“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.
“Charlie?”
“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 sunlight 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.
I don’t have to wait long for my order to arrive, and the girl waits while I take the first bite of the pastry. The tartness of the lemon and the spiciness of the cardamom is tempered by the perfect amount of sugar, and like she’d said, it is to die for. I can’t help the small moan that slips out of my mouth, making the girl laugh.
“I’ll go tell the boss you approve then?”
“Please do. I approve more than you can imagine.”
“Oh, I can imagine, all right. That sound was downright dirty.” She winks at me. “Enjoy.” She disappears behind the counter, and I dig my e-reader out of my pocket and settle down to read. More people come into the shop, but I’m immersed in my book and the wonderful coffee and don’t pay attention to what’s going on around me.
Not until someone sits in the other chair. I look up, ready to scowl at whoever’s interrupting, but break out in a smile instead when I’m met with Manne’s grinning face.
“Hi! What are you doing here?”
“Hey.” He holds up a takeaway cup of coffee. “Came for my daily fix.”
“I hope you have a cardamom cappuccino in there. It’s divine.”
He chuckles. “Nope. Nothing fancy for me. Just plain black coffee.”
“You’re not staying?”
He shakes his head. “I’m working. I just popped in to pick up lunch.”
“That’s too bad.”
His smile grows wider, popping his dimples and crinkling his eyes and if he doesn’t stop that immediately, he’s going to melt me into a puddle. “Yeah, too bad.”
We keep looking at each other, grinning like idiots.
Supported by his elbow on the armrest, he leans closer. “How’ve you been?”
“Great. Today is my day off. I love beautiful snowy days like these, so I went for a walk. I needed to warm up, so I came here. It’s the best place to relax and I’m contemplating a second coffee. Life is good.”
“Sounds like an awesome day.” His voice is low and velvety and does all kinds of funny things to my insides.
“It is. It’s even better now.” There I go again. Blurting out stuff. But his gaze falls to my mouth and he leans even closer, so I guess he doesn’t mind.
“I agree.”
I hum. “How’ve you been?”
“All right, I guess.” He takes a sip from the takeaway mug, and I watch him, my gaze zeroing in on his bobbing Adam’s apple. His thick, long fingers are wrapped around the cup and look strong enough to crush metal, but I know they would touch me with gentleness. His muscles bunch in his arms underneath the thin coat he wears as he leans close to me, making me want to feel them around me.
The dimples are out in full force when he lowers the mug. Gawd, they’ll be the death of me. I tighten my grip on the e-reader to stop myself from reaching out and touching him.
“Uh…how’s your reading coming along?” I ask, voice raspy.
His smile dims and I want to kick myself for asking a stupid question. “It’s slow. But it’s going, I guess.”
“I’ve been upset with myself. I remembered only after you’d left that I should have asked you about audiobooks. You know a lot of the literature you need is available as audio, right?”
Manne fiddles with his cup. “Yeah, I listen to audiobooks in the truck when I work. But I want to get better at actually reading, too, so…” He shrugs.
“Of course. I understand. So what are you listening to? In your truck?”
“The Shining. You know, by Stephen King.”
“Yeah? Is it any good?”
He raises his eyebrows. “You haven’t read it?”
“I’ll let you in on a little secret.” I do a come-hither motion with my index finger, and he leans closer. “Not even librarians have read all the books in the world,” I whisper.
He chuckles, and I’m happy to see the slight tension in his shoulders, brought on by my reading question, disappear. “I’m disappointed. Then how will you know which books to protect me from if you haven’t read them all?”
“Oh, honey, I’m sorry, but you’re on your own when it comes to Stephen King. This librarian doesn’t do horror.” I shudder.
He guffaws. “You’re too cute.”
A black-haired woman emerges from the back, holding a paper bag, heading in our direction. “There you are,” she says and hands the bag to Manne.
“Yeah. Sorry. I saw someone I know and was distracted.”
“Yes, I see that.” She turns to me and extends her hand. “Hi. I’m Susy. I own this place, but more importantly, I’m this big oaf’s sister.”
Oh! Of course. Dots connected, I can spot the similarities between her and Charlie. The black hair, the pointy chin. The determination to protect Manne shining from their eyes.
I shake her hand and smile. “Nice to meet you. I’m Adrian. I work at the library.”
When she hears my name, her face breaks out in a grin. “Aha. You’re Adrian?”
“Susy,” Manne groans as he shakes his head.
“I am. Am I to be interrogated by you as well?” I smile to show I’m kidding.
“What do you mean?” she asks.
“Charlie paid me a visit at the library yesterday.”
Susy rolls her eyes and Manne slaps his forehead. “She didn’t!” they say simultaneously.
I laugh. “She did. She’s lovely.”
“She didn’t tell me about it,” Susy says.
Manne groans. “That explains it.”
“Explains what?”
“She asked me yesterday if I was going to the library on Saturday. Said it would be good for me.” Manne shakes his head. “That girl.” His eyes shine with affection.
“You have to understand that she’s very protective of my brother.” Susy’s amused and beams with pride. Even if she’s not saying it out loud, she’s approving of what Charlie did.
“Oh, I understood. Trust me.”
“I can’t believe it,” Manne mutters.
“Well, what do you expect when you can’t shut up about him? Adrian this, Adrian that. I feel like I know you already,” she says to me, making me snicker.
Manne’s mortification grows with every word until his face is glowing red. “It’s time for you to shut up.” His tone is grumbly, but his tone is fond. Brother and sister clearly love each other, and it makes me happy.
She snorts. “Good luck with that. You haven’t succeeded in getting me to shut up in forty years, what makes you think it’ll happen now?”
He looks at me. “Help?”
I chuckle. “Yeah. When you figure out how to handle sisters, let me know.”
We all laugh.
“I gotta go,” Susy says. “Work work work work,” she adds in her best Rihanna imitation. She kisses Manne’s cheek and smiles at me. “It was very nice meeting you, Adrian. I’m sure I’ll see you around.”
“It was nice meeting you, too.”
She disappears into the back, leaving us alone. Manne squirms in his seat. “I’m sorry about her. About both of them.”
“Don’t be. Having two such fierce warriors in your corner is a good thing.”
“It is. I love them to death. But I wish that they could keep their noses out of my business once in a while.”
“I don’t know, man. I think sisters come with this feature. Mine are the worst busybodies you’ll ever meet.”
“You’re probably right.” Manne checks his watch and frowns. “I’m sorry, but I have to go. I’m working, so…”
“Of course.”
He leans closer. “I enjoyed seeing you again. You’re funny.” He lets his eyes wander over me before meeting my gaze.
“I enjoyed it, too.” I keep my voice low. Intimate.
He nods and stands, and I stand, too. Offering him my hand, making him promptly set the to-go cup on the table, then wrap his fingers around my hand, his index finger brushing against my wrist.
“Enjoy the rest of your day off,” he says, tightening his grip.
“I will. I hope I’ll see you again. Soon.” I brush my thumb on the back of his hand.
“Yeah, I’ll…” He clears his throat, his brown eyes boring into me. “I’ll swing by the library.”
“Please do.”
“I really have to go.” He makes no move to let go of my hand.
“Yeah.”
Our palms are still pressed together. His thick fingers wrapped carefully around me. “Okay,” he breathes.
The bell at the door, indicating someone entering the coffee shop, pops our bubble. With a final squeeze of my hand, he lets me go and grabs his coffee. “Bye.”
“Bye.”
He looks over his shoulder as he walks away, smiling, almost walking into the door. Then he’s out on the street, but my body is still buzzing. I sit in the chair with a sigh, sad to see him go.
I pick up my e-reader, but I just fiddle around with it on my lap while I’m staring out the window, unable to concentrate on the book that had me so captured just a few minutes ago. I don’t know how long I’ve been doing that when someone sits next to me.
It’s Susy, of course it is, who sets down another cappuccino on the table and pushes it close to me.
“Back to interrogate me after all?” I smile.
“Nope.” She grins and crosses one leg over the other, hands in her lap, looking relaxed.
“Lecture me?”
Her grin widens. “Maybe?”
“I’m all ears.”
That makes her chuckle. “I think I like you.”
“Thank you?”
She leans forward, elbow on the armrest, and lowers her voice. “I’ll tell you something about my brother. He’s a sensitive guy. No one thinks that about him because of the shaved head, the piercings, and tattoos, but he is. He’s had a hard life and people have treated him like shit. Despite all that, he’s remained a kind, lovable guy, with a heart bigger than anyone else’s. But guys take one look at him and expect someone rough. They find out he’s a garbage collector, look at his muscles, and expect to be tossed around, pressed up against a wall, and fucked within an inch of their lives. But all Manne wants is to cuddle and love on someone. When guys realize, they leave and don’t look back.”
I nod. Keep my voice low. “People are assholes. Too quick to judge.”
“Yes. But you didn’t. And I know it’s your job to help people, but you went above and beyond.”
“It really wasn’t—”
She cuts me off with a wave of her hand. “Don’t. Take the compliment.”
I nod. “Okay.”
“Thank you.” She holds out a folded piece of paper. “I’m trusting you with this.”
I unfold it. It’s a phone number. I look up at her.
“You can text. He’s got an app that reads texts aloud. And that converts his speech to text.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure you’ll treat him like a human being? Yes, you’ve already proven that. Sure you’ll live happily ever after? That part’s up to you, isn’t it?”
I nod.
“Susy!” The girl behind the counter calls for her attention.
“Coming,” she answers. “Gotta go. Enjoy your coffee. It’s on the house.” She flashes me another smile, then she’s on her feet, hurrying across the shop.
I put the e-reader on the table, giving up all pretense of reading. Instead, I take a sip from the steaming cappuccino and keep fiddling with the note that holds Manne’s phone number.
It doesn’t feel like she gave me a phone number; it feels like she gave me a big responsibility. Not in a burdensome way, but solemn. Serious. Less “I’ll kill you if you break his heart” and more “I’m trusting you with something precious to me.”
A trust voluntarily given. Am I worthy of it?
What do I even want? There’s no doubt about the mutual attraction, but can it be more than the potential of a great romp in the hay? Do I want more?
I’m not the kind of person who gets lonely; as long as I have my family and my books, I’m pretty happy. It’s been a while since my last relationship, but I haven’t been looking for another one. I haven’t not been looking either; I’ve been happy to take things as they come.
I tuck the note with Manne’s phone number inside my phone case, and lean back, looking at the beautiful day outside the window.
I’ve been thinking a lot about him, and not only about his physical attributes. I’ve thought of him. His determination to try to master his dyslexia. The courage it took to face his fears. The way he spoke so lovingly about his niece. How he seems to be genuinely kind and caring.
So, yeah. It’s safe to say I’m attracted to more than just the physical side of him. And if I’m reading the signs correctly, so is he. Why else would he speak to his family about me? If the chatter had only been friendly, it wouldn’t have prompted handing out his phone number followed by the “guys want him to slam them against the wall” speech, right?
I must admit it would be nice having someone to share my life with again, so I grab my phone and add Manne’s number to my contacts. Then I open my text app.
Hi. This is Adrian. From the library. Your sister gave me your number.
My thumb hovers over the SEND button, but I groan over the lame message, delete it all only to retype it word for word. This time I click SEND without hesitation and stare at the phone for a while as though I’m expecting a reply to pop up immediately.
“He’s working, you idiot,” I mutter to myself, shove the phone into my pocket, and pick up my e-reader. But my concentration is shot, so I finish the coffee, wave goodbye to the nice barista, and head out into the lovely winter day.