CHAPTER TWO #2
When it’s Jack’s turn to check out, I give him a thanks, nice meeting you smile and borrow a corner of the information desk to wrangle my belongings. A library employee passes by, eyeing my books as I fish a balled-up canvas bag from my coat pocket.
“Ah, a reader after my own heart!” she trills, peering at my copy of Just Between Us over turquoise-framed glasses. “I love Anna Matthews. Did you hear she’s finally writing a new book?”
“What?” I pull out my phone and rush to Anna’s long-dormant Instagram. Sure enough, there’s a new post: a single red square overlaid with the text A SURPRISE FOR YOU. STAY TUNED … And beneath it, a book emoji and a shushing face.
I screenshot it to send to Steph later, mentally drafting a barrage of all-caps texts while shoving the remaining books in my bag and heading for the exit.
I stop short at the sight of Jack in the vestibule doorway. He sees my tote and gapes.
“You had that big bag on you all this time?” He shakes his head, tsk-tsking me. “And here I thought you only wanted me around for my book-carrying abilities.”
I cough out a laugh. “You don’t bag up your books before checkout, unless you’re trying to look like a thief,” I say. He holds the main door open for me and we step out into the cold air. “I assure you, I was only thinking of crime aversion.”
“I see,” he says, nodding with mock solemnity. “And you took the long way out here because …”
“Because the courtyard is the best part of the library, and I never leave here without walking through it.”
“Right,” he says. A dimple reappears on his cheek. Wielding a one-sided smile like that should require a license. “Not because you were enjoying my company.”
“No!” It comes out in something like a defensive quack, but then the crinkles of humor by his eyes wear me down. “I mean, you haven’t been the worst company,” I concede.
He grins fully and then looks around, something almost sheepish creeping into his expression.
“Do you think I could be not the worst company again sometime?” he asks. “Tomorrow night, mayhaps?”
Mayhaps. Anna Matthews’s favorite word. Now, that’s bizarre.
I stare at him as if he just spoke to me in ancient Greek.
How is it possible that I’ve spent the past ten hours or so comparing my pathetic day to the romance genre, and now I’m being pursued by this almost too perfect, alarmingly Matthewsesque stranger?
It’s borderline disturbing, like when you think to a room full of strangers cough if you can read my mind just for fun, and then someone does.
I clear my throat. “I, uh, don’t really—”
He squints—not at my eyes but somewhere near my shoulder—and interrupts me as he leans forward.
“You’ve got a little …” His voice trails off as he brushes his hand over my upper arm, immediately drawing goose bumps through four layers of clothing. I look down in time to see a trace of purple glitter falling from my coat, twinkling in the streetlight’s glow.
If my heart fluttered before, it flatlines now.
Everything rushes back to me in kaleidoscopic tunnel vision, echoing dizzily in my ears.
Icy wind. Unreal eyes. A dollar bill.
I wish I could be the next Anna Matthews protagonist.
Your wish is my gift.
Did you hear she’s finally writing a new book?
No.
No. Right? Of course not.
Fedora Guy is a guy who wears fedoras and pretends to grant wishes and that’s all. And even if he and his weirdo swirling eyes had some impossible power, I was only joking. It doesn’t count. It couldn’t.
“Tell you what,” says Jack. He reaches for the phone still clutched in my hand, and in my daze I let him take it. “I’m going to put my number in here. Sleep on it and let me know if you want to meet back here tomorrow night. Eight o’clock good?”
I can’t speak or move. Not while he taps through my phone, the dim glow of the screen playing against his face.
Not when he hands it back, holding it in the air between us for a good five seconds.
And not when he laughs at my unresponsiveness, takes my hand in his, and physically folds my fingers back around the phone.
Is waking sleep paralysis a thing? If so, I have it.
He raises his eyebrows at me, waiting for a response.
“Okay,” I say, aiming for chill and noncommittal and sounding instead like I’ve just swallowed several butterflies.
His hand is still on mine, closed around my phone. My pulse must be bruising his palm.
“Either way,” he says, his eyes fixed on mine, “it was really nice meeting you.”
Really nice. The way he says it makes it sound like it’s not just an overused platitude. Like he’s the first person to ever say it.
“Uh-huh,” I say, unable to firmly focus on anything but the sure grip of his fingers around mine.
He lingers there just long enough for me to almost get comfortable and then pulls away, leaving my hand cold and suspended stupidly in midair.
“Good night, Roxie,” he says, grinning as he backs away and turns to go back to wherever he came from. I think I wish him a good night in return, but it’s just as possible I only think it while staring at his retreating figure with cartoon spiral eyes.
When I come to and turn toward the T station, a singular purpose surges through me.
Tomorrow, I’m finding that goddamn Fedora Guy.