Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
I’m in the stacks, hunting. There’s only one copy of Tragedies of Hawthorne’s Women on the entire campus, and I need it for the final paper I’ve been dreading all semester. According to the online catalog, it lives in the sub-basement, in the “American Letters – 19th Century” section, a place so rarely visited it’s begun to decompose into its own taxonomy of dust bunnies.
I descend the tight spiral staircase, feeling each rung vibrate through my shins. It’s a dungeon down here, the fluorescent bulbs casting everything in an unflattering blue. The shelves are tall and close-set, the books old enough that they all have that papery, dry-moss look, their spines faded to near-anonymity. A single study table is shoved against the far wall, its surface carved with the detritus of decades: “Class of 1999 = LEGENDS,” “Confess your sins to the Chem Squirrel,” “Call Jenny for a good time—(218) 555-1212.”
The quiet is thick, but not comfortable. There’s the constant threat that someone will cough, or drop a book, or appear behind you with a request for the Dewey Decimal number you just memorized.
I find the right shelf and scan, squinting at the microscopic catalog numbers. There it is, wedged between two volumes so dusty I almost sneeze: Tragedies of Hawthorne’s Women, spine cracked and gold lettering half-flaked off.
I reach up to grab it, but it’s higher than I anticipated. On my tiptoes, I can just barely brush the bottom of the cover. I try again, this time wedging one foot up onto the lower rail of the shelf, and—fingertips on the book—I hear footsteps echoing down the aisle.
My heart punches my sternum. I expect a librarian, maybe even Andie, but when I turn my head, it’s Liam. Of course it is.
He stands at the end of the row, hands in his pockets, hair slightly mussed in a way that suggests he’s been running his fingers through it for hours. His blue eyes look almost grey under the dim lights, and he’s wearing a wool coat over his usual crisp dress shirt, the collar askew. For a second, we both just stare, like deer clocking each other across a dark road.
I drop my arm, hiding the way my hand shakes. “Hi,” I say, voice barely audible.
He nods, not moving closer. “Hi, Simone.”
There’s a long, bright second where nothing happens. I try not to squirm.
He glances at the book in my hand. “That’s a good one,” he says. “Page 149. There’s a line about guilt that always gets me.”
I force a laugh, not sure if I’m meant to be flattered or creeped out. “Did you memorize the whole book? How did you find me, anyways?”
He shrugs, one shoulder, and smiles ruefully. “You’re not the only one who reads books, Simone. It’s actually a profession for me.”
We stand in that too-narrow aisle, both pretending it’s not the most loaded hallway in the state.
He finally moves closer, stopping an arm’s length away. His voice is careful, the way you talk to someone with a wound you gave them. “How are you holding up?”
I look down at the book, then back at him. “I’m alive. Finals are finals.”
He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You always were a fighter.”
The phrase lands somewhere between compliment and accusation.
I want to ask if he’s really okay, or if the darkness under his eyes is just the light, or if he’s been sleeping at all. Instead I say, “I’m working on the Hawthorne paper. Trying to avoid, you know, emotional subtext.”
He laughs—really laughs, this time, a raw sound that’s all relief and disbelief. “Good luck with that.”
I want to leave. I want to stay. I want him to touch me, just once, so I know I haven’t made the whole thing up.
There’s a pause, the silence loaded. He opens his mouth, maybe to say something real, but I beat him to it.
“I’m doing better,” I say. “And I know it’s weird, but I wanted you to know I’m okay. I’m not a disaster.”
He nods, eyes fixed on mine. “I never thought you were. You’re the best student I’ve had in ten years.”
The compliment should feel like a gold star, but instead it burns. “Just a student?”
The words come out sharp. I regret them instantly, but he doesn’t flinch.
“No,” he says, voice low. “Not just that.”
We stand like that for a minute, neither moving, both pretending that this is normal, that we’re just people in a library and not two halves of a whole, our edges jagged at the moment.
There’s a clatter from the far end of the stacks, and my heart sinks when I see who it is: Dylan, all muscle and windbreaker, bounding down the aisle with a backpack over one shoulder. He sees us and stops, sizing up the scene with a single, predatory glance.
“Hey, Simone!” he calls, his voice bouncing off the shelves. Oh my god, his voice is way too loud, and I feel embarrassed for the boy. He reminds me of an oversized puppy with too-big feet.