Chapter 5
Toby
"You're welcome, by the way."
I sink into the heated seat of the Audi and press my palms against my eyes. "For what? Publicly humiliating me?"
"For confirming that your lion is absolutely, catastrophically into you." Robin pulls out of the parking lot of the library, right next to my Prius, sounding unreasonably pleased with himself. "Every time I touched you, he looked like he wanted to rip my arms off. It was beautiful."
"Robin—"
"The hair touch? Gold. The collar fix? Platinum. When I called you 'our Toby'?" He makes a chef's kiss gesture. "I thought he was going to shift right there in the garage."
I groan. "You're the worst."
"I'm the best and you love me." He reaches over and pats my knee. "Now you know he's serious. You're welcome."
The thing is, he's not wrong. I didn't notice Knox's reactions because I was too busy being mortified, but Robin notices everything. If he says Knox was ready to commit murder over a hair ruffle, I believe him.
I just don't know what to do with that information.
Robin drops me at the library with a cheerful "Don't do anything I wouldn't do!" which leaves my options concerningly wide open. I wave him off and push through the front doors, already shifting into work mode.
The library is quiet in that late-afternoon way — the morning rush of retirees and stay-at-home parents long gone, the after-school chaos not yet arrived. Luis waves from the circulation desk, and I detour to check in.
"How's it looking for the workshop?"
"Hey, welcome back. Hope lunch was good. Always nice to see Robin. Workshop, yes, six confirmed, two maybes." He slides a sign-up sheet across the counter. "Also, Margaret wants to see you."
Of course she does.
"Did she say what about?"
"Budget." Luis gives me a sympathetic look. "Something about the story hour snack allocation being 'excessive.'"
Robin's rainbow cupcakes. She's going after Robin's rainbow cupcakes.
"I'll handle it after the workshop," I say, taking the sign-up sheet. "If I survive."
The teen room is my favorite space in the library.
It's got good natural light, comfortable seating that isn't aggressively institutional, and bookshelves organized by vibe rather than Dewey Decimal — "Dark and Twisty," "Found Family," "Kissing Books," "Absolutely Unhinged.
" I fought Margaret for six months to get that approved.
I start setting up for the workshop, arranging chairs in a circle, pulling out the writing prompts I prepped last week. Unreliable narrators. First person perspective. How the story changes depending on who's telling it.
My brain keeps sliding sideways.
Knox's hands on the wrench, knuckles white. The way he didn't say a single word the entire time Robin and I were there. The weight of his attention, even when I wasn't looking at him — I could feel it, like standing too close to a space heater.
"Mr. Toby?"
I blink. Jade is standing in the doorway, backpack slung over one shoulder, watching me with the particular wariness of a teenager who's caught an adult spacing out.
"Hey, Jade. You're early."
"Mom had a thing." She drops into her usual seat — back corner, clear sightline to the door. "You okay? You look tired."
"Late night." I shuffle the prompt cards, trying to focus. "How's the story coming?"
Jade's been working on a fantasy novel for three months now. It's about a girl who discovers she's the secret heir to a magical kingdom, which isn't exactly groundbreaking, but her prose is sharp and her characters feel real. She's the reason I keep fighting for these workshops.
"Stuck," she admits. "My protagonist keeps making stupid decisions and I don't know how to fix it."
"Maybe the stupid decisions are the point."
She frowns. "What do you mean?"
"Unreliable narrators." I tap the prompt cards. "That's what we're talking about today. Sometimes characters make choices that seem stupid from the outside, but make perfect sense from inside their head. The trick is showing the reader why."
More kids trickle in over the next few minutes.
Devon and his ever-present headphones. Aaliyah with her glitter pens and aggressive highlighting system.
Sam, who's been writing the same vampire romance for eight months and refuses to let anyone read it.
The twins, Miles and Maria, who write together and argue constantly about plot points.
By the time we start, there are seven of them arranged in a loose circle, and I'm running on caffeine and spite.
"Okay," I say, pulling up a chair. "Today we're talking about unreliable narrators. Who can tell me what that means?"
"The narrator's lying," Devon says.
"Sometimes. What else?"
"They don't have all the information," Aaliyah offers. "Like, they think they know what's happening, but they're wrong."
"Good. What else?"
Jade shifts in her seat. "They're biased. They only see things from their own perspective, so they miss stuff that's obvious to everyone else."
Something twists in my chest. They only see things from their own perspective, so they miss stuff that's obvious to everyone else.
Like how I was so busy being embarrassed at the garage that I didn't notice Knox tracking my every move. Like how I spent the whole motorcycle ride convinced I was just a problem to be solved, not seeing whatever Robin saw in Knox's face.
"Exactly," I say, and my voice only wavers a little. "Every first-person narrator is unreliable to some degree, because we only have access to their thoughts, their interpretations. The reader has to figure out what's actually happening versus what the narrator thinks is happening."
We work through the prompts. I have them write a scene from their protagonist's perspective, then rewrite the same scene from an outside observer.
The differences are illuminating — Devon's brooding loner turns out to be obviously depressed when seen through his best friend's eyes.
Aaliyah's confident queen bee is clearly performing for an audience.
Sam's vampire is significantly creepier when the love interest notices the things he's choosing to ignore.
"This is hard," Maria complains, halfway through. "How do I show that my character is wrong without just telling the reader?"
"Details," I say. "What does your character notice? What do they ignore? What do they assume without evidence?"
I'm thinking about Knox again. About what he noticed last night — the texts on my phone, the way I was shivering. About what I noticed — his size, his control, the way everyone watched him for cues.
About what I probably missed entirely.
The workshop runs over by fifteen minutes because Jade gets into a heated debate with Devon about whether an unreliable narrator can be a good person, and I don't have the heart to cut them off. By the time everyone's packed up and heading out, I'm running on fumes.
"Mr. Toby?" Jade lingers by the door. "Thanks. For the workshop. I think I figured out my protagonist problem."
"Yeah?"
"She's not making stupid decisions." Jade almost smiles. "She's making decisions that make sense to her because she doesn't know what the reader knows. I just have to show why."
"That's exactly it."
She nods and disappears into the stacks. I slump into the nearest chair and close my eyes.
Three hours of sleep. A day of pretending to be functional.
I should go deal with Margaret. I should defend the story hour snacks, fight for the rainbow cupcakes, do my job.
Instead, I sit in the empty teen room and think about unreliable narrators.
About the story I'm telling myself — that I'm forgettable, ordinary, the kind of person people leave on the side of the road.
About what Knox might see when he looks at me, and whether it's anything like what I see in the mirror.
My phone buzzes. Robin: Survived the teens?
Barely. Margaret wants to talk budget.
Ugh. Want me to pick you up after?
I hesitate, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. I've got the Prius. I'll be fine.
K. There's leftover stir fry stuff if you want to cook. I'm out with Tyler tonight.
Have fun. Don't do anything I wouldn't do.
That's like nothing, Tobes. No, I will not be doing that. I will however be having loads of fun and getting railed thank you very much.
I snort and pocket the phone.
Margaret's office. Budget meeting. Then home, where I can collapse on the couch and try to process the last twenty-four hours without Robin's commentary track.
I push myself up, grab my bag, and head for the administrative wing.
The conversation with Margaret is exactly as painful as expected.
She has "concerns" about the "appropriateness" of the story hour refreshments.
I point out that Robin donates his time and ingredients.
She suggests that "simpler options" might be "more equitable.
" I resist the urge to ask if she's ever actually watched a five-year-old's face light up at a rainbow cupcake.
We reach a stalemate. I'll live to fight another day.
By the time I escape, it's nearly six and I'm dead on my feet. The drive home is a blur, my brain finally quiet for the first time all day.
I stop at the grocery store on autopilot. We're out of vegetables, and if Robin's not cooking tonight, that means I'm on dinner duty. I grab what I need without really seeing it — carrots, broccoli, snap peas, the good soy sauce that's overpriced but worth it.
The drive back to the apartment is short, my mind wandering back to unreliable narrators and golden eyes and the question I can't stop asking myself:
What does Knox see when he looks at me?
I'm still thinking about it when I pull into my parking spot, gather my bags, and head for the building entrance.