10. Belle
BELLE
M y apartment is small like a box, which is why Adam and I spend a lot of time in the library.
Especially, because he had two choices in life: get a job that pays well or work with me and books.
He chose the latter, besides his family are one of the wealthiest in town, so living with his parents means they built an outhouse in the ten acres that they call their backyard and Adam lives in it.
Not quite the same as living in a room with your parents.
He's lucky. My parents didn't have money, so I've always had to do things alone, especially when they both died when I was twenty-three.
Mom went first from breast cancer that spread faster than anyone expected, and Dad followed six months later from lung cancer, though he'd never smoked a day in his life.
Sometimes I think he just couldn't figure out how to live without her.
My love for cooking allows me to bake in my studio apartment, and that's about it.
The kitchen is basically a hot plate, a mini-fridge, and a counter that doubles as my dining table.
Even though Adam does question how I can manage to create elaborate desserts in what he refers to as a closet with plumbing.
"You locked all doors?" I ask, as he returns from checking the library's main entrance and staff exit.
"Uh-huh. I have done it before, Belle, you don't need to ask me again," he replies.
The library after hours feels like a completely different place.
Without the constant hum of conversation, the shuffle of feet on hardwood floors, and the gentle sounds of pages turning, it becomes something almost sacred.
The tall windows let in just enough streetlight to cast everything in soft shadows, making the familiar spaces feel mysterious and intimate.
This is our place, really. More than my cramped studio apartment or Adam's perfectly appointed but still-parental guest house.
Here, surrounded by thousands of stories and decades of accumulated knowledge, we can be completely ourselves without worrying about neighbors hearing through thin walls or parents dropping by unannounced.
"Okay," I say, settling into one of the comfortable reading chairs near the poetry section and pulling my legs up under me. "We need to talk about this whole ball situation."
Adam groans, dropping into the chair across from me with the kind of dramatic flair he only shows when we're alone. "Do we have to? Can't we just pretend the invitations were a group hallucination and go back to our normal lives of quiet desperation?"
"Quiet desperation?" I laugh, though there's more truth in his words than either of us wants to acknowledge. "Is that what we're calling our lives now?"
"Well, what would you call it?" Adam challenges, but he's smiling. "Two nearly-thirty librarians who spend their evenings hiding in their workplace, discussing fictional characters' love lives while avoiding their own complete lack of romantic prospects?"
The description stings because it's accurate.
We are hiding, in a way. From the constant questions about why we're both still single, from the well-meaning but exhausting attempts at matchmaking, from the growing pressure to settle down and start families like everyone else our age seems to be doing.
"I prefer 'selective social engagement,'" I reply primly, making Adam snort with laughter.
"Is that what we're calling it when Mrs. Henderson cornered you at the grocery store last week and spent twenty minutes explaining why her nephew would be perfect for you?" Adam asks.
"That was different. Her nephew is twenty-two, lives in his mother's basement, and collects vintage comic books."
"Hey, don't knock vintage comic books," Adam protests. "Some of those are worth serious money."
"Living in your mother's basement negates any potential comic book investment returns," I point out.
"Fair enough," Adam concedes. "Though technically, I live in my parents' backyard, so I'm not sure I have room to judge basement dwellers."
Adam always finds humor in situations that would send other people into spirals of self-doubt. His family's wealth could have made him entitled or out of touch, but instead it seems to have given him a different perspective about what actually matters.
"Your situation is completely different," I tell him firmly. "You have your own space, your own entrance, and your own life. You just happen to share ten acres with people who love you enough to want you nearby."
"And you," Adam says quietly, "have created an entire life from nothing, supporting yourself completely, building a career that actually helps people. That's not something everyone could do, Belle."
"Anyway," I say, clearing my throat and steering us back to safer territory, "we need to figure out what we're doing about these invitations."
"Right. The mysterious golden ticket to the social event of the decade." Adam pulls his invitation from his jacket pocket, studying it in the dim light. "I still can't believe we both got them."
"Have you told your parents yet?"
"God, no. Can you imagine? Mom would immediately assume this means I'm finally ready to 'settle down and give her grandchildren.' She'd probably have my formal wear tailored and a pre-written wedding announcement ready before I could explain that I'm terrified of going to the ball."
I can picture Mrs. Chen's reaction perfectly.
"Or worse than that," I say, covering my face with my hands. "Your mom would start planning the wedding immediately. But not just the wedding, the pre-gender reveal parties for her future grandchildren before you've come back from the ball!"
"Pre-gender reveal parties?" Adam stares at me. "That's actually terrifying."
"She'd invite the whole town and your extended family.
Cousins you haven't seen since you were twelve would suddenly be getting save-the-dates.
The local hotels would be even more packed than they are when the ball is on!
" I gesture wildly. "She'd probably book the community center for six months straight and start interviewing caterers before we even figured out if we actually like each other romantically, once you tell her that we're going together as a couple! "
"Stop," Adam holds up a hand, looking genuinely panicked. "You're giving me actual anxiety. I can see her measuring the main house's spare rooms for nurseries."
"Spare rooms? Plural? Oh, Adam, she'd have the whole house mapped out. This room for the first baby, that room for the second, maybe convert the office for twins because 'you never know, and it's better to be prepared.'"
"She'd probably start knitting baby blankets on the drive home from the ball.” Adam's eyes widen.
"Baby blankets? She'd have entire wardrobes completed by Sunday. Color-coded by gender because she'd want to be ready for any possibility. Plus matching outfits for family photos she's already planning to take at Christmas."
We stare at each other in mutual terror.
"Maybe we should just tell her we're going as friends," Adam suggests weakly.
"She'd interpret 'going as friends' as 'in denial about their obvious romantic destiny' and triple her efforts."
"What about you?" Adam asks. "Have you told anyone?"
"Who would I tell? The plants in my apartment? Everyone in town knows thanks to Lady Inkwell and Mrs. Henderson.”
“You could have told me when you found the invitation," Adam says gently, reminding me that I do have one friend. One person to talk to, and I didn’t tell him first. “You didn't have to carry this around alone, Belle."
There's something in his tone that makes me look at him more closely. In the soft light filtering through the library windows, Adam looks older than usual, more serious. Like he's thinking about things beyond our immediate conversation.
"I was scared," I admit. "Still am, honestly."
"Scared of what?"
How do I explain that I'm terrified of being exposed, of having my carefully constructed facade stripped away in front of strangers who might not understand or accept what I really am?
How do I tell Adam that the ball's reputation for perfect matching terrifies me because it might force me to confront truths I've been avoiding for over a year?
"Scared of... expectations, I guess. The ball has this reputation for changing people's lives, for facilitating perfect matches. What if I'm not ready for that kind of change? What if I don't want my life to be different?" I ask, and my heart races with every question.
It's partially true, though not the whole truth. My life as it is feels safe, manageable, under my control. The unknown variables that come with the ball, the alphas, the matching ceremonies, the possibility of exposure represent everything I've been trying to avoid.
"But maybe," Adam says thoughtfully, "change isn't always bad. Maybe some things need to change for us to be truly happy."
"Aren’t you happy?" I ask, surprised by the melancholy in his voice.
"I'm... content," Adam replies carefully. "I love my job, I love working with you, I love the life we've built here. But sometimes I wonder if contentment is enough, or if I'm using it as an excuse to avoid taking risks."
"What kind of risks?"
"The kind that might lead to the kind of happiness we read about in books but never seem to experience ourselves like leaving and exploring the world.”
His words hit closer to home than I want to acknowledge. There's truth in what he's saying, we've both built comfortable lives that protect us from disappointment but also insulate us from possibility.
"Adam," I say suddenly, the idea crystallizing as I speak, "what if we went together?"
This is too much to handle. I have a feeling that Adam is saying something, something I really don't want to hear. It's one thing for him to go and find a mate, but leaving?Really? Is this what he desires so badly?
"Together?" His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "Like... as friends?"