books? Because I looked and you don’t even have a library card.”
“Uhh…”
I look around, hoping to find some clues as to who this person is and why he seems to know so much about me. Also, why did he bring up Madison?
“And sure,” he continues, pointing behind me, “that’s your great-grandfather’s statue out there, so technically all these books probably belong to you anyway, but still—”
“Eli! Ahem, Eli!”
I turn to see a short elderly woman holding a book outstretched toward the guy talking my ear off.
“Eli,” she says, tone stern, chin raised. “This book has a tear right down the first page. I think it’s only fair that I get to keep it—for free.”
I turn back in time to see Eli roll his eyes. “That’s the fifth book this month. Mrs. Taylor, if you keep tearing up our books, we’re going to cut up your library card.”
She harrumphs and then turns away, nose in the air.
Eli shakes his head in distaste. “Criminals…”
What in the hell have I gotten myself into?
“Actually, I’m just looking for the volunteer desk,” I offer, hoping to end this odd exchange as soon as possible.
Eli glances back at me, brows suddenly perked up with interest. “Volunteer desk, huh? Well why didn’t you say so? It’s downstairs, right by the children’s section. You can’t miss it.”
I narrow my eyes in speculation. He looks entirely too pleased to be sending me downstairs, but I shake off the feeling. Maybe they’re just really in need of volunteers.
I thank him and head in the direction he’s pointing, but I don’t make it very far before I remember what he said. I frown as I try to recall his exact words. Are you here for Madison?
“Hey wait,” I call out to him as I turn around. “You know Madison?”
He smirks. “You could say that.”
Then, before I can ask anything more, he turns and walks away.
I’m thinking over what his cryptic words could possibly mean as I walk down the stairs and into the area of the library that’s been designed with children in mind. There are colorful art installations hanging from ceilings, rows of computers, a section of bean bags and tiny chairs, and stacks upon stacks of books. Oversized stuffed animals sit on top of the shelves, and whereas the areas upstairs were quiet, down here, the atmosphere is alive and happy. A toddler runs right into my path and I have to stop on a dime to keep from toppling him over. His mom runs after him and shouts a quick thank you to me before she catches up and whisks him off the ground into her arms. He laughs like it’s the funniest game he’s ever played, and I’m smiling like an idiot before I realize and wipe it off.
I scan the area and spot a sign hanging from the ceiling that points me in the direction of the help desk. Surely someone there will be able to tell me where the hell I’m supposed to be. Of course, no one is currently manning it. There’s a small bell sitting near the edge, so I ding it once and wait, hands in my pockets, eyes scanning the room.
After a few moments, I realize with the noise level down here, it’d probably be hard for someone to hear the bell, so I try again, dinging it twice this time.
“I’m coming! I’m coming!” a feminine voice calls out.
I catch movement to my right and look over just in time to see a brunette pop out from behind one of the shelves with a dozen children’s books piled in her arms. She blows a few strands of hair
out of her face and then announces in an annoyed voice, “Eli, if that’s you—”
Then her green eyes glance up and her sentence cuts off sharply when she sees it’s me.
6
Madison
Well, it turns out, I’m a witch. It’s the only possible explanation for the turn of events currently taking place in my life. There I was, just a few moments ago, re-shelving books and daydreaming about Ben Rosenberg, as I’ve often done in the weeks since I last saw him. I was lost in thought trying to recall the exact shade of his eyes—amber or more of a pale honey?—when the bell rang at my desk and low and behold, here he is, in the library, waiting for me.
I must have conjured him up out of thin air, and I did an excellent job recreating him from memory. He’s wearing dark jeans and a gray crewneck t-shirt. His brown hair is shorter than it was the last time I saw him and styled like he came straight from the office. He looks severe, daunting, beautiful. He’s not smiling. No, in fact, he looks sort of annoyed, I think. His features—the strong brow, sharp cheekbones, and pronounced jaw—are so easily swayed to look menacing. I could faint from the sheer shock of seeing him again, but I square my shoulders and try to affect a cool, calm exterior.
“Ben Rosenberg. Come to take the library back from us once and for all?” I quip as I round the corner and start to walk toward him. I take a very quick, very thorough stock of my appearance, trying to visualize how I look to him in this moment. My jersey dress is a pale shade of blue, long-sleeved and knee-length. The top is fitted across my chest, but the skirt flows around my hips and thighs. All in all, it’s more comfortable than cute, as is much of my wardrobe. My hair is in a loose braid, and damn it all to hell, would it have killed me to apply a little makeup before work this morning? A swipe of daring lipstick? Some false eyelashes? A smoky eye? I want to turn back around and pinch my cheeks—or better yet, slap them—in the hopes that I’ll appear youthful and glowing rather than tired and overworked.
“Retake the library? Eli did mention something about all these books belonging to me.”
Oh good, his tone is hard and emotionless. Maybe he’s trying to seem as unflustered by our reunion as I am—or, you know, maybe he actually is unflustered.
I step closer and drop the children’s books onto my desk, working up the courage to glance up at him. He really is tall. If I had to look up at him for long, I’d get a crick in my neck. “He was exaggerating. They belong to the city.” I frown. “At least I think they do. Now, what can I do for you?”
His eyes assess me coolly for a moment. Ah yes, they’re amber, and so intimidating my palms are sweating. He takes me in from top to toes, and I swear if I dug deep enough, I’d find a hint of appreciation behind his gaze, but I can’t be certain. He’s so much more in control of his features than I am. If I ever found myself across from him at a poker table, I’d lose my entire life savings.
“I’m here to volunteer my services.”
My eyes widen and my cheeks burn red hot. It sounds like a sexy euphemism: his services. I immediately imagine him kissing his way across my body, burning a path down my skin. This jersey dress would be so simple to rip right in two. Then my brain kicks in and I realize the true meaning of his words. Of course he catches my reaction and seems mildly amused by it.
I clear my throat and finger the top book on the stack on my desk. “Why? Er—” I clear my throat. “Why are you wanting to volunteer here?”
“Court-ordered community service. It’s mandatory thanks to that fight I got into a few weeks ago. You remember?”
“Ah, right.” I glance back up at him. Do I remember? I have every second of that night permanently ingrained in my memory. His words, his appearance. I remember the swollen eye and red, busted lip. His lips are fine now—in tiptop shape, in fact. I’m staring at them as I say dumbly, “Your eye has healed up nicely.”
His fingers reach up to touch the corner of his eye and I’m forced to look there, at the bright amber hue and black lashes.
I’m aware that one of us should speak soon. We can’t just continue to stare at each other like this, so I give myself a mental kick and paste on a weak smile. “Shame you didn’t scar—could have given you some major street cred.”
Then I plop myself down in my desk chair and click my mouse three times, trying to wake up my computer. I want to show him that I’m a busy gal. I have work things to attend to: emails, and conference calls, and mergers, and financial documents. Oh right, I’m a children’s librarian. A child screams a few feet away and I’m reminded that I’m about as intimidating as a church mouse. The things on my agenda for today include things like Princess Story Time and Toddler Play Hour.
I still make a real show of typing a bunch of meaningless gibberish on my keyboard, just in case, but then my computer doesn’t feel like playing along. It locks me out because I’ve entered the wrong login password too many times. A loud, angry noise blares like an alarm and I frown at the stupid thing.
“Computer on the fritz?” he asks, and when I glance up, I see he’s wearing the barest hint of a smirk. My stomach flips upside down like an amusement park ride. This won’t work. He can’t stay here, lingering, giving me hope where there is none.
“It’s fine. Anyway, sorry to disappoint you, but the only place we need volunteers is down here, in the children’s department. I don’t think you’re quite cut out for it. Baby talk, screaming toddlers, poopy pants…” I scrunch my nose so he gets the idea.
He looks out into the distance as if surveying the landscape for all the possibilities I just outlined. He doesn’t look as deterred as I would have thought.
“Really…lots of poop,” I add, trying—for some insane reason—to convince him to leave. I think it’s because of how I feel in this moment: so totally out of control. I know I’m making a fool of myself and yet I can’t stop doing it. I want him to take a step back. Better yet, I want him to take ten steps back. I’d come to terms with the fact that I probably wouldn’t see him again any time soon. I reasoned with myself that it was for the best. What could possibly come from spending time around Ben Rosenberg other than one-sided feelings and a whole hell of a lot of heartache?
Then I realize I have one more solid reason why it’s not a good idea for him to volunteer here, with me.
“Besides, I’m supposed to stay away from you. Bad news, apparently. Are you, Ben?”
“What?”
“Bad news?”
He looks like I’m confusing the hell out of him, and maybe I am.
I pick the books up off my desk and start walking back toward the stacks. He’s forced to follow if he wants to continue the conversation.
“Why would you think that?”
I glance at him over my shoulder. I swear he was looking at my butt, but I can’t be sure. “My dad warned me about you. He said you and your family think you’re entitled to anything and everything in Clifton Cove, even the people.”
“It sounds like your dad doesn’t know me very well.” His words are bitten out in annoyance.
I feel bad now, for hurting his feelings, for assuming he’s one way when maybe he’s the exact opposite. We’re between the tall stacks now. I’ve unintentionally hidden us away. It feels like there’s not a soul in sight. I press the books to my chest and turn my gaze up to him. He’s watching me with his brows furrowed and his mouth tugged into a sharp line.
“I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m sorry if I did.”
He doesn’t reply.
My heart rate picks up and I wish we weren’t so alone right now. There are a dozen kids down here—would it be so hard for one of them to run over in our direction and kill the tension building up between us? Maybe produce one of those poopy pants I warned him about?
I’m trying to come up with a solution for our problems. He needs to volunteer here to fulfill his community service requirement, and I need him as far away from me as possible. One of us is going to end up having to concede, and it’ll likely be me. I’ve never bee
n great at standing my ground, but maybe there’s something I can get out of this after all.
My birthday flashes back into my mind, that lonely moment when I was staring at my reflection in the glass, the wish I made underneath my desk.
Inspiration strikes and I run with it before my brain has time to decide if it’s a good idea or a bad one. Chances are, it’s the latter.
“Here’s the thing: I’ll let you volunteer here if you do something for me.”
His eyes narrow suspiciously. “What?”
“No, forget it.”
“What is it?”
“It’s stupid.”
“Madison, say it.”
His tone is hard and his words are so commanding, I suddenly blurt out, “I want you to help me change.”
“Change?” His gaze drops to my dress like I mean it in the literal sense rather than the figurative. “How?”
I’m going to have to be more specific, and being more specific means putting more of myself out there for him to judge and ridicule. There’s no way I’ll finish explaining my request without him laughing himself right on out of this library.
But, if I’m not honest, nothing will change. This year will be the same as the year before that and the year before that. In eleven months, I’ll be standing in this exact room, blowing out candles on a crummy ol’ birthday cake courtesy of Mrs. Allen. Eli will be off honeymooning with Kevin and Katy will be gone, replaced by some new bored intern desperately wishing they could go home.
So, I take a deep breath and speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God.
“I want you to, y’know…help make me…different.”
“Different?”
Right, yes. What does different mean? I’ve spent my entire life in this exact role: the good girl. The rule-follower. The curfew-keeper.
“I want you to help make me bad.”
I squeeze my eyes shut.
There. I’ve said it.