Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Iwoke to birdsong and the soft glow of morning light filtering through my half-drawn curtains.
For one blissful moment, I existed in that peaceful space between dreaming and waking before my brain helpfully reminded me that I’d spent the previous evening texting with a complete stranger about library ladders.
And I’d enjoyed it.
My phone sat on my nightstand, innocent-looking despite being the conduit for my social awkwardness. I reached for it, squinting at the brightness of the screen. No new messages, which was reasonable given that normal people didn’t wake up thinking about ladder emergencies.
I scrolled back through our brief exchange from last night, reading it with fresh morning eyes. The stranger’s messages were so concise they bordered on telegraphic, yet something about them felt… substantial. Like each word had been carefully chosen.
Coffee. I needed coffee before dissecting the psychological implications of punctuation marks from unknown numbers.
As I shuffled to my kitchen, narrowly avoiding a collision with the corner of my bookshelf, I wondered if I should just let the conversation die. It was a wrong number, after all. The socially appropriate thing would be to thank them for their concern and move on with my life.
But the ladder problem remained unsolved. And there was something oddly compelling about this mystery correspondent.
Two cups of coffee and one shower later, I found myself composing a new message:
Sorry to bother you again, but I realized I never properly explained the ladder situation. Our library has this ancient rolling wooden ladder that squeaks ominously and wobbles if you so much as breathe near it. The top rung cracked last week when I was reaching for a first edition Lovecraft.
I hesitated, then added, Any suggestions that don’t involve me becoming a cautionary tale in workplace safety videos would be appreciated.
My thumb hovered over the send button. Was this weird? Definitely. Was I doing it anyway? Apparently.
I hit send and placed my phone face-down on the counter, determined not to spend another day obsessively checking for replies. I had books to catalog, patrons to help, and a mythological creatures display to somehow manifest without breaking my neck in the process.
“Clara, you’ve reorganized that shelf three times in the last hour,” Brenda called from the circulation desk. “Either you’ve developed sudden-onset OCD or something’s on your mind.”
I startled, nearly dropping the copy of Mythical Beasts of Ancient Greece I’d been absently shuffling between sections.
“Just trying to decide the best arrangement for the display,” I replied, which wasn’t entirely a lie. The mythological creatures display did need organizing—alphabetically? By culture of origin? By likelihood of eating humans?—but my distraction stemmed more from the continued silence of my phone.
“Mmhmm,” Brenda hummed, clearly unconvinced. At sixty-two, with steel-grey hair and reading glasses perpetually perched on the end of her nose, Brenda had perfected the librarian’s knowing look long before I’d earned my MLIS. “And that’s why you’ve checked your phone seventeen times since lunch?”
“I have not,” I protested, feeling my cheeks warm. “Maybe five times. Seven, tops.”
“Seventeen,” she repeated, tapping a tally sheet beside her computer. “I’ve been keeping track.”
I gaped at her. “That’s… terrifyingly observant.”
“Forty years in public libraries, dear. I can spot a first date, a breakup, a job interview, and a pregnancy announcement just by how someone browses the stacks.” She pushed her glasses up. “So, who is he?”
“There is no ‘he,’” I insisted, shelving the Greek beasts with perhaps more force than necessary. “I’m just waiting to hear back about a ladder.”
Brenda’s left eyebrow rose so high it disappeared beneath her bangs. “A ladder,” she repeated flatly.
“Yes, a ladder. For the display. Remember how the old one nearly collapsed with me on it last week? I’m trying to find a replacement so I can retrieve the oversized books I need.”
“And this ladder replacement requires urgent text message updates?”
I sighed, already knowing I’d lose this battle of wits. “I texted Mark from next door, but I got the number wrong, and now I’m accidentally corresponding with a stranger about library ladders. That’s literally it.”
Brenda’s expression transformed from skepticism to delight in the span of a heartbeat. “Oh, that’s much better than what I was imagining! Tell me everything.”
Before I could respond, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I tried, and failed spectacularly, to appear casual as I pulled it out.
One new message from the unknown number.
I could assess the structural integrity of your current ladder and reinforce it. Alternatively, I could build you one that would never fail.
I blinked at the screen, rereading the message. The formality of it. The precision. Not “fix your ladder” but “assess the structural integrity.” Not “make you a new one” but “build you one that would never fail.” It read less like a text and more like a professional estimate.
“Oh my,” Brenda said, having materialized beside me with the silent stealth only veteran librarians possess. “He sounds very… thorough.”
“He sounds like he’s writing a business proposal,” I replied, but I couldn’t help the small smile forming. There was something oddly charming about his seriousness. “Maybe he’s a contractor or something?”
“Or an engineer,” Brenda suggested. “Or an exceptionally literate handyman.”
I typed back. That’s incredibly kind of you, especially considering we’re complete strangers and this started with a wrong number. Are you in construction?
The reply came faster this time:
Yes.
Just that. One word. No elaboration. No emoji. No indication of whether he was a general contractor, a carpenter, an architect, or someone who occasionally assembled IKEA furniture and was drastically overselling his skills.
“He’s not big on details, is he?” Brenda remarked, still shamelessly reading over my shoulder.
“Apparently not.” I pondered my response. “I guess I should be more specific about what I need?”
“Couldn’t hurt,” Brenda agreed. “Though I’m not sure the library budget will stretch to custom-built ladders, no matter how charming your mystery builder is.”
My cheeks warmed again. “He’s not my mystery builder. He’s just… a helpful wrong number.”
“Mmhmm,” Brenda hummed again, patting my shoulder as she returned to the circulation desk. “That’s how all the great love stories begin. ‘Helpful wrong number builds woman ladder, they live happily ever after.’”
“You’ve been shelving too many romance novels,” I called after her, then turned back to my phone.
I decided to give more context. Our library ladder is about 8 feet tall, wooden, with wheels that no longer roll properly. The top rung cracked, and several others feel iffy. My bullheaded boss refuses to replace it until the new fiscal year, but I need to reach the top shelves this week.
I hesitated, then added. I appreciate any advice, but please don’t feel obligated to help a random librarian with her ladder crisis!
I sent the message, tucked my phone away, and returned to organizing mythological creatures by region of origin. The centaurs couldn’t logically be next to the kappas, after all.
Twenty minutes later, my phone buzzed again:
I’m not bullheaded.
I stared at the three words, confusion creasing my brow. Why would he think I was calling him bullheaded? I’d clearly been referring to my boss, hadn’t I?
Unless…
Oh.
Oh no.
Had he taken my “bullheaded boss” comment personally? Did he think I was making some sort of reference to him? But that made no sense—he wasn’t my boss, and I didn’t even know him.
“Problem with your mystery builder?” Brenda asked, noticing my perplexed expression.
“I think he misunderstood something I said,” I replied, showing her the message.
Brenda adjusted her glasses. “Interesting. Perhaps he’s sensitive about his appearance? Bald men sometimes get touchy about bull references.”
“But I wasn’t talking about him at all,” I protested. “I was talking about my actual boss, who is stubbornly refusing to replace the ladder.”
“Well, clarify then,” Brenda suggested. “Communication is key, even with wrong numbers.”
I nodded. Oh! I wasn’t referring to you at all. I meant my actual boss at the library, who’s being stubborn about equipment budgets. Sorry for the confusion!
The response took longer this time. I’d returned to shelving and had almost forgotten about it when my phone finally buzzed.
I see. My apologies for misinterpreting.
Such formality. Such precision in his wording. Who texted like this? It was like corresponding with someone from another century who’d been given a smartphone but no instructions on modern communication shortcuts.
Yet I found myself smiling at his message. There was something refreshing about his direct approach, his lack of emojis or “lol” or the dozen other ways people softened their digital communication. He simply said what he meant, without embellishment.
That’s quite all right. Text makes it hard to catch tone sometimes. So, about that ladder…
And just like that, we were back on track.
Over the next couple of hours, between helping patrons and working on the display, I exchanged messages with my mystery correspondent.
He asked precise, technical questions about the ladder’s dimensions, materials, age, and specific structural failures.
I answered as best I could, occasionally taking pictures of the offending ladder from different angles.
His responses were always concise, thoughtful, and strangely formal. No small talk. No personal questions. Just focused problem-solving about library ladders, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to dive into depth about wood joinery and weight distribution with a wrong number.