Chapter One #4
Had I been wrong about Macon? He seemed upset, maybe even disappointed in me.
Or maybe he was confused because I hadn’t explained the situation clearly enough.
I’d definitely been too flippant. How could he know I was interested in dating him if I hadn’t articulated it—or even been flirtatious?
As my panic rose, my breathing grew shallow.
My palms sweated. I’d never made a move on anybody before.
I had only ever been on one first date, and I was eighteen at the time.
Had Cory already slept with somebody else?
While we were both skilled at talking to strangers, he was more extroverted than me and enjoyed going out.
I hadn’t gone anywhere yet because I’d been waiting for tonight. Waiting for Macon.
Two clocks were ticking: twenty-eight days until February, eighty-five minutes until closing. And I had no idea what to do.
A stiffness to Macon’s presence indicated that he was still observing me. My throat thickened. I lowered my head, trying to hold myself together.
His chair rotated back toward me.
I forced my chin up. Forced myself to meet his gaze.
His eyes were serious and kind. “Are you okay?”
I nodded my head for yes. Shook it for no. My skin flushed like a teenager without social skills or self-control.
“That seems about right,” he said. And then he smiled.
It wasn’t that Macon never smiled, but he never gave a false smile, which meant that they always reached deeper inside of me.
They penetrated at an atomic level, while everybody else’s only brushed my skin.
This one was meant to reassure me, and miraculously, it did.
I wiped away a tear that had managed to leak out and laughed at myself.
“So, how did you choose who got to stay and who had to move out?” He was trying to distract me to keep me from falling apart.
“Of our apartment? That decision was easy. I have more clothes and makeup and stuff. You know, everything required…”
“… for going on a date.”
“Yeah.” I swallowed to steady myself. “So I got to stay. We’re each paying for our own place this month.”
“Oh. Shit.” His concern shifted. “Is that a lot?”
It didn’t bother me that he was asking about money.
All of us librarians talked openly about our lack of finances.
The government didn’t pay us well—fully weaponizing the knowledge that anybody willing to work with books would be willing to do it for a meager salary—so we were all thrifty by necessity.
“It’s not bad. I mean, it’s not great. But I have enough.”
“Still haven’t gotten the email?”
A gruff voice interrupted us. Like Mr. Garland, Mr. Brember was in his eighties, but he was far less sprightly.
He came in every day to work on his funeral plans, which wasn’t as morbid as it sounded.
He was in good health; he just wanted to make sure that when he did die, he received the appropriate tribute.
The last time I’d glimpsed it, his document was more than a hundred pages long and contained detailed instructions regarding wreaths, choral arrangements, a marching band, fireworks, refreshments, and Clydesdale horses.
“Not yet,” I said.
He grunted. “It’s getting dangerous. Wind’s picking up.”
With a start, I realized it was true. The stained-glass windows were rattling. Mr. Brember didn’t drive, so I was thankful he only lived around the corner. “Be careful out there.”
“You should close,” he said, scolding us as he skedaddled away. (Long ago, Macon and I had decided that skedaddled was the most accurate verb to describe the way he moved, and I could never unthink it.) “Never wait for somebody else to tell you what to do.”
The doors shut behind him with a loud, wind-sucked pop.
“Somebody like you?” Macon said dryly.
But Mr. Brember had a point. Macon would never, not in a hundred thousand lifetimes, tell me that he was interested in taking advantage of my month of freedom. We had been friends and coworkers for too long. He was respectful. Professional. It would be up to me to make the first move.
“Did we get the email?” Elijah called out from across the library.
I cupped a hand around my mouth. “Not! Yet!”
“Fuck it.” Macon pushed away from the desk and stood. “We’re empty.” And then he strode away to prepare for closing anyway.
The familiar clanks and thunks told me he was putting out the fire in the back room, so I searched for shelves to straighten and discarded items to file away.
The historic building was shaped like a rectangle with a single wall down its center, which divided the space into the form of an “O.” I traveled clockwise through new releases, fiction, and young adult.
The wooden shelves were smooth from hands and age, and potted plants were nestled into every available nook.
Macon was the plant guy, and his charges were, without exception, full and healthy, even the ones that were supposedly difficult to care for.
Patrons were always asking him for advice.
Everything looked crowded but neat and tidy.
With so few patrons that day, the shelves were still in order, or perhaps Elijah had already done the work.
Most likely both. As I passed the porch door, I discreetly bowed my head at the portrait of Mary Brisson beside it.
The stained glass had transformed her into a patron saint for those with a calling to put good books into people’s hands, and normally I felt a kinship with her, although she was not currently on my mind.
The bow was habitual, maybe even superstitious.
I proceeded through the back of the building, which was divided into three sections: the children’s section, with its braided rug and squashy chair; the periodicals section, with its scratched tables and stone fireplace; and the computer section, with its modern tables and glowing screens.
Macon glanced up from his position on the hearth. I startled and stared back too feverishly. His expression grew unsettled, and I hurried away with smoke in my nostrils.
Elijah was shelving in nonfiction. He was a lanky Black kid with a slightly lazy eye, full of exuberant charm. We nodded, and he did a double take at something behind me, but I was already halfway through the media section—audiobooks, music, movies—when he shouted, “It’s snowing!”
Sure enough, the first tiny flakes of the year were finally tumbling down. Hope reignited inside me. “It looks like magic, don’t you think?” I said, turning to Elijah.
“It looks cold,” Macon said as he swished past.
My nerves jolted.
“And a little magical,” he conceded from the front room. His mouse clicked, and I assumed he was refreshing his email.
“Anything?” Elijah asked as we joined him. He pushed his empty cart into the space where it was stored and then hopped up and sat on it. We were all done working, whether it was official or not.
“No,” Macon said. “But it’ll come.” He typed up a sign that read CLOSED FOR SNOW and hit print.
“Check it again,” Elijah said.
The printer kicked on with its loud routine, and I went to fetch the sheet of paper.
“Nothing,” Macon said. But then, “Oh, shit. We got it.”
My heartbeat stumbled.
“ All Colburn County libraries will close immediately ,” he read aloud, “government bullshit, government bullshit… and will open two hours late tomorrow .”
“Yes!” Elijah vaulted back to his feet. “Y’all don’t need me, do you?”
“Get out of here,” Macon said.
Elijah saluted, snatched up his belongings, and then tripped as he exited.
It was almost time to make my move. My heart was pounding now, and my head went woozy. “I’ll get the doors.”
“I’ll get the porch door and computers,” Macon said.
With trembling hands, I turned the lock and taped up the sign.
Elijah’s car pulled out of the lot, leaving only Macon’s and mine behind.
Macon drove a Volvo sedan, old and practical, and he took immaculate care of it.
I drove a sunshiny Beetle, old but impractical.
It was constantly breaking down, but he always made sure that my engine started before he left. He always made sure I was safe.
You are safe , I reminded myself. It’s only Macon. You can do this.
The hardwood floor creaked as he moved from computer to computer, turning them off.
I closed the register, and the small change for fines, photocopies, and printouts slipped across the desk as I counted it.
I had to recount twice. I took the cash into the annex, the only part of the building that wasn’t original, and when I returned from locking it in Sue’s office, Macon was already holding my coat and my tote bag along with both of our lunch sacks.
“Did you eat any of this?” he asked, frowning at the weight of mine.
I made a noncommittal noise and accepted my coat. The tremble in my hands turned into a shake as I tried to button it. He flicked a switch, and the library darkened. A single emergency bulb glowed and buzzed, highlighting the already-charged atmosphere.
Macon held open one of the doors. The watery mineral scent of snow, fresh and fragile, rushed into my lungs. I took my bags and then ducked and passed underneath his arm. I’d never done that before, and he laughed. “What was that?” he asked.
But when he locked the doors and turned around, he saw that I was not laughing. I was standing directly behind him, unmoving.
His dark eyes widened.
Snowflakes caught in the light of the streetlamps and twinkled like stars, infinite wishes whirling and eddying around us. The flakes had gotten thicker. They clung to our coats and our hair. This was it. This was the moment.
I leaned forward—
Closed my eyes—
Parted my lips—
“No.” Macon stumbled back and clunked against the doors. “Ingrid. No.”
My hands flew to my mouth in mortification. “Oh my God. I’m…”
So sorry. So wrong. So ready to hurl myself into the lake and drown.
“No, I’m …” But he couldn’t finish the sentence either. He bolted to his car. His windshield wipers burst into action at the same time as his lights, flinging snow back into the sky, and he was already reversing, already turning, already driving away.