My Saturday starts with a group of elderly ladies invading the library, telling me they just started a reading circle. They’re happy and chatty and ask a million questions; what do I think of this book or that, have I ever been in a reading circle, do I have any suggestions for their first book, do I prefer fantasy over crime, should they read non-fiction books, and so on.
I haven’t seen this much action on a Saturday ever; they’re lovely and fill the library to the brim with their energy. When they leave, they thank me for my “excellent help” and promise to be back in a couple weeks, and I tell them I look forward to it. I mean it wholeheartedly. No one’s happier than I am when the library is bustling with energy and life.
The place is too quiet after they leave, and I wish they’d come back. There must be something we can do to bring more people into our little neighborhood library. Our funding keeps getting cut each year, and the programs that used to be available have been shut down. But there must be things I can do that’ll draw people in, that won’t cost more than my time and creativity.
The people living in the neighborhood are very protective of this little place, and every time the city council starts making noises about shutting us down, they rally and protest until the powers that be let us be for another year. It’s been going on since long before I started working here. Maybe we can turn it into an advantage. Maybe a few local people would be willing to volunteer for stuff like storytime for kids or hosting reading circles.
I take out a notebook and start brainstorming ideas, adding item after item—some doable, some harebrained—and I get more creative as time passes. I hardly notice when my phone vibrates in my pocket, but I pull it out, my focus mostly still on my list.
A glance at the screen reveals that it’s a text from Manne, and suddenly the phone has my complete attention.
Good morning. I don’t know if I can make it to the library today. My sister’s car broke down, so she borrowed my truck to get to work. And I said I’d fix her car if I can. Keep your fingers crossed it’s something easy so I can stop by. I want to see you. I’m sorry.
I sigh. I’ve been looking forward to seeing him since our conversation yesterday, so it’s an unwelcome message. But understandable; he’s the kind of guy to help his sister. That’s one of the reasons I like him. I write back…
It’s all right. Good luck with the car. I’ll try to keep busy without you here distracting me. Text me whenever you can.
I go back to my list and add a couple more ideas. Then I start fleshing out what I’ve just come up with in an email I can send to the boss, and I’m soon lost in work. The day flies past and we have an unusually high amount of visitors. Between helping a university student find research material for their final thesis, and breaking a thirteen-year-old’s heart by telling her we don’t have the next installment in her favorite series only to glue her heart back together when I say we can borrow it via an interlibrary loan, I continue working on my idea.
When closing time rolls around, I wave goodbye to the last visitor and send my colleague home with a smile. This is why I love this library. Yes, it’s small and tucked away in a residential area and we are regularly threatened to be closed down. There are bigger and better and more modern libraries out there; I used to work in one of them but didn’t like it. I craved something smaller, less anonymous, where I would have time to talk to the visitors and help them. Where I could make a difference, instead of rushing around like a headless hen, trying to keep up.
After working here for nearly three years, people know me. They pop in to say “hello” if they are in the vicinity. They tell me what they think of the books they read, update me on what’s going on in their lives and families. My colleagues are a great bunch and love this place as much as I do, and my boss fights tooth and nail for our library. I’m sure she’ll love what I’ve done; she might not agree to every idea—not even I think they’re all good—but she’ll appreciate my efforts.
I feel needed here. Necessary. Not just like an able body. Here, I’m Adrian with the bowtie who helps everyone. Adrian who glues teenaged hearts back together and jokes around with a group of feisty old ladies.
I love this Adrian.
I’m whistling when I lock the door behind me and find my bicycle. It’s another lovely day and the roads are plowed, so I don’t bike straight home. Instead, I ride around the streets, letting the chill wind pummel my face, enjoying the fresh air, and moving my body after being cooped up indoors for too long.
When I finally get home, I make a cup of coffee and check my phone for the first time in hours. My sisters have texted back and forth, and I reply and tell them about my day, and ask them for input on my list. There’s also a missed call and a text from my mom.
Call me when you have time.
As I’m about to call her, a text from Manne pops up.
The damned car took longer than I thought. I had to pick up spare parts, and since I didn’t have transportation, I had to ask my buddy to drive me. And then the store didn’t have the parts I needed and we had to go to a second store. It took forever, I just finished.
I decide that my mom can wait and I text Manne.
Adrian: It’s all right. I know sisters always come first. It’s been drilled into me from a very young age.
Manne: Same. From birth.
Adrian: Aww, poor you. At least I had a couple years as my parents’ favorite before the newer, shinier babies came along and stole the show.
Manne: Lucky you. How was the library?
Adrian: Great. I love my job.
Manne: No scaredy-cats needing rescuing today?
Adrian: Nope. My favorite scaredy-cat was otherwise occupied.
Manne: Your favorite, huh?
Adrian: What can I say? I have a thing for tough guys with a marshmallow center.
Manne: Tough guys your thing?
I wince, remembering his sister’s words. It was a thoughtless thing to say, and I don’t blame him for focusing on only one part of my statement, considering his past experiences.
Adrian: That’s not what I meant. I meant that I have a thing for people who are more than meets the eye. For layers and complexity. And the unexpected. Like a guy who looks like he could be a street thug but who’s soft and loving and would do anything his favorite people asked of him. That’s my thing.
My phone stays silent for minutes after my last text, so I pull off the bowtie, peel off my work clothes, and slip into lounge pants, a soft sweater, and warm socks. Perfect attire for a lazy afternoon at home. After another glance at my phone—still no reply from Manne—I grab a book from the teetering pile on the nightstand, crawl into bed, and open it.
The first sentence sucks me right into the story, so I jump when my phone rings and pulls me out of it. With a wildly beating heart, I scowl at the offender, but when I see Manne’s name on the screen, my frown turns into a smile.
“Hey you,” I say when I accept the call.
“Hi.” He’s silent for several long moments, then continues. “Am I interrupting something?”
“Not really. I just started a new book, but it’s nothing important.”
“Aren’t librarians supposed to think books are important?”
“You have a point. Let me rephrase. The book is important, but I can put it down a moment. For you.”
That makes him laugh. “That’s more like it.”
I hum. “So what are you doing?”
“Nothing much. My plans for the day were thwarted by a crappy car breaking down. For the second time this month. Susy needs a new vehicle but says she can’t afford the expense. And she refuses to let me buy one for her. ‘You already help me too much,’ she says, but she’s my sister. I’d do anything for her.”
My heart melts in my chest and pours into my bloodstream. He’s too good to be true. “Sisters,” I huff, so I won’t start gushing about how great he is.
“Yeah.” Manne clears his throat. “You meant that, didn’t you?”
“About sisters?”
“No. That thing you…wrote.”
I have to take a moment to remind myself what he’s talking about. Oh. The text! “I did.”
He hums. A happy sound. “Do you have any grand plans for the rest of the day?”
“Not really, no. Why?”
He hesitates before replying. As though he’s doubting his next words. “I was going to ask if you’d like to hang out, but maybe it’s too soon. We don’t know each other, after all.”
“Isn’t that what hanging out is all about? Getting to know each other better?”
“It is. But I do want to get to know you, and to be perfectly honest, I’m not sure I could keep my hands to myself if we’re in private. I’m wildly attracted to you, in case you haven’t noticed.”
I chuckle. “I’ve noticed. I’m not great at picking up on when someone is flirting with me, but you’re not exactly subtle.”
“Fuck subtle.”
“Mhm. And the feeling is mutual.”
“Yeah, you’re not subtle either,” he says and chuckles.
“I didn’t think I was. I figured that talking about phone sex or me being dressed in nothing but a bowtie was a dead giveaway.”
He groans. “Did you have to remind me of that?”
“I did.” I nod for emphasis even though he can’t see me.
“We better change the subject.”
“Or what?”
“Or I won’t be able to leave the house at all,” he mutters.
I can’t help it. I burst out laughing. “You’re too cute. I can’t take it.”
“‘M not cute.” He sounds like he’s pouting. I’d pay anything to see that.
“Don’t argue. You’re cute.”
He huffs.
“We could always meet in public. Somewhere with lots of families so we can’t jump each other,” I say and look at my fluffy socks and burrow deeper into my bed, not really in the mood to go anywhere but I will if I get to see him. He’s wormed his way under my skin, and even though it’s far too early to say, I have a feeling he’s there to stay.
“I guess.”
He doesn’t sound enthusiastic about it, and I can’t help but agree. It would be nice to be in a private space for once. “Come over?” I blurt.
“You sure?”
I squirm in anticipation. “Yeah. But I will be wearing clothes when opening the door.”
His deep chuckle makes my skin buzz. “Maybe we’ll save the naked routine for next time.”
“Maybe. If you’re a good boy.”
“Oh, honey. I’ve never been a good boy.” His voice is even lower, and it turns my insides into liquid. Melts everything that I am, except for my dick that’s plumping up.
“I don’t think that’s true,” I say.
“No?”
“Nope. I think you know good boys get all the rewards. At least the ones who count.”
“Maybe.”
“I’ll text you my address,” I say.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Good.”
“Bye.”