Libby the Librarian: A Rom Com Novella

by Bex, Alice

  “Fine.”

  I perched on the edge of the couch. Back very straight. Not touching him at all.

  “This really scares you, doesn’t it?”

  I decided to go with honestly. Adam can always tell when I’m lying, anyway.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know why.”

  “Maybe, ‘why’ doesn’t really matter.”

  “I’m pretty pathetic.”

  “You’re not pathetic. Whatever the reason, you can get over it.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Think of this as aversion therapy.”

  “You mean like making someone who’s afraid of snakes gradually work up to holding one?”

  “Funny you should mention snakes.” Adam looked suddenly amused. I have no idea why. “Just lay back against me. I promise I’ll keep my hands to myself.” He pushed the play button on the remote, like that was it. Everything was settled. Then he ignored me.

  I lay back against him. Very gingerly. I was in danger of slipping off the front of the couch, so I scooted back a little. This was too much. His prologue was in direct contact with my postscript, but he didn’t seem to notice. My face was flushed. My heart was pounding. I hoped Adam wouldn’t notice that I was having to swallow every thirty seconds. I definitely needed therapy, but this definitely didn’t count. Adam kept his promise, though. He did keep his hands to himself, unless you count slipping a pillow under my head.

  Five

  I didn’t see Adam again until the following Friday evening. He hadn’t dropped by my office all week, but I chalked that up to it being between terms, and he probably wasn’t even coming in to work every day.

  I had decided that I needed to do something to kick-start the whole Shasta/Adam reunification scheme, so I’d invited Shasta and Brad over for dinner Friday night. I doubt if Brad was enthusiastic about coming, but when I called up Shasta, she said, of course. She’d love to.

  Adam said he was free for dinner, but when I told him that Shasta and Brad would be there, too, he didn’t seem quite as excited about it as I’d expected. Maybe, it bothered him to see Shasta and Brad together. That was probably a good thing. Jealousy is an excellent motivator.

  I decided to make pilaf and baked salmon, which are two of the few dishes I can manage reliably. Adam insisted on coming over early. He doesn’t trust me in the kitchen. I can’t entirely blame him, considering how often he’s witnessed the scale of the kitchen disasters I am capable of precipitating.

  He arrived with two bottles of wine and an unsolicited dessert.

  “I made dessert, already. Flan. I have it setting up in the freezer,” I said.

  “Frozen flan?”

  “I waited too long to start it, so I put it in there to make it set up faster.”

  Adam opened up my freezer and pulled out the tray of custard cups.

  “It’s frozen.”

  “It’ll be alright when it thaws out.”

  “I doubt it.” Adam tapped the surface of the frozen flan.

  “What did you bring?”

  “Pavlova.”

  I love Pavlova. Adam makes it for me every year for my birthday.

  “I don’t need a mother-in-law, you know,” I said. “I have you.”

  “What do I have to do with mother-in-laws?”

  “I mean, where do you get off, bringing dessert just because you ‘know,’ I’m going to ruin mine?”

  “You did ruin yours.”

  “Yes, I know. But I resent you being so sure that I would.”

  Shasta and Brad arrived in the middle of our Pavlova polemic, so we never got to finish it.

  My salmon turned out perfectly and the pilaf was pretty good by the time Adam got finished doctoring it up with the contents of my spice cabinet, which he restocks himself from time to time.

  I was determined to get Brad to talk. He has yet to say three words to me, so I asked him how his job was going. He’s a mechanical engineer, according to Shasta.

  “Fine,” he said.

  I don’t know what Shasta sees in him. I’m the last person in the world who should be criticizing other people for being reticent to talk about their personal lives, but Brad takes reserve to extremes.

  I cleared the plates, and Adam brought out the Pavlova from the kitchen. He set it down next to the forks and saucers in the middle of the table.

  “Dig in,” I said.

  Adam was still standing behind me. I sat down. Shasta started dishing up the Pavlova and passing around the plates.

  Adam put his hands on my shoulders and started making little circles on my neck with his thumbs. I felt myself go instantly red. I shrugged my shoulders a little, but he ignored my nonverbal order to cease and desist.

  Shasta and Brad didn’t seem to notice anything unusual. They sat calmly eating their Pavlova.

  “This is delicious,” Shasta said. “You really made this from scratch?”

  “Yes. It’s pretty easy to make.”

  Adam is forever describing things as, “easy to make,” a statement he always follows up with the list of 32 separate ingredients and 15 steps necessary to make those “easy” recipes.

  “Really? How do you make it?”

  Adam started telling her. He’d left my neck—finally—and had pulled up a chair so close it was bumping into mine. He started running one hand up and down my spine while he talked. Every once in a while, I’d make another attempt to subtly shrug him off, and he’d pretend not to notice.

  Shasta and Brad didn’t stay as long as I’d expected. Adam stayed behind to help me with the dishes.

  “How was your week?” he asked.

  He doesn’t usually bother with small talk.

  “Fine.” Then I realized I was doing the exact same thing I’d mentally criticized Brad for, so I added. “Really good, actually!”

  “Oh, did you meet someone?”

  “I met a lot of people. New people come through my office all the time.”

  “You know what I mean?”

  “Yes, I do know what you mean. And no, I did not.”

  “That’s probably a good thing. I don’t think you are ready to meet anyone.”

  “I don’t know why you persist in taking such an active interest in my love-life.”

  “If I don’t take an active interest in your love-life, who else will?”

  He had a point there. We’ve been friends for years, and although I go out on dates—half of which are Adam’s idea—they never end up amounting to much.

  Adam put the last dish into the dishwasher, poured in the soap and started it up.

  I was wiping down the table. He came and took the dishrag out of my hand.

  “Ready?” he said.

  “For what?”

  “More aversion therapy.”

  “Is this really necessary?”

  It is true. I don’t like random people touching me, but I’m beginning to think this current skittishness has a lot more to do with my reaction to Adam in particular. I couldn’t very well explain that, though, without getting us into some very weird territory.

  “Maybe not enjoying being touched is a good thing,” I countered. “Lots of men would appreciate not being expected to stick around after sex.”

  “You’re looking for the kind of man who kicks you out of bed right after sex?”

  I don’t think so, but it has been so long since I’ve had a man in my bed, period, that who knows what I want these days.

  “Close your eyes.”

  We were still standing in the kitchen. I just looked at Adam. He was standing on the other side of the table. I kept my eyes firmly open.

  “I know what I’m doing,” he said.

  He didn’t. I was quite certain of that.

  Adam continued. “How many men have I set you up with over, say, the last year?”

  “I don’t know. Ten. Fifteen.”

  “They can’t all have been duds, can they?”

  “None of them li
ked me.”

  “I think quite of few of them would have liked you just fine, if you’d betrayed the slightest bit of interest in them.”

  I noticed that someone had dropped a bit of salmon on the floor under the table. I got down on the floor to get it. When I stood up, Adam was standing right in front of me. I backed up and bumped into the table.

  “I have a theory about you,” Adam said. He wasn’t touching me, but I still seemed to be having trouble breathing. “I think whoever manages to finally break through your initial wall of resistance is going to find you to be—“ He stopped. I thought he wasn’t ever going to finish that sentence, but he finally did. “I guess the word I’m looking for is—responsive.”

  He left right after that, thank sweet Aphrodite. By the time I shut the door behind him, I was feeling so responsive that I spent the next half an hour lying on the couch with frozen flan on my forehead in hopes of freezing out the lurid figments of my imagination.

  Saturday morning I got up and took every pair of kakis and every button-down I owned and put them in a big garbage bag. Then I drove to the nearest charity shop and donated them. I was immediately sorry, but it was too embarrassing to ask for them all back, so instead I went home and ate up the rest of the Pavlova.

  I usually use Saturday to get all the things done that I’d rather put off, that way I can enjoy Sunday. Friday night—during the frozen flan incident—I’d realized it was time to defrost my freezer. I found the ice chest and emptied everything out. Then I waited for the ice to melt.

  While I was waiting, my phone rang—I didn’t recognize the number.

  “Remember me? Tom. From The Presidio.”

  I did remember him. I was shocked he’d called.

  Did I want to go out for coffee? He asked.

  No, I did not.

  “Sure,” I said. “I’m free this evening.”

  I met Tom at a coffee shop down-town. It was excruciating. Even worse than the blind dates Adam sets me up with.

  I tried to be warm and engaging. I encouraged him to talk about himself. I laughed at his jokes, even though they were completely devoid of originality.

  “Let’s do this again, sometime,” he said.

  “I’d love to.”

  I’m pretty sure neither of us meant a word we said.

  I was just getting back in my car when I got a text from Adam.

  U HOME?

  NO

  COME HOME

  WHY?

  He didn’t answer, but when I pulled into my driveway I understood why. He was sitting on my front step waiting for me.

  “You know, I never just show up at your house like this.”

  He ignored my scolding.

  “You look terrific,” he said.

  I did. Despite the fact I was wearing those horrible ninth-grade glasses. I was starting to see it, now. Not that it mattered too much, one way or another.

  “I was out having coffee with Bar Guy.”

  “Who?”

  “You know, Bar Guy. The one you made me talk to.”

  “I thought you were going to fake-number him.”

  “Well, I didn’t. I panicked and gave him my real number by accident.”

  I thought he might admonish me for that, but he didn’t.

  “How did it go?”

  “I tried really hard to like him.”

  “And?”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “That’s OK. I didn’t like the looks of him, either.”

  I unlocked my door and went inside. Adam followed me without being invited.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “We’re friends,” Adam said. “Do I have to have a reason?”

  The friends part is starting to feel a little blurry, at least as far as I’m concerned. I imagine, to him, I’m just what I have always been: a goofy woman he is terribly fond of who needs his assistance in order to function as a normal human being—in other words—a project. My theory is that he’s between girlfriends and has way too much time on his hands. Maybe it’s time I encouraged him to take up woodworking or reading to the blind.

  I was wearing a new pair of skinny jeans and one of the silk blouses that Shasta had picked out for me.

  “Do you always wear those buttoned up like that?” Adam asked.

  “That’s what buttons are for.”

  “I’ll admit it has a certain appeal,” Adam said. “Whenever I see buttons, all I can think of is unbuttoning them.”

  I didn’t like where this was going. I mean I did like it, but it wasn’t—

  “I just think you might consider—“ He was actually attempting to undo my top button.

  “Excuse me,” I said, pulling away. “You can’t just go around undressing people.”

  “It wouldn’t be something I hadn’t done before.”

  “I’m sure that’s true.”

  “Fine. Do it yourself. Just a couple of buttons. See how it feels.”

  I felt like a fool making a huge deal over a couple of buttons, so I undid the top two. That wasn’t too radical.

  “One more,” Adam said.

  “Really?”

  I undid one more. He looked at the front of my blouse as if he were hanging a picture and hadn’t decided if it was level. He came closer and spread open my collar. His knuckles grazed my skin.

  “That’s better.”

  For whom? If Adam had any idea what effect he was having on me, he’d be mortified.

  “You want to go out for ice cream?” Adam asked.

  “You’ve been sitting on my front steps, waiting who knows how long, just so you won’t have to get ice cream on your own?”

  Adam never goes anywhere on his own. He doesn’t go out to eat alone. He doesn’t go to movies alone. He won’t even go shopping alone. Maybe I should turn the tables on him and make him into my project. I’ll call it the Make-Adam-Independent Project. No body-contact necessary.

  We went for ice cream. I wanted to button my shirt back up, but couldn’t think of a way to do it so Adam wouldn’t notice. I didn’t want him to know it was bothering me.

  We sat in a booth at the ice cream place. Usually, when we go out somewhere—if it’s just the two of us—we sit across from each other. This time, Adam slid into the bench beside me.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Sitting down.”

  “Why?”

  “I prefer not to eat standing up.”

  “I mean, why can’t you sit over there?” I pointed at the other side of the booth.

  “I could, if you’d prefer to save aversion therapy for when we get back to your house.”

  I did not, so I shut up.

  “Just don’t forget who you’re sitting next to and grope me under the table,” I said.

  “I never grope people under the table—“ He grinned. “Well, rarely. I’ll amend that statement: I’ve never groped anyone under the table when you were also present.”

  “Yes, you have,” I insisted. “I’ve seen you. Hundreds of times.”

  “I guess our definitions of groping are wildly divergent.”

  I felt his hand on my leg. I was glad I wasn’t wearing shorts. Starting at my knee and using just his fingertips, he ran his fingers up my inner thigh. He stopped a few inches shy of—well, you get the picture—and put his hand back on the table.

  “Now would you call that groping?” He asked.

  I looked straight ahead and concentrated on licking down my cone in a perfectly symmetrical manner. I could feel Adam staring at me, but I refused to acknowledge him. Right after that, he realized that his cone was melting and running down his arm. He didn’t mention the words Aversion Therapy again for the rest of the evening.

  Six

  The next week was busy. I was going away on vacation the following week, to visit my cousin Tabitha in Tampa. This meant I needed to get ahead on my research requests before I left. Dr. Maxwell is adamant that no scholarly endeavors are ever impeded by what he likes to refer to
as our “personal lives.” It appears that Dr. Maxwell does not have a personal life and begrudges any members of his staff having one, either.

  Adam fell back into his old habit of dropping into my office every other day. He was almost as excited about me getting a vacation as I was. He was convinced that I was going to have a hot fling, while I was gone. Did I have a decent swimsuit? He wanted to know. By decent, he, of course, meant indecent. I did not, but I wasn’t about to take him along swimsuit shopping, so I made up a leopard print bikini. That may have been overdoing it. He had it coming to him, though. At this rate, he’d soon be picking out my underwear and that was certainly not going to happen.

  I was leaving early Sunday morning. Saturday afternoon, as I was finishing up my packing, Adam called. Could he come over?

  “Since when do you ask permission to come over?”

  “Since you told me to.”

  “I’ve been telling you that for years. You’re just now listening?”

  He sighed dramatically at the end of the line. “Can I come over or not? I have a present for you.”

  Adam loves giving presents. It’s one of his better qualities. I don’t think he’s had a girlfriend who lasted more than six months who didn’t leave the relationship in possession of some very nice jewelry.

  He must have already been halfway over by the time he called, because he showed up five minutes later.

  He handed me a shirt box. I opened it. There was a bright red bikini inside.

  “The leopard print sounded a little slutty,” he said. “I want you to attract a better class of man.”

  I hit him with the empty box.

  “You do realize that I made up the leopard print bikini.”

  “Yes. I didn’t believe you for a second. You’d never own a leopard print bikini. I’ll bet you I can describe your real suit, sight unseen.”

  “I bet you can’t.”

  “What do you bet?”

  “A hundred dollars.”

  “I already have a hundred dollars. What do I want with another hundred?”

  “Fine. What do you want to bet?”

  “If I can describe your old suit correctly, you have to model your new one for me.”

  “And if you get it wrong?”

  “I’ll model your old suit.”