Chapter 15
Toby
Thursday morning. Story hour day.
I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror and try to convince my reflection that everything is fine.
The bruises on my neck have faded to a sickly yellow-green, easily hidden under the collar of my button-down.
The scratches are gone. The finger-shaped shadows on my hips are just faint smudges now, visible only if you know to look.
Only the bite remains. Deep and dark on my shoulder, still tender when I press against it. Still there.
I button my shirt all the way up and try not to think about it.
"You don't have to go in today," Robin says from the doorway, holding a mug of coffee like a peace offering. "You could call in sick again. Margaret can handle one more day."
"I already missed a day." I take the coffee, grateful for the warmth. "If I miss today too, she'll use it as ammunition. You know she's been looking for an excuse to cancel story hour."
"Fuck Margaret."
"I wish someone would. Maybe she'd be less awful."
Robin snorts, but his eyes are worried. He's been watching me like this for days—careful, gentle, waiting for me to shatter. I hate that I've given him reason to.
"I'm fine," I say, even though we both know it's a lie. "I can do this. It's just reading to kids. I've done it a hundred times."
"You've never done it with a broken heart before."
I flinch. "It's not—"
"Toby." He sets his hand on my shoulder, careful to avoid the bite mark he knows is there. "It's okay to not be okay. It's okay to take more time."
"I don't have more time. The kids are counting on me. Miss Glitterbomb is counting on me. And if I sit on that couch watching Disney movies for one more day, I'm going to lose my mind." I take a breath. "I need to do something normal. I need to feel like myself again."
Robin studies me for a long moment, then nods. "Okay. I'll drive you. And I'm picking you up after. We're getting Thai food and watching trashy reality TV and you're going to tell me how you're actually feeling."
"Deal."
He kisses my forehead and hands me a bakery box. "Lemon cookies. For story hour."
"You didn't have to—"
"I always bake for story hour. This isn't special treatment, it's routine." He grabs his keys. "Let's go."
The drive to the library is quiet. Robin doesn't push me to talk, just plays soft music and lets me stare out the window. When we pull up, he squeezes my hand.
"Text me if you need me to come early."
"I'll be fine."
"Text me anyway."
The library is quiet when I arrive. Luis waves from the circulation desk, and I manage a smile that hopefully looks more genuine than it feels. Margaret's office door is closed, which is a small mercy. I'm not ready to deal with her passive-aggressive comments today.
I spend the morning on autopilot. Shelving returns. Answering reference questions. Helping a confused elderly man find books on tape because he doesn't trust "those audiobook things on the computer." Normal library things. Normal me things.
It almost works. Almost.
But every time the front door opens, my heart lurches. Every deep voice makes me tense. Every flash of leather in my peripheral vision sends my pulse racing, even though it's always just a jacket, never a person, never him.
He's not coming. He promised to stay away. Robin made sure of that.
I should be relieved.
I'm not.
At 10:30, I head to the children's section to set up for story hour. The reading rug is already laid out, bright colors and cartoon animals inviting kids to sit. I arrange the cushions, set up the book display, check that the craft supplies are ready for after.
Miss Glitterbomb arrives at 10:45, resplendent in a purple wig and a gown covered in sequined butterflies. She takes one look at me and her theatrical smile softens into something more real.
"Oh honey," she says, dropping her bag on the craft table. "You look like someone ran over your dog, backed up, and did it again."
"I don't have a dog."
"It's a metaphor, sweetheart." She pulls me into a hug that smells like hairspray and expensive perfume. "Robin told me. That biker of yours finally screwed up, huh?"
"He's not mine."
"Honey, the way that man looked at you? You were his from the second he walked in.
" She pulls back, hands on my shoulders, studying my face with the kind of sharp perception that comes from years of reading audiences.
"You don't have to do this today. I can handle story hour solo if you need to sit this one out. "
"I'm fine." The words come out sharper than I intend. "Sorry. I'm just—I need to do this. I need to be normal."
Miss Glitterbomb nods slowly. "Then let's be normal. Today's book is about feelings, which seems appropriate. We'll talk about how it's okay to be sad sometimes, and then we'll make paper butterflies and everything will be sparkly and bright."
"Thank you."
"Thank me by not crying in front of the children. It upsets them."
I manage a weak laugh. "I'll do my best."
The kids start arriving at 11, trickling in with parents and grandparents and nannies. I greet each one by name, compliment their outfits, ask about their weeks. Normal. This is normal. I can do normal.
Lily rushes in last with her grandmother. "Are the ice cream sandwich men coming?" she asks as she passes me.
"Not today."
She shrugs and finds a seat.
Story hour starts. Miss Glitterbomb does most of the heavy lifting, reading with voices and gestures and dramatic pauses that make the kids shriek with laughter. I sit in my usual spot, adding commentary, helping with the interactive parts, being normal.
The book is about a little cloud who feels sad and doesn't know why. The cloud tries different things to feel better—playing with friends, eating treats, taking naps—but nothing works until it finally learns to just feel its feelings and let the rain come.
"Sometimes we feel sad," Miss Glitterbomb says, looking around at the circle of small faces. "And that's okay. It's okay to cry sometimes. It's okay to feel your feelings."
A little boy raises his hand. "My goldfish died and I cried."
"That's very sad. I'm sorry about your goldfish."
The kids share their own stories about feeling sad—a lost toy, a cancelled playdate, a grandparent who moved away. I listen and nod and add the occasional comment, and the whole time I'm thinking about how none of them know that their librarian cried so hard he made himself sick.
But that's the thing about being an adult. You learn to hold it together. You learn to function even when you're falling apart inside.
Story hour ends. Craft time helps. There's something soothing about helping small hands fold paper butterflies, applying glitter glue in wobbly lines, praising every lopsided creation like it belongs in a museum.
The kids are loud and messy and completely in the moment, and I let myself get lost in it.
Eventually the parents start gathering their kids, taking cookies, and the noise level drops as families trickle out.
"You okay?" Miss Glitterbomb asks quietly, crouching down next to me as I pick glitter out of the carpet.
"No," I admit. "But I will be."
"That's the spirit." She squeezes my shoulder—the wrong one, the one with the bite mark, and I flinch. "Oh shit, sorry. Did I—"
"It's fine. Just a bruise."
She doesn't look convinced, but she doesn't push. "Robin's picking you up?"
"Yeah. Thai food and trashy TV."
"Good. You need it." She stands, adjusting her wig. "For what it's worth, Toby, if that man has any sense at all, he's miserable right now. Probably can't eat, can't sleep, can't stop thinking about how badly he fucked up."
I think about what Jason said—that Knox has shifted and won't shift back, that he's destroyed, that I matter.
"Maybe," I say.
"No maybe about it. You're a catch, sweetheart. Anyone who hurts you is going to regret it for the rest of their life."
She heads off to pack up her things, and I'm alone in the children's section with paper butterflies and glitter glue.
Robin's waiting in the parking lot when I come out, leaning against the Audi with his sunglasses on even though it's overcast. He straightens when he sees me, pulling me into a hug before I can protest.
"How was it?"
"Fine." I pull back, adjusting my bag on my shoulder. "It was fine."
He doesn't call me on the lie. Just opens the passenger door for me like I'm fragile, which I hate, even though I kind of am right now.
I pause before getting in. "What happened to the door?"
There's a small dent just below the handle, the silver paint scraped down to bare metal.
Robin groans. "Some moron opened their door into me in the grocery store parking lot. Didn't even leave a note."
A tiny smile tugs at my mouth despite everything. "Ash is going to kill you."
"Ash is never going to see it because I'm getting it ASAP." Robin starts the car, pulling out of the lot with more aggression than necessary. "Besides, my brother hasn't been back in over a year. He probably forgot he even owns a car."
"He didn't forget. He just trusts you with it."
"His mistake." Robin glances at me. "You smiled. That's good. Progress."
"Don't make it weird."
"I'm absolutely making it weird. My best friend smiled for the first time in days. I'm commemorating the moment."
The drive home is quiet after that. Robin puts on music—something soft and acoustic that he knows I like—and doesn't try to make me talk. I watch the city slide past the window and try not to think about Knox.
I fail.
The apartment feels different when we get there. Emptier, somehow, even though nothing has changed. Robin orders Thai food while I change into sweats and my oldest, softest t-shirt. The one with the holes in the hem that I should have thrown away years ago.
We eat on the couch with some reality show playing in the background. People yelling at each other about who said what to whom at a party I don't care about. Robin laughs at the drama. I push pad thai around my plate and try to feel normal.
"You're not eating," Robin says eventually.
"I'm eating."
"You're rearranging noodles. That's different."
I set the container down. "I keep thinking about whether I regret it."
"Regret what? Sleeping with him?"
"All of it." I pull my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. "Meeting him. Letting myself fall so fast. I keep trying to figure out which part I'd take back if I could."
Robin mutes the TV. "And?"
"I don't know." My voice comes out smaller than I want it to. "Part of me wishes I'd never walked into that bar. That I'd just kept walking in the rain until I found a gas station or something. Then none of this would have happened."
"You'd have hypothermia."
"But I wouldn't feel like this."
Robin's quiet for a moment. "Would that be better? Not knowing any of it?"
I think about Knox's eyes flashing gold in the bar light.
The way his pack had wrapped me in a blanket and fed me fries without question.
Story hour with ice cream sandwiches and kids climbing on leather-clad bikers like jungle gyms. The way Knox had looked at me like I was something precious. Something worth keeping.
"No," I admit. "That's the worst part. Even now, even knowing how it ends, I don't think I'd take it back. I just wish—"
I stop. Press my hand against my shoulder where the bite mark throbs.
"You wish it had been real," Robin finishes quietly.
"It felt real." I hate how my voice cracks. "When he called me his, when he was taking care of me after—it felt so real, Robin. How could it not be real?"
"Maybe it was."
"Don't."
"I'm just saying, Jason came all the way over here to explain—"
"Jason is Knox's pack. Of course he'd say whatever Knox wanted him to say."
Robin doesn't argue. Just unmutes the TV and pulls me against his side, letting me curl into him like I used to when we were freshmen and everything was overwhelming and he was the only person who made me feel less alone.
I don't cry. I'm too tired to cry. But I don't sleep either, even after Robin goes to bed and the apartment goes dark. I just lie on the couch and stare at the ceiling and wonder if Knox is lying awake too.
Wondering if he even thinks about me at all.
The bite mark aches. I press my fingers into it, hard, until the pain drowns out everything else.
Just a few more days until the other marks are gone completely.
I don't know if I want them to fade or not. I don't know anything anymore.
I fall asleep sometime after 2 AM, still on the couch, still in my clothes.
I dream about golden eyes and the word mine, and I wake up with tears on my face.