7. Helen
Istare in dry-mouthed, sweaty-palmed horror as the Red Unicorn settles into his chair, fixing his blue-gray eyes on me. Words come out of my mouth, that much I know. They must even be somewhat coherent, because no one interrupts to ask me why I’m babbling, or tells me to get to the point already (and the “no one” in this scenario is clearly Matilda).
But even for a million dollars, or one of the Hemsworth brothers’ phone numbers, I could not repeat back anything said in that first minute or so after the Red Unicorn entered the room. My mind is racing, trying to figure out how and why the Red Unicorn is sitting in on my writing group.
Logically I can piece together that he must have seen the flier on the library’s community board. But why now? Why this meeting, when I’ll be reading aloud my first full-on smut scene, in which the hero is only a thinly veiled replica of him?
This feels like it must be a punishment, for becoming a layperson maybe, or eating too much refined sugar. My mother warned me against both, and here I am, making my atonement.
Finally I realize I can stall no longer: “So, without further ado…The Knight Librarian.”
There’s nothing to do but to read from the pages. I can’t change anything last-minute; my writing group has already read the excerpt and will notice anything but the minutest of details being altered. I briefly consider trying to read Axel’s hair as blond instead of strawberry blond (thank God I didn’t make it full-on auburn, at the very least), but realize that will probably draw even more attention to the detail.
So, sick to my stomach, I read.
“With their bodies pressed together, Rosamund found she had a hard time focusing on her fear. Something new was building inside of her, as she stared into his…blue-gray eyes.” What an idiot. Why couldn’t I have just made them blue? “Something she had never felt before, not like this. Certainly not at the hands of the bumbling Wilfred.”
This line earns a laugh from the regulars of the writing group. Their early notes were that poor Wilfred was too unbelievably inept to be an effective rival to Axel, though Kathleen has weirdly developed a crush on the underdog character and insists she’s rooting for him to win Rosamund’s heart in the end.
“Axel’s throat bobbed as he swallowed heavily, making Rosamund wonder if maybe, just maybe, he felt something, too.” Why did nobody tell me how terrible this book is? I will just have to leave the room as soon as it’s over, move to Guam, and never return. “As she shifted, and felt the growing proof of his attraction pressing against her thigh, Rosamund no longer had to wonder.”
The group gives a supportive burst of noise, some clapping, others whistling. Matilda, through a mouthful of muffin, calls out, “Finally!”
Buoyed by this response, I continued reading through Rosamund’s and Axel’s nervous but heartfelt declaration of feelings, leading up to the frenzied kissing that results in clothing being meticulously removed. More whistling, some foot stomping.
This is actually sort of fun, I realize as I lose myself in the pages. I would be enormously enjoying myself if it weren’t for…
The Red Unicorn. I’ve been studiously avoiding his gaze, trying my best to pretend he isn’t there, but my rebellious eyes dart to him on their own, at precisely the wrong moment: “…building toward a frenzied climax,” I stammer, then swallow.
His face remains impassive, his watchful eyes trained on me. I grip on to the podium, swallowing again as I stare down at my pages. “At last, Axel clapped a hand over Rosamund’s mouth to keep her gasps of pleasure from reaching the ears of the mobsters on the other side of the door. A moment later, he followed after her, tumbling into ecstasy. Satiated, spent, Axel half collapsed on top of Rosamund, pressing his chest against her bare breasts, their two hearts synchronizing and slowing together.”
Enthusiastic applause follows, and I gather my pages back together, grateful to have something to occupy my hands. I exercise all of my willpower to keep my gaze from returning to the Red Unicorn, hoping this will keep me feeling professional, confident. This is my writing group; these are my friends. I shared a story from my imagination, and any resemblances to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. If he assumes otherwise, that just proves he’s arrogant—even if he happens to be right.
First comes the round of compliments, in which the group members tell me what they like about my writing. Then comes constructive criticism. I pull out my pen, ready to take notes.
Deb thinks the pacing is a little too quick, and they can take more time removing their clothing. Frank thinks the voice is too passive in some areas, and I ought to use a thesaurus since I repeat words too frequently. (Darn you, whimper!) Barb wants there to be more tension, with the mobsters lurking on the other side of the door, and Florence wants a little more buildup. Kathleen doesn’t have any major issues, just wishes there was more Wilfred.
No one points out that Axel seems to have a striking resemblance to the mystery man who let himself into the room moments before I started reading. Just when I think things are wrapping up and that I’ve somehow, miraculously managed to escape from Dante’s second circle of hell unscathed, the Red Unicorn shifts.
He clears his throat.
A silent, reflexive prayer escapes my thoughts. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…
Florence shushes everyone. “I think the handsome, mysterious newcomer wants to say something.”
The Red Unicorn glances at her before fixing his gaze back on me. I resist the urge to press my eyes shut in the hopes that this will render me invisible. This is the moment, I’m certain, that he’s seen straight through me, and I will be outed as a perma-virgin.
“Where did his gun go?”
Of all the things I feared the Red Unicorn would ask me, this is not one of them. For a very brief moment, I wonder if he’s using a euphemism for Axel’s penis, but that doesn’t seem likely. “Sorry?”
“You mention Axel is wearing his service weapon at the beginning. Then about midway through when they’re”—the Red Unicorn shifts slightly—“tearing each other’s clothes off, you don’t mention him removing it and setting it down. So when she’s ripping off his pants with her teeth?—”
“The gun would go clattering to the floor and let the mobsters know they’re hiding in the back.” Deb nods her agreement. “Well spotted.”
Surely this can’t be all. Surely I cannot get off this easily. (No double entendre intended.) “Okay. Great. I will make sure Axel sets it on the shelf before”—I feel my cheeks pinkening—“Rosamund removes his pants. Thank you.”
It is maybe the longest exchange the two of us have ever had in the several weeks that the Red Unicorn has been coming to the library. My gaze catches on his for a moment and holds. I wonder what he thinks of my pages, beyond the detail of the gun. He was paying attention, that much is clear from his comment. But what does he think? Did it…stir him in any way?
I don’t have too long to dwell on the thought, because Barb starts going over the details for the next meeting, coordinating everyone’s schedules and arranging for Frank to send out his pages. All the while, I do my best to pretend to be engaged, though I half worry, half hope the Red Unicorn will leave just as silently and mysteriously as he arrived, before I have a chance to…what? Talk to him? Ask him if he thinks Rosamund should moan or whimper when Axel’s tongue laps her nipple through her lace bra?
Finally, the meeting adjourns, and the Red Unicorn makes no sign of moving. Florence rounds on him immediately. “So, who are you and what are you doing here and what do you write and are you single, in that order, please?”
I am also very curious to hear the answer to all of those questions, but Kathleen has the audacity to interrupt my eavesdropping with more notes about my writing: “…can see why Axel’s the hero. He sounds so hunky. But I think, with age, you’ll find that Wilfred is really the type of guy your heroine should go for…”
It’s impossible to focus on her and listen to the Red Unicorn’s answers. Darn Kathleen and her fixation on Wilfred—normally I find it charming, but at the moment it’s all I can do to keep from screaming that for Pete’s sake, Kathleen, nobody cares about Wilfred!
By the time I manage to successfully end the conversation, the Red Unicorn has not only ceased revealing tidbits of information about himself, but he’s also left the room.
My heart sinks in my chest. As disconcerting as it was to have him here, as much as I know I’ll go back to seeing him semi-regularly at the library and that this is the extent of the relationship I want with him to avoid being disillusioned by his human imperfections—I can’t help but feel disappointed. It surprises me, this feeling. I thought that maybe…
What? He’d be so turned on by my prose that he’ll see me, really see me, for the first time, and it’ll turn out he really is the perfect guy, and we’ll live happily ever after?
This is not a romance, I remind myself again, for the millionth time.
I planned to get drinks afterward with Nina and Matilda, but Matilda has roped Nina into helping her wrap up the leftover muffins, so I go into the hallway to wait for them. Despite everything, I have a last, fleeting hope that maybe the Red Unicorn will be waiting for me there, but the corridor is empty.
I move to the drinking fountain, filling up my reusable water bottle and reminding myself, once again, that I am an idiot.
The door to the men’s bathroom opens and I jump at the unexpected movement, heart racing. The Red Unicorn holds up a hand in what looks to be an instinctive gesture, my startled reaction startling him. He smiles, just a little, as I stare at him, dazed. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him smile.
“Sorry,” he says. “Didn’t mean to spook ya.”
I wave him off. “No, you’re fine. I startle easily.”
The conversation has a surreal quality to it. I’m experiencing two simultaneous and contradictory emotions. The first is disbelief at the fact that I’m standing here, having a conversation with the Red Unicorn outside of normal library hours. And the second is surprise that this feels completely natural, because this man has played a central role in so many of my daydreams and fantasies that it feels like I actually know him.
I hold my breath, waiting to see if he’ll try to continue the conversation. Which he’ll need to do, because frankly I have no idea what’s supposed to happen next, and I don’t want to come across as a gibbering idiot.
He raises a hand, running it along the back of his neck. “I liked your story.”
“Oh, thanks.” I feel myself flushing, and in my self-consciousness, my mouth takes off without my permission. “There was a lot of sex in it.”
The faint flicker of a smile appears on his face. “I noticed that, yeah.”
“I don’t usually write that much sex, but my writing group has been telling me to go a little deeper.” I wince. “Stretch myself.” A flinch. “Wow, there really isn’t any way to say that that doesn’t sound like an innuendo, is there?”
He gives a short, coughing laugh, rubbing the back of his neck again. Is that a self-conscious gesture? If so, it’s strangely endearing. “Well, you should listen to your writing group more often.”
“It’s a great writing group. Was tonight your first time?” I, of course, know the answer to this, but he doesn’t know I know the answer to this, and it’s a perfectly natural segue to find out why he’s here tonight.
He nods, glancing back toward the room. “Yeah. I saw the fliers in the library.”
I nod, too, in what I hope is a polite and not overenthusiastic way. “Do you write?”
“Well,” he replies, with another short, staccato laugh, “not really. I read, though.”
We are both half smiling, just looking at each other, and the moment feels strangely charged—charged enough that even I can’t miss it, and I can be oblivious to a lot of things like this.
Taking in a deep, bracing breath through my nose, I decide to be bold. “Detective novels, right? I recognize you from the library. I have a good memory for books.”
“Ah, yeah. I recognized you, too.” He extends his hand. “Thaddeus Hughes. I go by Thad.”
A name! The Red Unicorn has a name. I’ve held off on this moment for so long that I have to fight a wince at hearing it, but I suppose it was inevitable that at some point he would have to move beyond a fictionalized character in my mind. Still. It feels, somehow, terribly intimate, to know this very public piece of information.
Thad Hughes. I test it out, trying to wrap my head around it. I hesitate only briefly before taking his hand. This is the most physical contact I’ve had with a nonrelated male in a very long time, and I don’t want to do anything too weird.
His palm is warm, his fingers firm but not too tight as they close around my hand. I am so worried about making the situation awkward that I feel like I’ve turned to stone at his touch, afraid to move or breathe too quickly or grip too tightly. But he doesn’t seem to feel any such compunction. His thumb brushes over the back of my hand, then again, like he’s touching an especially soft blanket and can’t quite help himself. Goose bumps break out on my arms, and my skin suddenly feels incredibly sensitive, responsive. “Helen Flanagan,” I manage to say, though my voice sounds a little too breathy for just a simple introduction.
We’re still holding hands, just kind of looking at each other, and for a moment I panic, worried that he might think I’m strange for not pulling away, until it occurs to me that he hasn’t pulled away yet either, and what is happening?!
The door behind me opens and I jump, turning to see Matilda and Nina coming into the hall. They stop in their tracks at the sight of me with Thad, and only then do I realize we’re still holding hands. I pull back, embarrassed.
Matilda and Nina stare. Nina’s eyes are even bigger than usual, and Matilda is actually gaping, open-mouthed, for a full three seconds (which might not sound all that long, but feels LONG).
Nina is the first to recover, smiling brightly at us. “Well, have a good night, Helen. We’ll see you later.”
Matilda blinks in confusion. “I thought we were supposed to get drinks.”
For such a smart woman, she can be so incredibly oblivious sometimes. I feel Thad’s eyes on me as a blush rises up the back of my neck, and I wonder what I can possibly say to make it not completely obvious that I was supposed to leave with my friends but now they’re trying to leave me behind so I can talk to Thad longer—only one of the friends clearly hasn’t gotten the memo and is making everything super awkward.
“That’s tomorrow night,” Nina says quickly, her quiet voice brooking no argument. She links her arm through Matilda’s, half dragging her toward the door, which is impressive both because Matilda is not one to be dragged anywhere and also because Nina is basically half her size.
“But tomorrow’s puzzle night!” Matilda’s loud voice rings out through the empty hallway before Nina pulls the door shut behind them.
Awkward silence hangs in the air. I dare a glance at Thad, whose face I can only half make out in the shadows of the corridor. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance you didn’t hear that?” I ask him.
He laughs.
Somehow, and I’m still not entirely sure how, I’m walking out to my car, and Thad—nee the Red Unicorn—is at my side. The two of us are doing that sort of dawdling, deliberately slow walk that people do when they want to linger and spend more time together. At least, that’s what I think we’re doing? It’s possible Thad just thinks I’m a slow walker and is trying to be polite.
But for once, I actually don’t think so. The air between us is charged with an intense electric current, making everything sharper and brighter. It’s the sort of thing I’ve read about hundreds of times in my favorite novels but have never experienced for myself until now. I feel hyper-aware of everything around me, every detail that might otherwise fade into the background standing out in sharp relief. The crinkles around his eyes when he smiles, the faint red stubble on his cheeks, the freckle just below his chin. The purple-black of the night sky and the cold, biting air, and the city lights reflecting on the building windows. The way my body moves and the sound of my breath and the weight of my hands and the overwhelming awareness of my lips, heightened by the little leap my heart gives every time his eyes dart down to them.
Is he going to kiss me? The thought seems entirely possible, when only a few hours before it wouldn’t have even been plausible. I mentally run over everything I’ve eaten today, wonder when I last put on Chapstick, worry over what I should do with my hands.
And while all of this is racing through my mind, somehow I’m managing to keep up a conversation. I couldn’t for the life of me recall what I said in those few minutes, not even under oath, not even if my life depended on it. Maybe something about writing, probably something about the library, possibly something about quiche, although I can’t imagine why but it seems to ring familiar.
When we reach my car, I turn to face him with an attempt at a smile. “This is me.”
“Ah.” He puts his hands into his back pockets, rocking back a bit. Nervous, maybe? The thought is endearing, even if it feels implausible. “I’m just over there.”
He doesn’t move, though, and neither do I. We just look at each other, caught in that strange, invisible current. “It was nice to finally get to meet you, properly, I mean. I know all the other regulars by name but you’ve been holding out on me.”
“Huh,” he says.
I wait a moment for something more, but Thad stays silent, and now he’s looking vaguely embarrassed. Oh, shoot. I did read the situation wrong, and he’s trying to figure out a way to leave, and I’m making things weird.
I back up a step. “Well, I should?—”
His voice catches me before I can retreat. “Do you like working at the library?”
I blink at him in surprise, then feel a surge of nervous pleasure as I realize he’s now the one trying to extend the conversation, keep me here. “Um. Yeah. I do. I mean, I love books and I like helping people find the right books for them.”
“You’re the best one there. Sometimes I just turn around and leave if I see you aren’t working.”
It is, I realize, the most I’ve heard him say. He isn’t a particularly verbose man—it doesn’t come across right away, because his eyes are so expressive, and his face can change so much with just the slightest shift. But he’s a mostly one- or two-word-answer kind of guy, until he goes and says something so unexpectedly sweet it floors me.
I blush. “That’s really nice of you to say.” Loyally, I can’t help but add, “We all have our own strengths?—”
Thad scoffs. “Carlos always wants to chat and Marsha is way too slow and Nadia hides in the stacks with her phone. And don’t get me started on Erica.”
I almost laugh at the very accurate picture he’s painted of all my coworkers, until it registers just how clear of a picture it is. “Wow, you’ve really been paying attention.”
Something shifts in Thad’s eyes—hard to identify, but almost like a little light has been snuffed out. He sobers visibly, his lips thinning out. “It’s my job, noticing the details.”
“Your job?” I echo. Something else is shifting, too, although I can’t entirely figure out what, and a part of me doesn’t want to. I just want to hold on to this exciting pre-kiss moment where anything seems possible.
“I should’ve mentioned.” He sounds almost regretful, like he doesn’t want to say it. “I’m a bounty hunter.”
“Wow, I’ve never met a bounty hunter before.” I smile, still a little worried by that sudden shift in his tone but trying to tell myself I’ve imagined it. “So. A bounty hunter who reads crime novels—isn’t that a little on the nose?”
Thad is smiling, too, though now I see it no longer reaches his eyes, which are noticeably crinkle-free. “I’m not much of a reader, actually. But I had to find some reason to be in the library so much.”
I feel almost as though I’m being steered into a script, but I don’t know how to escape it. “Why did you need a reason to be in the library?” I ask dutifully, dreading the answer.
“To watch you.” Thad holds my gaze, his blue-gray eyes no longer bright but dimmed, blank. “I’ve been looking for your brother, Helen. He’s in a lot of trouble, and I need you to help me find him.”
And whatever sliver of shiny little hope I had snuffs out for good as the dread of those words sinks in.