Her smile looked genuinely happy, as if I’d made her day. “You’re so easy to talk to.” She sort of shook her head, her careless waves tossing around her face. Combined with her bright smile, she looked like she couldn’t believe her good luck.
“So, Marigold,” I said with an indulgent smile, “is there something I can help you with today?”
“I think you’ve done it. I needed to choose a project for my political science class, and you’re it. Well, your library is it. I have to choose an issue—a current bond issue on the ballot—to research. Local or national. Something that has the potential to make the world better. That part’s not the assignment, but it’s what matters to me. Can I use you as a source?” All of this came out through a bright and, as far as I could tell, sincere smile.
“Sure.”
“That’s wonderful.” She pointed to me. “Greta.” As though she was reminding us both of my name. “Thank you.” She adjusted the strap of her bag and waved as she walked toward the door. “We’re going to change the world, you and I.”
I loved how those words made me smile. Rash promises always amused me.
Whatever the political science project might be, I was actually looking forward to crossing paths with the crazy flower hippie again.
I pulled up the librarian Twitter account. “Supernatural things happen in libraries—and not only in books. #WeirdAndWonderful #GoToTheLibrary”
Looking around, I saw that the middle school kids hadn’t resurfaced, but I could give them a few more minutes. There was nothing pressing to do and nobody to help. I sent a text to Will.
When he didn’t reply right away, I continued.
I put my phone down and straightened a pile of mail. Then I texted him.
My phone buzzed with a reply.
Ten minutes later, Will sent me a text.
Six days and Mac would be in my house. Perfect beautiful Mac, who was “in management.” Swoon. He would be sitting near me at a tiny table. With Will, who absolutely didn’t fit near, around, under, or beside any tiny table. When we were younger, Will had been a chunky kid. Now he wasn’t a kid anymore, and “chunky” didn’t really do justice to his form. He was huge. Not in the weight-lifting, tackle-sport-playing way. Huge in the way that nobody really wants to be.
Some people were horrible to him when we were growing up. More in junior high than in high school, of course, because in every way, junior high was more horrible. The teasing never seemed to bother him. Will had always been cool. Relaxed. Confident. My best friend, who delivered me gorgeous, poetry-reading men as birthday presents. Who could ask for more than Will?
Chapter 4
The next Saturday, I was heading to the break room that doubled as the workroom where we taped falling-apart paperbacks back together when my phone buzzed. I pulled it out of my pocket hoping it was Will. No such luck. It was my mother.
“Really important” to my mother could mean anything from “Someone we know and love is currently undergoing emergency surgery” to “I can’t remember which brand of microwave popcorn leaves the fewest kernels unpopped.” There was no easy way to ignore a text like this.
But I wanted to. Texting with my mother was way too much like talking to my mother. She was the queen of what she imagined was subtle subtext, but once you knew that her mind had exactly three tracks, it was easy to know which track she was on.
Track One: Single Men are everywhere. Abundant. And I am not looking hard enough.
Track Two: Will Marshall does not count as a Single Man.
Track Two has a corollary, which is that people need to grow away from their high school friends before they get into a rut and go ahead and marry them which is all fine and well until the guy decides that life has more to offer than the town he’s always known and the girl he’s always loved and leaves her wrecked and divorced and dealing with a teenage daughter all on her own, not that you were ever difficult, dear. The Track Two corollary is exhausting.
Track Three: Come home, Greta.
I shot back a text as I passed the circulation desk and squeezed past the workroom table.
I sprawled on the lumpy pink couch shoved into the corner of the room. I put my feet up against the wall and rested my head on the couch arm. Comfortable? No. Reasonable? Sure.
Translation: Move home. Track Three.
Translation, per Track Three: Stay forever!
Pass.
Countering with a Track One.
Translation, as per Track Two corollary: Don’t make dinner for Will.
Translation: Ditch Will.
I dropped my phone on my stomach and covered my face with my arm. The Mom-and-Will dynamic always made me tired.
Short version? Will loved her. And she loved Will when he was the cute chunky neighbor kid. She loved him when he was my best friend in middle school. She loved him right up to the second year of high school when my dad decided to “make a change” in his life and took off. Then, suddenly, the boy-next-door-plus-best-friend was a dangerous Sign of Things to Come. The number of times we’d had the “Broaden your friend horizons” versus “Will is not Dad” talk in all its varieties, well, it was a miracle we ever had time to talk about anything else.
Not that there was never anything else. In fact, my mother was a professional at talking about something else. Specifically, anything that fit into Track One—single men looking to settle down.
It is possible that no one else of her generation talks like her or thinks like her. But my mom is a woman obsessed. In a few short minutes, she can say all the following things:
“Next-door neighbor’s got a nephew visiting. I believe he’s single, but I can’t be sure.”
“Come home and see.”
“Did I tell you about the handsome bank teller? I noticed he was not wearing a ring. If you moved back home, that bank branch would be convenient for you.”
“You had a dinner date? Are you going out again?”
“When are you bringing him around to meet me?”
For a late-forties divorced woman, she was steeped in the business of connecting humans to one another. Specifically me to any man who wasn’t Will Marshall.
Obviously the short version of any story leaves out details and nuances. And it would be unfair of me to neglect to admit that Mom was working from what she thought was a reasonable premise.
But she was still nuts, and there was no way I was either letting her set me up with anyone ever or moving back into her home. No way.
My number one reason to be an employed adult? Not living with my mother.
Saturday afternoon at the library was busy, at least in contrast to pretty much any other day. It was raining, so there were small bands of middle school kids lurking in corners. I kept walking past one particular couple because they made me laugh. The girl, a pretty redhead with loads of freckles, was at least two heads taller than the boy who was slowly making middle-school moves on her. First there was the lean. It was subtle, but there was leaning. Really subtle. In fact, I was certain the girl didn’t know the lean was happening. The next time I passed, she had a book in her lap with her hands placed awkwardly on her thighs, totally in his reach if he wanted to hold her hand. As I walked past a third time, a stack of books in my arms, I saw him perched on the side of her chair, his arm over her shoulders. They were looking at the book she was holding, their heads close together. Adorable.
Today’s tweet brought to you by middle school romance. “Fall in love—awkward, awesome, swoony love—with a good book. Ask a librarian & find your perfect match. #LibraryLove #CheckOutTheLibrary”
Far less adorable was the high school couple at the top of the stairs, right in the picture book section. Three moms had come down the narrow staircase to the desk to complain. Kevin had been up twice to warn them to knock it off. It was hard for Kevin to ma
ke a dent, because although he never stopped talking, people rarely listened to him. He was a bright guy, he just said really weird stuff. Really, really weird. It was my turn to handle the lovefest. I jogged up the stairs, avoiding the piles of books someone had left. I’d clean it up later.
They were on one of the beanbag chairs, and neither of their faces was visible. I walked over and kicked the boy’s shoe. He didn’t notice.
“Excuse me?” I kicked his shoe again. “Guys?”
No answer. I tapped the girl on top of her head. “Hello?”
She came up for air. She was wearing one earbud; he had on the other. They looked annoyed.
“Yeah. Hi. Sorry to bother you, but maybe you need to take this activity outside.”
The boy had the decency to blush, but the girl huffed at me and said, “We’re not bothering anybody.”
I motioned over my shoulder to the lineup of small kids watching them make out. “No, I’m sure this is exactly the kind of education these kids came to the library for. Let’s go. Up and out.”
I followed them down the stairs and to the door, waving good-bye with a big grin on my face. I pulled out my phone and texted Will.
He answered after a few seconds.
All the preparations were made. Salad? Check. Meat, potatoes, things made of chocolate? Check.
I had texted Will half an hour ago.
The knock came as the microwave clock flashed 4:00. I stuck my head in the bathroom and checked my reflection. Lipstick on mouth, not on teeth; hair slipping across the forehead, but short hair doesn’t allow for ponytail fallbacks; Central High basketball hoodie that I’d used instead of an apron (because who has an apron?) chucked into the closet.
I pulled the door open with a prepared smile on my face. Then I saw Mac and the smile turned so real. It had been eight days since I’d met him, and I had not, in fact, misremembered his face. He was precisely as perfect as I’d thought. The dark curly hair really did tumble over his forehead. No kidding. It tumbled. And his eyebrows were the stuff of legend. I wanted to reach out and touch one. I refrained. His mouth and his jawline matched perfectly.
It occurred to me that I was standing in my doorway staring at my guest.
Oops.
“Hi, guys. Thanks for coming.” I opened the door wide, and Mac handed me a bouquet of flowers. He had on a black T-shirt that said, “Do you believe in love at first sight? Or should I walk by again?” I felt my brain clicking, trying to find a proper response to that shirt. Nothing. My only thought was “Yes, please.” Which, no.
I moved my eyes back to Mac’s face. He was smiling. “Thanks for having us. You have a great place.”
It was a nice thing to say, if totally untrue. It was a cheap apartment decorated mostly in cast-off furniture my mom couldn’t stand anymore after my dad left. The living room couch was newish, though—fake leather with a bunch of colorful pillows piled on it to hide the fact that I didn’t know how to decorate.
Mac walked in. It’s possible I checked out the back of him for a fraction of a second before I met Will’s eye and made a face of shock and awe. Just in case there was any confusion, I pointed to Mac and then to the flowers.
I mouthed, “Is this for real?” and held out my arm.
Will nodded and gave me a tiny pinch so I could be sure I wasn’t dreaming.
“Dinner’s ready,” I said. “Grab a seat at the table.”
The tiny bistro table wasn’t really big enough for three, especially since one of the three was Will, but the guys pulled out chairs and sat. Will poured water from the pitcher into the glasses while he told Mac the story of how I got the signed book jacket that was framed on the wall above the table.
“When we were in high school, Greta skipped class to sneak into a lecture at Ohio State.”
He kindly didn’t elaborate on the fact that I was the kind of nerd who only skipped school to sneak into other schools. “She waited in a two-hour line to get that book signed.”
I grabbed a glass vase from the cupboard and put the flowers on the table. There was almost room for plates around it. I served food from the stove onto plates and handed them over. The guys made appropriate noises of satisfaction.
When I sat down, I realized I’d been holding my breath. I unfolded my napkin onto my lap and looked up through the flowers. Mac offered to say grace. I glanced at Will again.
“Please bless this wonderful food and the beautiful hands that prepared it,” Mac said.
I looked down at the “beautiful hands” in my lap and tried not to laugh. Not that it was funny, really. Except it was. Because my preparation consisted of taking the food out of Ruby’s containers and putting it into the serving dishes my mother had once shoved into my cupboards—“just in case.”
Will bumped my leg with his knee. As close as we were all sitting, that could have been an accident. But it wasn’t. “This looks great, Greta.”
Ruby’s Diner takeout did not disappoint. The food looked good, it smelled better, and it tasted amazing. Will held up most of the conversation telling us stories about the weekend’s debate tournament and how proud he was of the super shy kid who had won his first round. My contribution was laughing and nodding in the right places and staring at Mac.
When Mac stepped outside to take a phone call, Will leaned back in his chair and raised his eyebrows. “So? Can your boy deliver?”
“We’re talking about you now? Not my boy Felix who brought dinner?”
“Right. Me.” He locked his hands behind his head in an exaggerated relaxation pose. “Tell me I’m the best friend you’ve ever had.”
“Let me count the ways. When I told you what I wanted for my birthday,” I glanced at the door to be sure Mac wasn’t coming back right away, “I had no idea you could actually make him come true.”
“You should have learned by now never to doubt my ability to come through for you.” He put all four legs of his chair back on the floor and leaned across the table. His voice lowered. “You wanted the package. I’ve delivered the package. Good looking, perfect hair, blah, blah, blah. But here’s your bonus. Soul of a poet.”
“Wow,” I said. He was really proud of himself. “I didn’t even ask for that part.” At least not lately.
When we were in college—both in state schools, but not the same one—we’d constantly compare dating notes. Will almost always had a girlfriend, which was not a shock to me because I knew how awesome he was. But it was a shock to him.
He’d not been super desirable in high school. Even though he was amazing and fun and perfect in nearly every way, he didn’t look right. Too big and too awkward. And all those silly, stupid, shallow high school girls had made sure he knew how they felt—and why. They were horrible. He stepped back from them, and in solidarity, I stepped away from them, too. Will and me. Me and Will.
But in college, Will hit his stride. The girls he went out with didn’t seem to care about him being heavy. When he’d tell me about dating, about the number of available girls who were everywhere, he always seemed stunned by his good fortune. I kept reminding him that it was the girls who were lucky.
But I didn’t have quite as much luck. Not that I didn’t date. I did. But the guys who were interested in dating me never measured up to what I wanted. They were nice but not interesting, or interesting but not nice, or handsome but not intellectual. I told Will I realized that maybe I was asking for too much, that maybe I was being a snob. Will laughed at that because of course I was being a snob. I was well aware of my personality flaws. He told me to be patient.
I’d been patient long enough. Because hello—Mac.
Will grinned. “And this poet’s soul is really going to impress you. But it might take him a while to get comfortable enough to show it to you.” He took a drink from his glass of water. “And, the best part, you didn’t even have to settle for Howard Villette.”
“Who?”
“Option number two. He lives in my building. He writes music and paints. He has remarkable eyebrows, very expressive. In the way Einstein’s eyebrows are expressive. Also, he’s seventy-three.”
I laughed. “So what you’re saying is that maybe there isn’t a flood of handsome, charming, brilliant, poetic, available, employed men under thirty who would be interested in dating me?”
Will grinned. “You only need one if he’s the right one.”
I started to get up, looking toward my tiny living room.
“What do you need?” Will asked, standing, ready to help me.
“I think my mom stitched those words on a pillow for my couch.”
Chapter 5
I slid behind the circulation counter and dropped my bag under the desk. That caught Julie’s eye, and she smiled at me with teeth showing, her eyes crinkled up—an aging hipster with groovy glasses and spiky hair.
“Morning. How’s it looking?” she said, slipping into the rolling chair next to mine.
I pretended to scan through the nonexistent crowd waiting for our help. “Looks like another record-breaking busy day.”
She usually laughed, but today it came out like a painful little grunt. I could actually see the smile evaporate from her face. “Huh.”
I should have said something else. Something about the weather, or politics, or war in the Middle East, or a hostage situation. Anything less charged than the empty library. “Sorry.”
“Hm.” It was all grunts now.
I pulled out a packet of gummy bears from my pocket. I offered her the package, and she rooted around until she found a green one. She put it in her mouth, but didn’t chew. It was a let-the-gummy-dissolve kind of moment, apparently.
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