Chapter 3 Nostalgia Eyes #2
Full pink lips move as if he’s muttering the alphabet, searching for the home that matches the author’s name.
His free hand runs through his curious white locks—and it’s no wonder his hair was perfectly disheveled the other day, because his fingers grip the strands of hair like a crimper as he scans the bookcase.
When he finds the spot he’s looking for, he reaches up, forearm flexing as he tucks the book into place on the top shelf.
It’s then that his eyes dart over to me, peeking over the pushed-up sleeve of his brown cardigan. They widen when he realizes I’m watching him.
He quickly averts his gaze and has the audacity to pretend he wasn’t sneaking glances.
I huff, crossing my arms as I lean back in the old chair without care of how it squeaks under my shifting weight. He was nice enough the other night, but my stranger danger sense is tingling, and if I want to keep this library in my rotation of places to visit, then I need to nip this in the bud.
I clear my throat—the sound loud in the quiet study room. We’re the only two here, so I don’t feel bad about making noise.
“Do you need something?” I ask.
The man freezes, one hand poised on a book half pushed onto the shelf. His eyes squeeze shut with a wince. Two long seconds pass. Then, those red-brown irises find the crystal blue skies in mine.
His shoulders hitch with a deep breath, as if he’s readying himself for confrontation, before he scoots his cart out of the way and strides to my table. His steps falter halfway as he considers where to stop, attention bouncing between the empty seat next to me and the empty seats across.
He chooses an undisclosed third option, taking a perch on the side of the rectangular table with no chairs. Not too close to make me uncomfortable but not looming so far above me to intimidate.
I hadn’t noticed it outside the market, hunched over my broken eggs, but he’s quite tall. The classic long-limbed and wiry stature you associate with academic boys.
Nervousness is written all over his pinched features as he awkwardly scratches the back of his neck.
“You’re the girl from the grocery store,” he says.
“Yes,” I draw out, cautious, but also curious. “What about it?”
His face twitches, as if he wants to smile at my slight hostility.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I was rushing home and wasn’t paying attention.” His voice has the same soft timbre that it did before, and the calming lilt relaxes my tense shoulders. “Did you go in and buy replacement eggs? Or did you pocket the money for next time?”
“Um, technically both?” My tongue runs over my teeth, and I glance around the room, needing a break from his intense gaze.
I get skittish when I’m being perceived too thoroughly, and he’s got a stare that makes my skin feel like glass.
“They let me exchange the eggs, so I went ahead and stocked my freezer with double the Ben and Jerry’s.
Thanks for enabling my chocolate addiction. ”
He huffs a laugh. “Happy to be of service.”
An awkward silence stretches between us, and the white-haired man’s brows knit in confusion as he continues to stare at me.
“Well, if that’s all…” I start.
“You look so familiar. Are you a student at MBU?” he asks, abruptly.
Meadowbrook University is the local state university in the area. Campus is about twenty-five minutes south of town, but I remember my grandma complaining about how students would rent houses around here.
“Do I look like a student?” I ask, one brow quirked.
“I sense that may be a trick question.” Twin spots of embarrassment pink bloom on the apples of his cheeks. “I only ask because I feel like I’ve seen you before. Well, before the other night, I mean. And a ton of students stay in town for summer sessions so…”
“I’m pushing thirty, so no, not a student,” I say. “Though I’m somewhat flattered that my baby face lets me pass as a bachelor’s student.”
“I could have been talking about grad school,” he volleys back, a tentative smile dancing on his lips. “I’m twenty-nine, too. We’re not that old.”
“Eh.” I scrunch my nose. “Debatable.”
We aren’t old, not by a long shot. But there’s a part of me that rebels at the notion, one that screams I’m falling behind.
That I’m wasting what few years left I have in my prime.
That I’m going to enter a new decade at the end of August, and I haven’t done what I wanted to by now.
That I don’t have what I should have by now.
Birthdays are another stark reminder of what was stolen from me.
My fingers find the chain at my neck, pulling the rings free of the confines of my shirt; they twiddle with the bands of their own accord as the taste of my mouth sours on my tongue.
“If you’re not a grad student,” the man drawls, eyes twinkling behind his round glasses. “Are you new in town?”
He shifts, palm bracing against the table as he leans closer. My gaze traces over the vein that stands out on the back of his hand, pops across the moles dotting his forearm, and lands on the name tag pinned to his cardigan.
Harley.
Haven’t heard that one before.
“Kind of,” I answer.
“That sounds like there’s a story there,” Harley says.
“Yeah…” I sigh, shooting him a tight-lipped smile.
I’d rather not dig into the details with a stranger.
It never goes over the way I want it too and always ends in one form of pity or another.
And I hate being pitied. “My grandma used to live here, but she died and left me the house. Now I’m setting up shop. ”
Harley rears back. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”
Again, that awkward silence descends. Like an afternoon deluge, it pours over us, soaking the oakwood tables and the fibers of his cashmere sweater.
He tugs at it, adjusting where the sleeves bunch around his elbow.
He’s got good hands—long nimble fingers that I imagine have flicked through many books in this library.
“Well, I’m gonna get back to my stuff if that’s okay?” I ask, not knowing where to go from here.
“Sorry. Honestly don’t know why I’m so chatty today.” Harley hops off his perch and walks backwards. He jabs one thumb towards the cart he left marooned in the aisle and palms the back of his neck with his other hand. “I’ll be over there re-stocking the shelves if you need anything.”
“Will do, thanks,” I say.
But just as he’s about to turn around, my stomach betrays me. A loud gurgle cuts through the air, and I wince, instantly remembering that I didn’t eat breakfast.
“Ignore her,” I say, pointing at my stomach in a feeble attempt to distract from my own mortification. I don’t think there’s anything worse than bodily noises ripping through a quiet room.
Instead, Harley stops, smiles, and asks, “Do you have a library card?”
My brows furrow. “Um…”
“Because then you can take those guys home.” He points to the books stacked on the table.
“You know, so you can go eat. I love going to the café down the street, Mad Mug. You should stop by. They have the best coffee and sandwiches.” Then, he blanches, as if embarrassed by his rambling.
“Or you can ignore me and stay. Studying is what a library is for.”
I purse my lips to hide my amusement, though the action doesn’t stop a subtle tease from rolling off my tongue. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”
Harley surprises me by not responding right away. He sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, chewing on it as he settles on an answer. “Would it be inappropriate to say you have been a distraction the past two hours?”
A cute scrunch in the straight bridge of his nose lifts his glasses, and my heart flutters in response.
It’s a tiny thing, fleeting too, the way it patters around in my chest like a kid chasing after a butterfly.
But then, my stomach dips, low and nauseating, because it hits me that this man is flirting with me. And I… want to flirt back?
Panic bubbles in my throat, and I’m overcome with the need to leave.
“Yes, it probably would be inappropriate,” I whisper, and clear my throat as I gather my things. “But I might take you up on the coffee rec. Do they also have pastries?”
Harley nods.
“Great.” I stand, throw my bag over my shoulder, and stack all the books I want to take with me into a neat pile. “I’m pretty sure I have a card from when I was younger but I’m sure it expired. Can you look me up in the system or sign me up for a new one?”
Harley nods again, and I follow as he silently heads to the front desk. Swiveling in his chair, he methodically scans my books and clicks a few buttons, then pauses, fingers hovering over the keyboard. A soft laugh escapes him.
“I’m so rude. I can’t believe I haven’t asked for your name,” he says, peering up at me through his white lashes.
“Alice Raine—” My throat catches on itself. I clear it. “Um, it’s probably listed under Alice Quinn.”
His fingers tap out the letters of my name on autopilot, but they stall mid-way through.
“Alice,” he draws my name out as a whispered prayer. His eyes flash with something vast and unnamable, but it disappears with a small shake of his head. The keyboard clacks with his resumed typing and with a final click of the mouse he leans back.
“There you are. Last check out was…” Harley scrolls with the roller on his mouse, and a warm smile, the kind that infects everyone who encounters it, cuts across his cheeks.
“Twenty-one years ago. I’m amazed we have records for this far back.
” He shakes his head again, as if in disbelief, mumbling, “I should have thought of that.”
“Thought of that for what?” I ask, canting my head.
“Just research on someone who used to live here.” Harley waves a nervous hand in the air.
“Anyway, you should be good. Memberships need to be renewed every five years, but it looks like maybe your grandma kept renewing yours. It still has time on it. I can print you a new card if you want, or if you can’t be bothered to carry it around, I can search you up every time. ”
“I’ll take you up on that offer. I’m sure I’d forget it at home even if you printed me a new one,” I say, grabbing the pile of books off the desk and turning to the door. “I appreciate the help.”
“My name’s Harley, by the way,” he calls out as the automatic doors squeak open.
“I know. You have a name tag on,” I say over my shoulder.
He frantically looks down at his chest and curses, and the cuteness of it all makes me snort. And as I hurry down Main Street with my boon of art history books, my tongue traces over my curved lip, and I realize that I’ve caught his infectious smile.
All too quickly it fades, when a similar grin—that of a memory rerun so many times it’s gotten fuzzy at the edges—flashes in my mind.
They have the same one.