Chapter 36

I put my phone in airplane mode so I could listen to angry music and ignore all calls and texts. That lasted for twenty-four wrathful hours. When the music ended and the anger burned off, I flipped the cell connection back on. I ignored all the texts that came in. For a while. Then I had to know.

Nothing from Mac. Nothing from Will. Nothing from Julie.

Congratulations from my mother and a couple of other people.

When a new text arrived, I ignored it for at least ten minutes. I was afraid that this time it would be Will. Or even Mac. When I couldn’t ignore it any longer, I checked my phone.

Marigold.

She knew enough to ask, which meant she knew, or at least guessed, I didn’t want to see Mac.

I beat her there, so I ordered three muffins. Two of them were gone by the time she walked in.

She came over and put her cheek next to mine, almost like she was going to kiss me. My eyes started to tear up. She held her face against mine and put her hand on the other side of my head. I wanted to sit there for the whole day, smelling baked deliciousness and being comforted by a friend.

When she pulled away, I wiped my eyes and smiled at her. “The banana walnut is really good. So is the apple spice.”

“That looks like blueberry,” she said, pointing to the muffin on the plate.

“It is. I don’t know if it’s any good. I haven’t gotten to it yet.”

She raised her eyebrows at me but refrained from verbal judgment.

“Okay. So you didn’t try anything with chocolate in it?”

“Well, I haven’t left yet.”

She smiled. “Be right back.” She dropped a newspaper on the table. I ignored it and stared at the brick wall, thinking of the brick walls in Beans. Thinking of the muffins in Beans. Thinking of Mac in Beans, and all the days and dollars I’d spent there. Lots of days and dollars. Then I thought of Mac outside Beans, and all the kisses and all the texts.

All the texts he didn’t even write.

Why would Will do that to me? What was wrong with him?

Marigold waved from the counter, probably making sure I was still upright. I pinched a bite of the blueberry muffin, but I was suddenly not hungry. I crumbled the bite onto the napkin in front of me.

What was wrong with Will that he would fake messages like that? What was wrong with Mac that he couldn’t say those things to me himself? What was wrong with me that I never even noticed? Everything was a total mess.

Marigold pulled out a chair and slid a plate with three muffins on it across the table. “Chocolate chip. Salted caramel chocolate. Chocolate mocha—that one’s for me. Now. What’s going on?”

I pushed the plate back to her. “Let’s see. I got fired, I think. Also Mac and I broke up, and he’s already got someone else, and he’s a jerk. And it’s possible that Will is secretly in love with me.”

She laughed.

I did not. “Which of those things seems funny to you?”

She forced a look of serious concern that might have convinced me once. “None of them.”

I shook my head.

Her smile came back. “Sorry. Of course Will is crazy about you. It’s not much of a secret. You’re the only one who didn’t appear to know about it.”

“Pretty sure Mac didn’t know,” I muttered.

“Mac knew. How else could Will write all those . . .” Marigold broke off, suddenly intent on her muffin.

“All those what?”

No reply.

I pulled the plate away from her. “Write what?”

She looked uncomfortable. Good. “You know—a few texts. A few poems. Some scripts.”

“Scripts.” The word felt as weird in my mouth as it sounded coming from hers. “You know about the texts?”

She shrugged. “A few weeks ago, I went to Beans for a coffee, and Mac said he wanted to practice a few lines.”

Dumbfounded. Gobsmacked. Stunned. “He practiced lines on you?”

“No. Not like that. Just, you know, rehearsed. ‘Does this sound right?’ Stuff like that.” She took a bite of muffin. It turned her teeth momentarily black.

“So Mac is going around reading scripts”—the word still felt wrong in my mouth—“to girls who come in and order coffee.”

“It’s cute, though, right?” She ran her tongue over her teeth and offered me a bite of her muffin. I declined. She pulled the plate closer to her. “I mean, Mac couldn’t have come up with any of those conversations on his own. He can make a decent beverage, but there’s not a whole lot going on behind that pretty face.”

I stared at the pile of crumbs in front of me. “Don’t be mean.”

“I didn’t mean it to sound mean. I thought you needed a good post-breakup wallow.”

I ate a blueberry. “I’ll wallow the nice way.”

“Which way’s the nice way?”

“Where I say all the pleasant things in public and keep the insults for my private moments,” I said.

“Like when you write them on the walls of public spaces with permanent marker?” She was squinting at me and trying not to smile.

“Maybe.”

Marigold pushed the hair out of my face. “I’m not sure you’re very good at this wallowing thing. We could go to the gym and put on boxing gloves. What do you say?”

“Pass the muffins.” I reached for the plate.

She pretended not to watch me eat the top off the salted caramel one. “Want to talk about the job?”

“No.” I wiped my hands on my jeans. “Yes.” I set down the muffin. “I love that job. I love that library. I have loved that library all my life. And I’ve loved that job for ten years. Ten years. That’s a huge percentage of my life, you know?” I took a big breath. “I don’t know if I’m really fired, but what if I am? What do I do? It’s not like there’s a huge population of libraries in this town.”

“There’s one at the university,” she said.

I nodded. “And what’s the likelihood that anyone’s going to hire someone so recently fired for such a public reason? Do you see what this means? I have a totally useless master’s degree. I’m unemployable.”

She shook her head, just a little, and I could see she was trying not to argue with me while I was ranting. I was present enough to recognize that as thoughtful.

“So, what, then? I move home with my mother?” I dropped my head to my arms and breathed out a shaky laugh. No way. “Or I leave town? Leave Will?”

Marigold looked at me. I could actually see questions flickering across her face, but she didn’t ask any of them.

She watched me unwrap the bottom of the muffin. She nodded in sympathy. “You tried something. And it worked—mostly.”

“I did. I tried. I tried everything I could think of to save my library. I did all the smart things. Then I did the dumb thing.” My throat was getting scratchy. Like anaphylaxis. I wondered if I’d developed a muffin allergy. Then I realized I was crying.

Marigold sighed. “Nobody got hurt.”

I put my head on my arms. My nose almost touched the table. “Nobody got burned by actual fire, but plenty of people got hurt. I’m such an idiot.”

“You’re not.”

I sighed. “How could I not be an idiot? Even you knew that Mac wasn’t sending me the messages I thought were from him.”

“This might be one of those things you need to look at from a distance.” She pulled the chocolate chip muffin toward her and pulled the top off. “Think about the first time you met Mac. What do you remember?”

“I really don’t want to talk about this.”

“Too bad. Hot guy walks into the library looking for poetry, am I right?” she asked.

“Basically.”

She nodded. “Right. What’s not to like?”

I chose not to answer that.

“But the thing is, that wasn’t enough. You asked for more.”

I shook my head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I brushed crumbs off the table.

“You asked for him. Birthday wish number twenty-four, if I recall.”

I raised my head. “How do you know that?”

“Will told me,” she said, as if it should be perfectly clear that she and Will discussed my birthday wishes all the time. I made a mental note not to introduce any more of my acquaintances to each other. She went on. “You told Will that what you wanted for your twenty-fourth birthday was nothing less than perfection, remember? A perfect man for you. Perfect face, perfect body, perfect mind? Sound familiar?”

My mouth fell open.

“You asked for the soul of a poet. He delivered.” She shrugged, as if that explained everything. The problem was, it didn’t explain anything. Will always gave me what I asked for, but he’d never deceived me before in the process.

“So you’re saying that the guy I want doesn’t exist. I can have half of what I want but not all of it.”

She knocked her knuckles against the table. “Pretty much. And you should be impressed that I understood any of your muttering into your arms.”

I muttered some more.

“Sorry. I missed that. But you maybe missed my point. Maybe right this minute, you can only have half of what you want at a time. The good-looking guy exists. The poet exists. Maybe you can’t have it all, not all at once.”

I moaned into my arms.

Marigold petted my head.

I slapped her hand away without looking up. She did it again.

“Are you petting me?” I asked.

“Purr,” she commanded.

I shook my head. “You’re weird.”

“Do it. You’ll feel better.”

“I’m not ready to feel better.”

“Come on.”

I growled.

“Close. Try again.”

I was glad my head was down. I didn’t want her to see that she’d almost made me smile. I breathed out a long, heavy sigh.

“That was even closer.” She scratched the back of my head between my ears, and suddenly that whole stupid idea about being a cat seemed pretty brilliant.

I purred.

Marigold laughed. “Good girl.”

I raised my head and looked at her. “If I really was a cat, I could sit on the couch in the sun all day long and you could feed me tuna and pet my head and I’d never have to get another job or talk to a human male ever again.” I may have gasped in wonder. “This is sounding like a better idea all the time.”

Marigold laughed again and kept petting my head until I was ready to go home. It took a long time. As I got up to leave, she put the newspaper she’d brought with her into my hand. “When you’re ready. Page two. Top of the fold.”

“It’s not like you to be vague and mysterious,” I said.

She shrugged. “It’s not like you to have a nervous episode and then pretend to be a domesticated animal.”

I opened the paper and found her essay. The one by Mary Elise Gold. Mary Gold. Marigold.

Was there any end to the ways in which I was capable of misunderstanding people?

Old and New by Mary Elise Gold

Citizens of Franklin voted this week to build a new library. The approved bond will cover the cost of building and running a state-of-the-art facility, complete with performance spaces, a café, study rooms, light-filled open spaces, collaboration rooms, an arboretum, a science research center, computer stations, art studios, and space for three times as many books as the current library.

To some citizens, this is a vast improvement. The casing for the library will be modern, efficient, clean, and beautiful.

To others, the new building represents a tragic separation from tradition. The Franklin library has been housed on Pearl Street for generations. The building matches the historical feeling of the neighborhood. The weathered brick, stained glass, narrow staircases, anachronistic light fixtures, wobbly bookshelves, and distinctive aroma are, for many people, the very definition of what a library should be. Many who have spent their lives in this community feel a deep connection to the building.

Will a new exterior change the soul of the library?

This question leads this reporter to ponder questions that reach far beyond the confines of brick-and-mortar buildings.

What is the delineation between a house (traditionally a building to live in) and a home (the place you feel loved and accepted)?

How does a community determine the necessity of traditional institutions in a modern society?

When you read a printed book, do you connect with the story differently than when you read digitally?

How important are traditions, and what makes them matter? What traditions should be phased out to make room for modern improvements? And who is to determine what is considered “improvement”?

Does a person’s physical presence determine how others respond to him or her as much as a building’s does?

What is the responsibility of the local government for making public places fully accessible?

Does upgrading, renewing, and updating always mean improving?

If a reader becomes uncomfortable answering any of these questions, remember that discomfort often offers a place to begin a dialogue. Whether you voted for or against the library bond, you, as a tax-paying citizen, will have a responsibility and a consequential reward for the community’s choice. The time for choosing has passed, but the conversation—the way Franklin looks at the future of its traditional gathering spaces—will continue for generations into the future.