Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Nathan
" T hat box isn't going to sprout legs and walk itself upstairs."
Grace jumps at my voice, nearly dropping the clearly too-heavy box of books she's attempting to lift. She's been staring at it for the past five minutes, probably trying to calculate the exact angle of attack.
"I've got it," she says, but her arms are already trembling from the test lift.
"Sure you do." I cross the room and ease the box from her grip. "Where're we headed?"
" We aren't headed anywhere. I can manage."
"Humor me. Consider it my good deed for the day." I adjust my hold on the box—these books weigh a ton. "Unless you'd rather explain to the board how the contractor let their librarian pull a muscle during heavy lifting?"
She sighs, but there's a hint of a smile playing at her lips. "Second floor. Historical fiction needs reorganizing."
"Historical fiction, huh?" I follow her up the stairs, noting how she automatically skips the creaky fourth step. "Branching out from your daily dose of Elizabeth and Darcy?"
"There's more to my reading life than Pride and Prejudice," she says primly, but I catch the hint of a smile.
"Could've fooled me. Page ninety-four's looking pretty worn these days."
She flushes slightly. "You're very observant for someone who claims fiction is a waste of time."
"I never said it was a waste of time. I said real life is better." We reach the landing, and I set the box down to catch my breath. "So enlighten me. What does Grace Lawson read when she's not alphabetizing research materials?"
She leans against the railing, considering me. "You really want to know?"
"Would I ask if I didn't?"
"People ask lots of things they don't really want answers to."
"True." I stretch my shoulders, preparing for the rest of our journey. "But I'm not people. I'm the guy currently preventing you from a nasty back injury. I think that earns me one honest answer about your reading habits.”
Something shifts in her expression. It’s like a wall coming down. "I love stories about ordinary people finding their courage," she says quietly. "About quiet moments that change everything. Magic hiding in plain sight." She trails her fingers along the railing. "One of my favorite books is actually The Blue Castle by L.M. Montgomery. Most people only know her for Anne of Green Gables , but this one's different. It's about a woman who stops being afraid of life."
"Sounds relevant to your interests."
Her head snaps up, eyes narrowing. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Hey, no judgment here." I raise my hands in surrender. "Just noticing patterns. It's what I do, remember? Like how this building's foundation tells me someone poured their heart into getting every detail right." I pick up the box again. "Same way your books tell me what matters to you."
"And what's that?"
"The possibility of something more." We start down the row of shelves. "Though I still think reality can surprise you just as much as fiction, if you let it."
"Says the man who measures everything twice."
"Trust but verify." I grin at her over the box. "Speaking of which, where exactly are these going?"
"Just past the Civil War section, next to—" She stops abruptly, and I nearly run into her. "Did you reorganize the biography display?"
"Guilty. Had some time while the paint was drying yesterday." I set down the box, rolling my shoulders. "Thought it might be nice to group them by profession instead of just chronologically. Artists with artists, writers with writers. Figured it might help people find inspiration from similar minds."
Grace stares at the display, then at me. "That's actually brilliant."
"Don't sound so shocked. Some of us can appreciate a good organizational system even without a library science degree."
"But you said categorizing everything was—and I quote—'taking all the fun out of discovery.'"
"Maybe someone's helping me appreciate the value of a well-ordered world." I start unpacking the box, deliberately not meeting her eyes. "Even if I still think real life is the best story going."
She joins me in unpacking, our hands brushing occasionally over dusty volumes. "Real life doesn't always have satisfying endings."
"Neither does Romeo and Juliet ."
A startled laugh escapes her. "Did you just make a literary reference to prove reality is better than fiction?"
"Did it work?"
"No." But she's smiling now, really smiling, the kind that reaches her eyes and makes something in my chest tighten. "But I'll give you points for effort."
"I'll take it." I pull out the last book—something thick and historical-looking. "So, what makes this one special?"
She takes it from me, running her fingers over the cover like she's greeting an old friend. "It's about a woman who builds a library in the Australian outback. About bringing stories to people who need them." Her voice softens. "About how books can be a light in the darkness."
"Like your library here?"
"This is different. In the book, everything works out perfectly. The roof doesn't leak, the budget stretches exactly far enough, and—" She stops, blushing. "Sorry. I'm doing it again, aren't I? Getting lost in stories."
"Hey." I touch her wrist lightly, waiting until she meets my eyes. "Getting lost isn't always a bad thing. Sometimes it's the only way to find something unexpected."
"Is that your professional contractor opinion?"
"Nah, that's just me appreciating a good story when I see one." I gesture to the library around us. "And this place? Your dedication to it? That's a pretty good story."
She ducks her head, but not before I catch her smile. "We should finish shelving these."
"Whatever you say, Book Whisperer." I reach for another volume. "But while we work, tell me more about this Australian library builder. I want to know if she had to deal with stubborn contractors too."
"You're in my spot."
Grace doesn't startle this time when she hears my voice. Just shifts over slightly on the blanket she's spread in our stargazing meadow.
"Wasn't aware you had a deed to this particular patch of grass," she says, but there's warmth in her voice as she makes room for me.
I settle beside her, close enough to catch the familiar scent of old books and lavender. "Squatter's rights. Been watching the stars from here every clear night for weeks."
"Following their stories?"
"Something like that." I lean back on my elbows, studying the familiar patterns above us. "Though I usually track them by coordinates rather than myths."
"Of course you do." She turns her head to look at me. "Ever wish you didn't know exactly where everything was? That you could just get lost in the wonder of it?"
"Got lost enough as a kid." The words slip out before I can catch them. "Moving every few months, never knowing where we'd end up next. Navigation became a survival skill."
Grace's quiet for a moment. "Is that why you like fixing things? Because it's concrete?"
"Maybe." I watch a satellite track across the sky. "Dad was good with his hands. The man could fix almost anything. But he got restless easy. One job would end, or he'd hear about better opportunities somewhere else, and we'd pack up again. The only constant was that something always needed fixing wherever we landed."
"That must have been hard."
"It was what it was." I shrug, but something in her voice makes me continue. "But yeah, I guess that's why I prefer things I can touch. Build. Improve. The satisfaction of solving a real problem, you know?"
"Like a leaky roof?"
"Like a leaky roof." I turn to face her. "What about you? What made books your safe place?"
She's quiet for so long I think she might not answer. When she does, her voice is barely above a whisper. "My mom left when I was seven. Walked out one day. No explanation, no goodbye. Gran took me in, but I—" She takes a shaky breath. "I had trouble trusting that anything would stay. That anyone would stay. But books always ended the same way. The stories never changed, never left. I could count on them."
Without thinking, I reach for her hand in the darkness. She lets me take it.
"The library was my favorite place. During the summer, Gran would drop me off on her way to work, pick me up hours later. The librarian let me help shelve books, and taught me the catalog system. It made sense in a way nothing else did."
"And now you're making sure other kids have that same safe place."
She turns her head sharply. "I thought you said I was hiding in fiction."
"Maybe I'm learning to see different kinds of strength." I squeeze her hand gently. "Different ways of facing the world."
Above us, a shooting star streaks across the sky. Grace catches her breath.
"Quick," I say, "make a wish."
"I thought you were too practical for wishes."
"Maybe you're teaching me to appreciate a little magic." I roll onto my side to face her fully. "Besides, shooting stars are just space debris burning up in the atmosphere. Totally scientific."
Her laugh is soft but real. "You really can't help yourself, can you?"
"Nope. But I can do both—appreciate the science and still make a wish." I watch her profile in the starlight. "Same way I'm learning that maybe someone can love stories and still be brave enough to live on her own."
Grace's quiet for a long moment. Then, "I never said I made a wish."
"Didn't have to. You've got that look you get when you're about to start a new book—like you're on the edge of something possible."
"Very poetic for a man who measures in millimeters."
"What can I say? You're rubbing off on me." I lie back, her hand still in mine. "Though if you tell anyone I'm getting sentimental, I'll deny it. Got a reputation to maintain."
"Your secret's safe with me." She shifts closer, just slightly. "Though I might need some renovation work in the poetry section next week."
"Anything for my favorite librarian." I pause. "Even if she does dog-ear her pages."