Chapter 11
Theo
The alarm clock screamed for what felt like hours before I finally managed to slap it into submission.
Seven-fifteen.
Shit.
I was supposed to be up at six-thirty, which meant Debbie should have been dressed and eating breakfast by now instead of still tangled in her sheets like a tiny burrito.
“We’ve gotta hurry, Button,” I called from the hallway, my voice still rough with sleep. “Daddy overslept.”
A muffled groan emerged from her bedroom, followed by the telltale sound of someone burrowing deeper under covers.
I stumbled into the kitchen and started the coffee maker on autopilot, my brain still foggy from restless dreams spent replaying dinner conversations and worrying about sick children and trying not to think about blue eyes and the way Jeremiah’s smile had made my chest feel warm and tight all at once.
It was one date, Theo. One interrupted date. Get a grip.
And yet, I couldn’t stop questions from bubbling to the fore.
Was Jeremiah upset about having to cut our evening short?
He’d seemed understanding in the moment. He was even sweet about it, but maybe he’d gone home and realized he didn’t want to deal with the complications of dating someone with a five-year-old. Maybe—
“Daddy, I can’t find my purple shirt!” Debbie’s voice cut through my spiral of morning anxiety. Life with a child was rarely one of reflection. The little bugger didn’t give me a moment’s peace to think that deeply.
“The one with the unicorn?”
“No, the one with the sparkly star!”
I reluctantly abandoned my coffee and trudged toward her room, where I found her standing in the middle of what looked like a textile explosion. Clothes covered every surface—the bed, the floor, clinging for life from her door handle, draped over her toy chest like colorful surrender flags.
“Debbie, what happened in here?”
“I was looking for my shirt.” She said this with the matter-of-fact tone of someone who saw nothing unusual about destroying an entire room in pursuit of one garment.
Tiny balled fists were planted on bony hips, and her lower lip was pooched out so far I worried it might get stuck that way.
The cuteness of her irritation overcame any annoyance at the cleaning we’d have to do later.
I spotted the purple shirt hanging in her closet—exactly where it was supposed to be—and brought it to her. “Arms up.”
She complied, and I wrestled the shirt over her head while trying to calculate how much time we’d lost to the Great Sparkly Star Shirt Hunt.
“Did you brush your teeth?” I asked once her tunic was in place.
“Yes.”
“Really?”
Her guilty expression told me everything I needed to know.
“Bathroom. Now. And actually use the toothbrush this time.”
Twenty minutes later, we were finally in the car with a travel mug of coffee for me and a Pop-Tart for Debbie, who was chattering about something that had happened on her favorite cartoon while I tried to remember if I’d locked the front door.
“—and then the princess dragon breathed rainbow fire and all the mean knights turned into flowers, which is much better than being dead, don’t you think, Daddy?”
“Much better,” I agreed, though I’d missed approximately half of her story.
I dropped Debbie off at her elementary school with a hurried kiss and a promise to remember to pack her the “good” fruit snacks in her lunch tomorrow, then wove through three neighborhood blocks to reach Mount Vernon High School.
The parking lot was full, which meant I was definitely late.
Students were gathered outside the library doors like a mob waiting for the gates to open.
Shit.
How had I completely forgotten about the freshman orientation?
I practically sprinted down the hallway, my keys jangling and my coffee sloshing. The group of fourteen-year-olds parted as I approached, their faces ranging from bored to mildly curious about why their librarian looked like he was being chased by wolves.
“Good morning,” I panted, fumbling with the lock. “Sorry I’m late. Technical difficulties at home.”
A few of them snickered, but not unkindly. They probably appreciated having a teacher who looked as frazzled as they felt most days. They definitely enjoyed few moments without class or work or “adulting,” as they’d come to call homework.
Oh, the blessed ignorance of youth.
I got the doors open and guided them inside, thankful my principal wasn’t one of the herd in need of, well, herding.
My mind automatically shifted into librarian mode despite the chaos of the morning.
These orientations were important—and it had taken me two years of pleading with our administration to mandate them.
They were first impressions of the library that could make the difference between students who saw it as a refuge versus those who avoided it like the plague.
“Welcome to your library,” I began, straightening my cardigan and pushing my glasses up my nose. “I know you’ve heard this is where books come to die, but I promise it’s much more interesting than that.”
A few genuine smiles appeared in the ever-squirming amoeba of standing bodies.
I launched into my usual spiel about library resources, study spaces, and the revolutionary concept that librarians were actually there to help, not to shush people into silence.
The students were surprisingly engaged, asking questions about computer access and whether they could eat in the reading area (“Yes, but clean up after yourselves.”) and if I really had read all the books in the building (“No, but I’m working on it. ”).
It wasn’t until they were filing out, chattering about research projects and study groups, that I noticed my phone on the circulation desk where I’d tossed it in my rush to get the morning started.
Someone had bumped it, and the screen was lit up with a text notification.
I glimpsed Jeremiah’s name before another student approached with a question about inter-library loans.
What freshman in high school knew about those? Jesus.
As I tried to focus on the girl fidgeting before me, my heart did something acrobatic.
Jeremiah texted me.
But I couldn’t look at it.
Not yet.
Not while there were still students milling around, waiting for help with book recommendations and printing problems and the eternal mystery of why the computers always seemed to log them out at the worst possible moments.
I spent the next forty minutes helping a kid find sources for a history paper, showing another how to access the online databases, and explaining to a third that no, Wikipedia was not considered a reliable source for his English essay, no matter how many footnotes it had.
Finally, blissfully, the library emptied.
I grabbed my phone with hands that were definitely not shaking and opened the message.
Postie: How’s our little chef? Can’t wait until next time.
Don’t ask me why I named him “Postie” in my phone contacts.
Jeremiah wasn’t a postal worker. He delivered packages for one of the big delivery companies.
Not the brown one—he wore blue, but not the FedEx blue.
Did I really not know which company was on his shirt?
I felt like such an unobservant idiot. I’d been so blinded by his teeth and eyes and chest and arms .
. . hell . . . I’d totally missed the patch sewn a few inches above his hard, perky nipple.
Theo, stop! my inner voice snapped.
I stared at the words until they blurred slightly, reading them over and over like they might disappear if I didn’t memorize them quickly enough.
He wanted a next time.
And he’d called Debbie “our little chef.”
Our.
I know, I know. The guy was basically a stranger with hot crossed buns.
He didn’t mean “our” in the sense of “we” were anything.
He was just turning a phrase. Still, the word sent a warm flutter through my chest that had nothing to do with caffeine and everything to do with the possibility that maybe, just maybe, I hadn’t imagined the connection I’d felt across that pasta-laden table.
Yeah, this was bad.
I was reverting into one of my fourteen-year-old freshmen.
Next thing I knew, someone might catch me passing notes in class.
Sweet caramel Sundays.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard, composing and deleting responses faster than I could think them through.
Me: She’s much better this morning, thank you for asking. I’m sorry again about last night.
Back, back, back, back, back.
Me: She’s fine! And I’d love a next time too.
Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack. Too eager.
Me: Debbie’s back to her usual tornado self. Dinner was lovely, by the way.
Delete. Delete. Delete. Lovely? I was not British. Way too formal.
Finally, I settled on something that felt honest without being too vulnerable:
Me: She’s completely back to normal—apparently throwing up gives kids an appetite for pancakes at six AM. Thank you for being so understanding. I had a really nice time.
I hit send before I could second-guess myself, then immediately wondered if I should have been more enthusiastic or less grateful or mentioned something specific about the evening that showed I’d been paying attention.
Then again, Jeremiah didn’t seem to be much of a detail kind of guy, so I was probably okay with the novelette of a text I’d sent.
My kids would’ve sent some weird abbreviation even the Enigma couldn’t untangle.
But it was out there now, floating through cyberspace toward those blue eyes and that devastating smile.