Check Me Out

by Becca Wilhite

  “I’d like you to meet me. I have something I’d like to talk to you about.”

  I suggested Yeasties. We met there the next day.

  Her hair was still the same helmet, but she was more forward than I expected her to be. More than “your agenda is my agenda,” anyway.

  She got right to the point. “I love your moxie.”

  “I don’t know what that means.” Of course I knew what that meant, but I didn’t know what else to say. She knew. Somehow, she knew what I’d done.

  She cleared her throat. “Guts. Panache. Courage.”

  Maybe she was waiting for me to say something else, or maybe she lost her groove, because a few seconds later, she reset and said it again. “I love your moxie, even if I don’t approve of your methods. You’ve got great ideas. With some coaching, you’d probably execute the right ones. I’d like to offer you a job.”

  I picked up my hot chocolate and took a long sip. When I put down the mug, I made a throat-clearing sound. “I’m sorry. Could you please say that again?” Stalling wasn’t my best thing.

  She laughed. “You’ve got your finger on the pulse of the rising generation. I could use someone like you in my corner.”

  I thought she could use someone like me to write her some cliché-free lines.

  “Which corner is that, exactly?”

  “Looking ahead. I’m running for state senate next year. Come to work in my law office, do some phone work, some filing. When it comes up, I’ll have campaign work for you to do. You can help me see things from the perspective of the youth.”

  I watched her stab a bite of coffee cake, set it down, and smash it with the back of her fork. Was she nervous? Maybe putting everything out on the metaphorical table was the right move.

  “I’m in kind of a lot of trouble. Maybe.”

  She shrugged. “You staged an anonymous protest.”

  I sank back into my chair. Desperately wishing for more hot chocolate, I said, “Apparently you know my trouble.”

  “I’m not finished. The protest was on government property, and your pyrotechnics endangered a historical building.”

  I cleared my throat and put my hand up. “Technically not on government property. I was careful about that.” She quirked her eyebrow in disbelief. “Obviously, I’m the kind of person you want working for you,” I muttered into the table.

  “I came to you. I think that makes it clear that I do, in fact, want you working for me.”

  She was smart, but I had to make it clear. I pushed the words out on a heavy breath. “My employment record is not stellar.”

  She tried not to laugh. “You’ve had a single job for over a decade, including your time in college and grad school. Employment records don’t get much shinier than that.”

  I found my spine and sat up straight. “Right up until the end.”

  “You’ve made all kinds of impressions with the community, but it seems like most of them were good ones.” She lifted up her coffee cup and smelled it, but didn’t drink. “You’ve made a good impression with me, too. Despite today’s effort to show me you’re not interested, I’d like to leave the offer open. I think that when you take some time to think about it, you’ll recognize a perfect opportunity.” She pushed back her chair and stood, wiping coffee cake crumbs from her pants.

  It occurred to me, much later than it should have, that I should not screw this up. “Thank you,” I said, screeching my chair against the floor. “I will think about it. I’ll be in touch.”

  She reached across the table to shake my hand. Smiling, she said, “You think you’re a librarian, but what you are is a public servant. It covers a lot of ground, what you and I do.” She slid her card across the table. “Congratulations on saving the library.”

  When I got home that afternoon, I sat down at my computer and started the letter I knew I needed to write.

  Dear Julie

  Dear Ms. Tucker,

  Dear Julie,

  For ten years, you have given me a purpose. For longer than that—for as long as I can remember, practically—you have given me a place.

  I appreciate the purpose.

  I cherish the place.

  The things I learned while working for you and beside you at the library are things that will stay with me all my life. Specifically, I learned that all the important work that gets done happens because people care about each other. That relationships matter most. That habit and tradition are crucial, but not static.

  You have given me opportunities far beyond what I deserved, and I am grateful. I have loved learning from you. Thank you for being an excellent employer and a dear friend.

  Love,

  Sincerely,

  Yours truly,

  Love, Greta

  Chapter 38

  I sat with my back against my apartment door, my face raised to the weak fall afternoon sun. I didn’t need an almanac to tell me we were going into a long winter. Closing my eyes, I let the breeze that was shaking the leaves breathe through my hair. Mac would have had something romantic and perfect to say about the combination of sunlight and wind and hair.

  But no, not Mac.

  Will.

  For the first time in years, I wished I still lived at home. And that Will still lived at home so I could look from my kitchen and see if he was in his bedroom. I pulled out my cell.

  I was still sitting against the apartment door when he pulled up. He heaved himself up the staircase and stopped in front of me. “Hi.”

  “Hi.” I patted the ground next to me. “Want to sit?”

  “Hi,” he said, lowering himself onto the concrete stair.

  “You already said that,” I said.

  “Right.”

  We sat there, the cold of the concrete seeping into our legs.

  I’d asked him to come.

  I should be able to make conversation.

  But what was a best friend for if not to sit in uncomfortable silence on uncomfortable concrete?

  After a long inhale, the words came out all at once, like one word. “Why did you do it?”

  I felt Will’s body turn toward me, but I kept looking ahead.

  “Are you sure you want to talk about this?” His voice was quiet, but close.

  I laughed. “No. Turns out I’m not sure about very many things.”

  He rubbed his eyes. “I wanted you to have what you wanted. I wanted you to have the perfect guy.”

  Snort. “He’s not exactly perfect.”

  “No, but he looks perfect.”

  “Will,” I started.

  “Don’t lie. He does.”

  “You’re totally right. He does.”

  He shrugged. “It makes sense. His looks. My brains and personality. A lethal combination. No girl could have withstood the united perfection.” His smile was sad.

  “So he’s what you’d choose to look like if you could pick?” I was sure he could hear the subject change from a mile away, but I wanted to lighten the mood a little. A lot.

  He shook his head. “No. But I knew he’d be what you’d choose.”

  “Well, you chose right, I guess.” I let my head fall back against the bricks behind me. “Who would you choose, though? Who would you look like?”

  He answered right away, as if he’d actually had occasion to give it some thought. “George Clooney, circa 1994. I have the hair for it.”

  “You totally do. And the eyes. Clooney’s eyes are almost as good as yours.” I nudged his arm with my elbow.

  “Who would you choose? If you could look like anyone?” he asked.

  I rubbed my nose. “Coincidentally I’d also choose Clooney ’94. I’d stare into the mirror constantly.”

  “Be serious.” But he was smiling so I knew he didn’t mind.

  “I am completely serious. I’d be the most confide
nt person in Ohio.”

  “You’re weird.”

  I shrugged. He had a point. “Okay,” I said. “Doris Day.”

  “Really? You’re not even blonde.”

  “Maybe she wasn’t either.”

  “Movie magic?”

  “Something like that. She’s perfect, though. Cute and dimpled and sexy all at once. She’s the package. Also, she could sing.”

  “No fair. Looks only. No bringing talent or personality into it.”

  “Look who’s so hard-core about the rules. You’re like the Mussolini of Fantasy Faces.”

  He sat up straighter. “Rules are important to me. Rules like ‘don’t lie.’ And I didn’t. Ever.”

  “Will,” I tried to interrupt. The abrupt change of tone made me uncomfortable.

  “Just wait.” Now he was the one who looked straight ahead. “Let me say this, and then you never have to hear it again.” He waited for a second, maybe to see if I’d argue. I didn’t.

  “I meant everything I said. I meant everything he said, as long as he was on script. I never lied to you. I wrote every word for you. Every poem, every message, every thought was straight from my heart to you. All the time.”

  He tugged on the laces of his shoes. “With the benefit of hindsight, I can appreciate that it was not a perfect execution. But I wanted you to hear the words. I wanted you to feel what I felt—what I feel.” He shifted on the step, having a hard time sitting still. “Can you understand? Do you get why I did it?”

  I wasn’t ready with a yes or a no. “I’m not sure I buy it. Your motives were nothing but altruistic? All you wanted was for me to have a perfect boyfriend?”

  He breathed out a loud sigh. “No.”

  “Because?” I prompted.

  “I wanted to be the one to make him perfect. He couldn’t do it without me. I wanted to wear a Mac-face mask and play the part of the perfect-looking guy. Because you’ll never care how clever I am, how poetically I can speak, how much of a gentleman I am when I look like this.”

  My words came out shuddery. “I’ve always cared.”

  He shook his head. “Not like I want you to.”

  “So where does that leave us? You and me?” I swiped at a tear that was trying to fall.

  “We’re the same. Come on, Greta. We’re adults. You’re my best friend. That’s not going to change just because you happen to know I love you, right?”

  I wasn’t sure. Did it change? Did it have to?

  I stared at my hands, remembering the times Mac had held them, touched my fingers and made my pulse fly. And then remembering how sometimes Will’s touch could feel strangely electric. And how often had I admitted—even to myself—that no one had ever kissed me like Will Marshall had.

  But Mac’s face. His eyes. His hair.

  Was I really that shallow? Did I really love a guy because he looked like that?

  Because if he hadn’t, would I have? If Mac hadn’t been in between, would Will’s words have made me feel the same way about Will? Was there any conceivable way I could have felt that way about Will? Under any imaginable circumstances?

  I realized that wasn’t the question he asked me. He asked why anything might have to change. Not even that, really. He asked me to agree that nothing would change. But would it?

  Will wasn’t asking me to love him. But did I? If anyone had asked me that—just those words, Greta, do you love Will? I don’t know what I would have answered. How do you answer that?

  Did I like his company? Of course.

  Did I want to be with him? Well, obviously. Look at my scheduling record. All my non-work, non-Mac, discretionary free time was his.

  Did I feel happy when we were together? Always.

  Did I like his affection? When I thought about Will holding my hand, Will hugging me, Will kissing me, I got squirmy inside. Not because I didn’t like it. More like I didn’t know how to feel about how much I sometimes liked it.

  And what about the words? The words I claimed made me fall for Mac? Would those words be that different coming out of Will’s mouth?

  I couldn’t decide, and the fact that I couldn’t made me sick.

  I realized that the last thing Will had said to me included the words, “I love you.” And that I’d failed to reply. In any way.

  I had to say something.

  “You’re my best friend.” I shifted on the frozen concrete. “I like a million things about you,” I said, and then I stopped.

  He looked like he wanted to say something else, but he waited. That was so Will.

  I stood up, but my legs tingled so hard that I felt wobbly. “I like a million things about you,” I repeated, because that was the important part right now.

  “But?”

  I shifted on my sparking legs. “I don’t know how to move forward yet. Can you give me some time? I’m kind of on a bounce right now,” I reminded him.

  He had the decency not to mention that I was only halfway on the bounce from Mac—the rest was all him. When I broke up with Mac, I kind of broke up with Will, too. This was too weird.

  Chapter 39

  No Mac. No Will. No work. I cleaned my apartment like it had probably never been cleaned before. I avoided several of my mom’s telephone calls. I trashed useless files from my laptop. I stared at the walls.

  There was an email in my inbox from Julie. “Please come to the Franklin Public Library to pick up some personal effects.” That was it.

  I’d started my job when I was fourteen. Add to that all the years that the library had been my childhood home away from home. And now, I was being summoned to gather my personal effects. I wanted to throw up. A tiny thought about a letter of recommendation flickered past my brain, but even I couldn’t talk myself into expecting anything like that now.

  I stood outside the library for several long moments. I looked at the angles, the lines, the windows, the cracked bricks, the layers of paint. I loved this building, but I loved even more what it stood for. I loved the guts of it—the books, the people who came in looking for understanding and entertainment and connection. I watched a family pull up in a minivan, the mom hauling kids and bags through the sliding door. I remembered the years I’d spent inside the library: the hours after school that I sat upstairs reading, waiting for my mom to get off work, my first day of work, my last day.

  My last day.

  I breathed. I walked inside.

  Kevin sat at the circulation desk, face curtained by his hair. When he heard me clear my throat, he looked up from his pile of books and grinned. “Hey, Greta. Good to see you.”

  “Hi, Kevin.” I was going to cry.

  Bonita came around the corner, pushing an empty book cart. “Hi, honey,” she said, her voice soft and low. “We got in a new art history book. Want to see?”

  I understood what she was doing. I nodded and followed her to the nonfiction section. She perched on the arm of a chair and looked at me. I waited, but she didn’t say anything. “Did you really get a new art history book?”

  “We did.” She nodded.

  “Did you want to show it to me?” I asked.

  “No.” She slid from the arm of the chair into the seat. Her hands held her knees.

  This was my chance. My opportunity. “Bonita, I’m sorry about how things ended up.”

  Her eyebrows arched. She didn’t believe me.

  “Well, no. Not totally. I’m glad the bond passed—really glad—but I’m sorry that I handled it in a way that hurt you.”

  She didn’t take her eyes off my face. “Honey, I’m fine. But that was a dangerous thing to do.”

  I nodded. “I know. Don’t play with fire.”

  She made a psht sound. “The fire wasn’t the dangerous part. You spoke for people without asking. You accused our patrons of terrible things. You used fear and hate to control a political dec
ision.”

  I could only nod.

  She was quiet for a minute.

  I stared at the quilting books on the shelf in front of me. “Does everyone hate me?”

  The noise that came out of her mouth almost sounded like a laugh. I looked at her. She shook her head. Not everyone, then.

  I pointed through the wall where Julie’s office was. “Does she, though?”

  Bonita appeared to change the subject. “There was a council meeting last night.”

  I nodded. I knew. I’d stayed far away.

  “Julie asked to be on the agenda. She stood and explained.” Bonita stopped talking and rubbed her left knuckles with her right hand.

  My voice came out quieter than I planned. “That’s good. Nobody around here should get in trouble. Everyone knows it was only me.”

  Bonita shook her head. “No. I mean, she explained that you did what you did because you love this place. That you used those tactics to reach an audience that had stopped listening to reasonable arguments.”

  I wasn’t sure I understood. “She defended me?”

  Bonita waited until I was looking at her. “More than that. She showed that you’d gone through all the legal channels. She found out that you’d requested a permit to protest. She mentioned your careful placement. And she asked the board to consider that your unconventional methods might be what this town needs to bring a fading institution back into the spotlight.” Bonita looked right into my eyes. “She recommended you as head librarian at the new building.”

  Silence. I couldn’t speak. I could barely breathe. I leaned against the shelf behind me. Bonita pushed herself out of the chair. She stepped toward me and kissed me on the cheek. “I’ve got to get back to work. We’re short-staffed right now, and we’re experiencing something of a renaissance around here.” She tapped my collarbone with her bent finger. “Greta Elliott. Making libraries cool again.” She turned, winked over her shoulder, and walked away. I stayed there for a minute, leaning and thinking.

  When I pulled myself together, I went back to the circulation desk. Kevin was still there, still hiding behind his hair.