by Nell Iris
I resist the urge to squirm and straighten my clothing. I love the old tweed jacket with leather elbow patches I found at a yard sale; it’s very British-professor-chic. The slacks I’m wearing are on the tighter side, carefully chosen to show off my long legs shaped by riding my bicycle to work every day, at least when the ground isn’t covered in a thick layer of snow like today. The shirt I wear underneath the jacket is nothing special, but the accompanying bowtie is a bit much for some people. And it makes my coworker call me stuff like “dapper” and other old-timey adjectives. I don’t care, though; I love bowties and wear them all the time.
But if the half-lowered lids and his slow smile is something to go by, Manne appreciates what he sees. “Let’s go with ‘professional,’” he says. “That won’t get you into too much trouble.”
“Who’s the funny one now?” I mumble, trying to ignore the flame low in my abdomen he ignited with his naked inspection.
He’s about to say something when he jumps. He pulls out a phone from the back pocket of his too-tight and seriously drool-worthy jeans. “Dammit,” he mutters and shoves it back into his pocket. “I’m sorry but I have to go.”
I’d be lying if I said I’m not disappointed, but I smile and nod. “Sure. Real life waits for no one. Not even in libraries.”
“Unfortunately not.”
We grin at each other and he offers me his hand to shake. I accept it and can’t suppress the shiver that spreads like fire through my body at the touch of his rough palm against mine.
“I am grateful for your help. And not just for finding the book. Anyone could have helped with that. But for…you know…talking me down from my panic.”
I indulge myself in the feeling of long, thick fingers wrapped around my hand in perfect pressure, then I force myself to focus and answer his heartfelt words.
“You’re welcome. I was worried for a while when I thought you weren’t breathing. I’m just glad you responded to my particular brand of quirk. Not everyone is a fan.”
“Then they’re idiots,” he says, then grimaces again and pats the pocket where his phone is. “Someone really wants to talk to me.”
I nod and let go of his hand, neither of us showing any remorse for standing there in the middle of the library, clasped in a handshake for much longer than socially acceptable between strangers. “Have a great rest of the day and say ‘hi’ to Charlie from me.”
“I will. Thanks again.” With a last glance at me, specifically my legs, he turns to leave.
“Hey, Manne,” I call after him. “Put on the damned jacket. It’s freezing outside.”
He turns around and tuts at me. Then he puts on the jacket, eyes twinkling the entire time. “Yelling in the library! Kids these days have no manners.” He winks and struts out.
And if I stand there longer than I should, staring at his ass—round muscular globes flexing and dancing under the tight jeans—well, no one will know.
Chapter 2
“You must be Adrian.” The decisive voice of a girl pulls me out of my concentration. I look away from the computer and blink. Damn, I must have been focused if I didn’t even hear her approach the desk.
The girl looks to be about ten or eleven, with a raised pointy chin, raven hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and determined and intelligent eyes.
“I apologize,” I say and wave at the computer. “I was in the zone. I usually notice when someone approaches. But to answer your question, yes, I’m Adrian.”
She nods. “I figured.”
“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage because I don’t know who you are.” I smile.
She sits in the visitor’s chair, back straight, hands lying in her lap. Meeting my gaze, completely unafraid. “I like the bowtie,” she says. It’s a genuine statement and not mocking. It wouldn’t have been the first time someone had made fun of me for my choice in clothing, but nothing about her indicates that’s what she’s doing.
“Thank you,” I say and run my index finger along the edge of the bowtie. “It was my grandfather’s. It was his favorite; he wore it to church every Sunday and gave it to me before he died. He said that his favorite grandson should have his favorite bowtie. Of course, I’m the only grandson, but let’s ignore that fact.” I smile again.
When she cocks her head, she reminds me of someone, but I can’t put my finger on who.
“Girls can wear bowties, too.” Her gaze challenges me to contradict her.
“Of course, they can! But neither of my sisters are interested. In bowties or fashion. They are the sporty types, you know. And bowties don’t go well with yoga pants.”
One corner of her mouth curls up. Victory!
“Was your grandfather a nice man?”
I nod. “He was. He adored my grandmother, worshipped the ground she walked on even after sixty years of marriage. She was the only reason he even went to church. He didn’t believe in God but didn’t want to disappoint her. He also spoiled us grandkids rotten. He was a big softie; my grandmother was the strict one.”
“That sounds nice.” She raises her chin even more. “My grandfather is a bastard.” Her words are vehement, and her gray eyes turn into liquid steel.
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re not going to tell me I should treat my elders with respect? Or that my grandfather can’t be that bad and I shouldn’t use ugly words?” The challenge is clear in her gaze.
I like this spitfire!
“No,” I say. “I don’t know him. I don’t know you; you still haven’t told me your name, but I have no reason to doubt you. If you say he’s a bastard, I believe you. I’ve met my fair share of idiots in my life, so I know there are plenty of them.”
She nods, her rigid posture loosening some. “I like you.”
My heart melts for this feisty little person who isn’t afraid to speak her mind. “I like you, too.”
“I’m Charlie.” She holds out her hand and I don’t hesitate to lean over my desk and take it.
“Manne’s Charlie?”
She nods, and there’s a hint of a smile. We shake hands—she has a firm grip for an eleven-year-old—and after, I say, “It’s nice to meet you, Charlie. Your uncle had only great things to say about you. And I approve wholeheartedly of what you’re doing for him.”
“He said. I want him to stop thinking he’s stupid because he’s not. But my bastard grandfather says he is. That’s why I refuse to see him anymore. I told him not to speak about my uncle that way, but he says telling the truth is his right.” Her lips tighten and her gaze hardens. “Mom says grandfather called Manne stupid all the time when they were just kids, so I don’t blame him for believing it. Kids trust their parents.”
She’s so matter-of-fact, and I understand what Manne meant when he said she’s too sensible. She seems much older than eleven.
I nod. “You’re right. Kids trust their parents even when they aren’t worthy of trust.”
“Yes. That.”
“It makes me mad.”
“Me, too. I like that you’re not trying to bullshit me.”
“I figure you wouldn’t let me.”
“And I like that you’re not trying to tell me what words to use and not to use.”
“I’m not in the habit of policing someone’s language. Unless someone’s saying something hurtful to or about anyone. Then I’ll have opinions. Like you, it seems.”
She nods along, as though she agrees with everything I say. “I get why Uncle Manne can’t stop talking about you.” She stands. “I need to go. Mom is waiting for me to come home.”
“All right. It was very nice meeting you, Charlie.”
“You’ll help him again when he comes back, right?”
“Of course.”
“I don’t mean just like you’ll help anyone who asks you. I mean like you did last time.”
“I will.” I lean forward and make sure to meet her gaze. “You have my word.”
“Good.” She starts to turn.
“Charl
ie?”
“Yes?”
“I work every Saturday. Saturdays are quiet around here. Few people check out books on Saturdays.” I hope she understands what I’m trying to say.
“Thanks.” And with that, she power-walks out the door.
I lean back in my chair and rub my neck. That was an intense few minutes, almost like reliving the blizzard that blew through town at terrible speeds on Monday. I need a cup of coffee and a few minutes to myself.
As if on cue, Caro, the only one working today except me, walks past. “Hey, Caro. Can you keep an eye on the desk for me for a few minutes?”
“Sure thing. Will you be gone long?”
“Nah. Ten minutes tops. Thanks.”
I save what I was doing and find my way to the break room. I push the button on the coffee machine and listen to it burring as it brews the most terrible swill, but it’s caffeine just the same, and right now I crave it.
Meeting Charlie was an interesting experience. I’ve never been questioned like that by anyone other than my mother before. But I approve; she’s going to be a force to be reckoned with when she grows up.
Meeting her made me wonder about Manne’s sibling, Charlie’s mom, if she’s in his corner as well. From what Charlie said, it seems like it. Besides, Charlie must have gotten her spirit from somewhere.
The machine sputters out the last dregs, and I grab my milk from the fridge and pour a generous amount into the cup. Then I bring it to the window and gaze at the snowy streets outside.
I’ve been thinking a lot about Manne since he was here twelve days ago. Wondering how he’s doing, if he’s getting through the book he borrowed. Kicking myself for neglecting to talk to him about audiobooks and other resources available for dyslexic people. But I was rattled by his panicked fear, and my primary focus was to coax him out of it. I’ll have to talk it over with him when he comes back.
It’s also made me think a lot about books, and about how different mine and Manne’s feelings about them are. For me, the books are a comfort, a joy. My best friends. For him, they are an enemy to be conquered. But considering what Charlie told me about Manne’s father, it’s understandable. To be called stupid by a parent because dyslexia made it difficult to read is fucking child abuse. Some people shouldn’t be allowed to become parents.
I drink my coffee and grimace. I need to start bringing my own to work; this shit will poison me. But I brave it and take another gulp.
I’ve been thinking about him for completely different reasons, too. About his beefy arms, his powerful chest, and his narrow hips. Of those thick, drool-worthy thighs. I’ve been wondering about how many more tattoos his clothes are hiding. Or piercings; does he have more of those? How would his hands feel on my body, his lips pressed against mine? How would his weight feel on top of mine, pressing me into the bed?
I enjoyed him being bigger than me. I’m a pretty tall guy and most people are shorter. I’ve met plenty of guys more muscular, because I’m pretty average in that department, but never someone both taller—albeit not by much—and wider.
I like it. A lot.
When my dick starts plumping up in my pants, I take a big gulp of my coffee, hoping the revolting taste will kill off my burgeoning erection. It does, but it also kills my will to live. I pour out the rest of it and wash the cup. Then I return to work, hoping that Charlie will deliver my message and that Manne will be back soon.
* * * *
Friday, the day after Charlie visited the library, is my day off, and I wake up to bright, happy sunlight after sleeping in. I jump out of bed and rush to the window; everything is glimmering and the trees still heavy from yesterday’s snowfall look like someone dusted them with glitter.
The snow and the sunshine call to me, and I eat a quick breakfast, put on warm clothes—beanie, scarf, gloves, boots—shove my e-reader into my pocket, and head out for a walk.
My street is recently plowed; the snow is bright white and pristine, not yet blemished by car exhaust or muddy feet, and so beautiful, I can’t help but smile. With a wide grin—albeit hidden behind the wooly scarf because the air is so chilly it prickles and burns any exposed skin—I let my feet lead me wherever they want to go.
Besides me, not many people are out; most of them are at work, and it’s January, which always makes grumpy recluses out of people after a long holiday season. I like January. Fresh starts and everything. And it has the added benefit of giving me the streets to myself, at least on cold days like today.
When I reach the park, it’s mostly empty, too. Someone is hurrying somewhere in the distance, and a tiny elderly lady, with a long white braid snaking over her shoulder, is walking an equally tiny dog dressed in a cute sweater to protect it from the chill. The lady is so tiny it makes the dog look normal-sized next to her. I smile at them both and say, “Aren’t you the cutest little doggy?” to her little friend. She beams at me like a proud Mama, waves goodbye, and I continue my walk.
It’s slow and unhurried; I have nowhere important to be today. The laundry can wait; I can always buy more underwear if needed. Everything except this lovely day can wait. After a while, I take a break and sit on a bench by the pond in the middle of the park, making sure my coat covers my ass so I won’t freeze it off. I snap a selfie—me with a smile wider than my phone screen and the snow-laden trees glittering and gleaming in the background—and post it in the chat I have with my sisters. I type a quick message.
Miss you morons.
It doesn’t take long for my youngest sister, Linnea, to reply with a selfie of her own, depicting herself with her nose in some book or other on campus where she spends all her waking time studying to become a brain surgeon.
Linnea: Miss you, too. Coming to dinner on Sunday?
Adrian: Wouldn’t miss it. You better be there.
Linnea: You know Mom & Dad wouldn’t let me out of it.
Adrian: I know because…
I send the incomplete message but immediately continue. Linnea’s and my identical messages pop up at the same time on the screen.
Sunday family dinners are a holy time, children.
I can’t help but laugh. I even hear my mother’s voice in my head when I read the words.
Nothing besides being on the brink of death will excuse us kids—even as grownups—from family dinners. When we were younger, we tried every excuse we could come up with; studying for an important exam (“bring your books to the table, dear”); being hungover (“you should have thought about this yesterday”); having a date (“bring them to dinner, it’s always nice meeting new people”); even asking Dad (“do you want your mother to kill me, son?”)
Granted, the rules are less strict for us as adults, and required attendance is only once a month these days. A Sunday shift will get us out of the obligation, but since Linnea is still living with our parents while she’s finishing school, she’s not so lucky.
We siblings complain about it from time to time, but the truth is that we all love it. It keeps us connected as a family, keeps us close in a time when it’s easier than ever to stay connected, but difficult to get close to someone.
Linnea: It’s Emma’s turn to do the dishes, isn’t it?
I chuckle at her deviousness. Emma is at work, surrounded by twenty or so preschoolers, and checks her phone only on her breaks.
Adrian: I vote yes.
Linnea: Good, then it’s settled.
I can almost hear her pleased cackle in my mind.
Adrian: We’re so dead.
Linnea: Yes, we are.
Adrian: We love you, Emma.
Linnea: You’re my favorite sister, Emma.
Linnea: Think that will get us out of trouble?
Adrian: Sadly no.
Linnea: Gotta get back to studying. Don’t freeze to death, big brother.
Adrian: I won’t. I’m going for a coffee soon.
Linnea: Good. TTYL.
I linger on the bench a bit longer, despite the backs of my legs starting to go numb, but the sun
light filtering between the tree branches creating patterns on the snowy, frozen pond hypnotizes me. I snap picture after picture and grumble when I can’t catch the breathtaking beauty, but in the end, I pick the best one and post it on Instagram.
I stand when it feels like the blood in my veins is turning to ice sludge and rub some warmth into my legs, before walking off at a brisker pace this time. I need to warm up.
Soon, I’m entering my favorite coffee shop in town. It’s a cozy little independent place at the end of a street, and all us locals are doing our best to keep it in business and not let any of the huge coffee chains bulldoze over it. I don’t go nearly as often as I’d like since it’s a bit out of my way. To compensate, I’ll splurge today. Buy the biggest coffee and the most lavish-looking pastry they have.
I stomp the snow off my boots, then pull off my scarf and beanie—and running my fingers through my hair to hopefully get rid of the helmet head I’m most likely sporting—as I approach the counter.
A young girl with a bouncy ponytail welcomes me with a genuine smile. “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?”
I sigh and smile back. “It really is. And holy crap, what are you making? It smells like heaven in here today.”
She laughs. “It does. It’s been tempting me all morning. The boss is trying out a new recipe. Look.” She points at a plate of yellow squares, quite humble-looking, but I’m intrigued. “It’s lemon and cardamom, and they are to die for.”
“Okay, then. I’ll try one of those, please. And the biggest cappuccino you have. Can you make it cardamom, too?”
“Sure can. Please sit down and I’ll bring it to your table. It’s a slow morning; seems like not everyone is a fan of the snow.”
“It’s the same outside. But I love it.”
“So do I.”
Only two tables are occupied, and my favorite spot is free, so after paying, I make a beeline for it. It’s tucked away in the corner of the shop, by the huge panorama windows, and I love it because I can see both the interior and the street outside.
I shrug out of my coat and sink into the wingback chair—I want to steal it and take it home with me every time I’m here—sitting next to a coffee table of perfect height for a long coffee session. A second and mismatched chair is standing next to the one I’m occupying, close enough for private conversations even if the place is full. I can spend hours here, engrossed in whatever book I’m reading and drinking too many coffees. It’s a wonderful place.