Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
I stood in the middle of the library, hands on my hips, glaring at the heap of splintered wood that used to be our only means of reaching the top shelves.
The temporary fix Rion had helped me with had held for exactly three days before Mr. Finch’s enthusiastic “assistance” had reduced it to kindling.
“This is fine,” I muttered to myself, nudging a broken piece with my toe. “Everything is fine.”
Behind me, Brenda cleared her throat. “Clara, dear, talking to broken furniture is the first sign of librarian madness. The second is alphabetizing your breakfast cereal.”
I turned to face her, pushing my glasses up my nose.
“The school group from Willowbrook Elementary is coming in four days, Brenda. Four. Days. And they’re specifically coming to see the mythology display that I promised would be—and I quote myself here—’a magnificent journey through cross-cultural monster mythology spanning three continents and five millennia. ’”
“Well, at least you didn’t oversell it,” Brenda said dryly.
I groaned, sinking into the nearest chair. “What am I going to do? The budget committee doesn’t meet for another two weeks, and Mr. Hopkins already made it clear that ‘ladder emergencies’ don’t qualify for discretionary spending.”
Brenda perched on the edge of the reference desk, her eyes twinkling with that mischievous gleam I’d come to recognize all too well. “What about your mystery builder? He seemed quite invested in your ladder crisis.”
My phone felt suddenly heavy in my pocket. Rion. My mysterious text correspondent who had spent days helping me with detailed instructions for ladder repair, who had even designed a custom replacement… but who had consistently dodged any suggestion of meeting in person.
“He’s not going to meet me,” I said, though a tiny flicker of hope kindled despite my words. “He’s made that pretty clear.”
“Has he, though?” Brenda tilted her head. “Or has he just been cautious? Perhaps he needs a more… compelling reason than a social coffee.”
I frowned, considering. “What do you mean?”
“Well, from what you’ve told me, he’s passionate about building things. About solving structural problems.” Brenda gestured towards the broken ladder. “This is no longer a minor repair job. This is a full-blown construction emergency.”
She had a point. Rion had seemed genuinely interested in the technical aspects of my ladder dilemma. His texts had grown more detailed, more engaged when discussing design specifications and structural integrity.
“So you think if I frame it as a serious building challenge, he might actually agree to meet?”
“It’s worth a try,” Brenda said with a shrug. “The worst he can say is no, and you’re no worse off than you are now.”
She was right. I had nothing to lose except my dignity, and that ship had sailed the moment I’d sent that first rambling text about my “ladder emergency.”
“I’ll do it,” I decided, pulling out my phone. “But I’m going to need absolute quiet to compose this message. This needs to be the perfect blend of professional, desperate, and non-threatening.”
Brenda mimed zipping her lips and glided away towards the periodicals section, leaving me alone with my phone and the remains of the ladder.
I stared at our previous text exchange, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. How exactly does one craft a message that says “please meet me in person to discuss my library ladder needs” without sounding either pathetically needy or vaguely stalkerish?
After several false starts and deleted drafts, I finally settled on:
“Ladder update: Catastrophic structural failure. Complete rebuild necessary. Would you be willing to meet for a brief project consultation? I can bring the measurements and material samples. Your expertise would be invaluable.”
I read it over three times, analyzing each word. Professional? Check. Focused on the technical aspects? Check. Acknowledging his expertise? Check. Suggesting a time-limited, purpose-driven meeting rather than an open-ended social encounter? Check.
Before I could overthink it further, I hit send.
The message whooshed away, and immediately my stomach knotted. What if he found the request presumptuous? What if he thought I was trying to manipulate him into meeting? What if he stopped responding entirely?
You’re being ridiculous, I told myself sternly. It’s a perfectly reasonable request between two adults. One of whom happens to be a mysterious stranger who refuses to share personal details and is weirdly secretive about his appearance. Totally normal.
I shoved my phone back in my pocket and threw myself into cataloging new arrivals, determined not to check for a response every thirty seconds like a teenager waiting for a crush to text back.
I lasted almost fifteen minutes before sneaking a glance.
No response.
It’s fine, I thought. He’s probably busy. Building… whatever it is he builds. Those complex passageways he mentioned.
Another hour passed. Still nothing.
By lunchtime, I’d checked my phone approximately forty-seven times and had developed a new nervous tic involving tapping my pen against my teeth whenever I thought about the unanswered message.
“Still no word from the mystery builder?” Brenda asked as she joined me in the break room.
I shook my head, unwrapping my sandwich with perhaps more force than necessary. “Not a peep. I think I scared him off.”
“Nonsense,” Brenda said firmly. “You made a perfectly reasonable request for a professional consultation. If he’s so easily frightened, he’s not worth your worry.”
“But what if—”
“No ‘what ifs,’” she interrupted. “Eat your lunch. Help Mrs. Watkins find her large-print mysteries. Dust the reference section. The world continues to turn whether your phone buzzes or not.”
She was right, of course. I had a job to do, a library to run, patrons to assist. I couldn’t spend the day obsessing over a text message.
And yet…
Throughout the afternoon, as I shelved returns and helped a ninth-grader navigate the Dewey Decimal System, I kept feeling phantom vibrations in my pocket. Each time, I’d check my phone with a surge of anticipation, only to find no new messages.
By closing time, my anxiety had morphed into a dull resignation. He wasn’t going to respond. I’d pushed too hard, asked for too much, and now my mysterious ladder expert had vanished back into the digital ether from whence he came.
“Don’t look so glum,” Brenda said as we locked up. “Perhaps he’s simply composing the perfect response. Some people actually think before they text.”
I attempted a smile. “Maybe. Or maybe he’s decided I’m too much trouble and has blocked my number.”
“Then he’s a fool,” Brenda declared, “and you’re better off without his ladder expertise.”
I appreciated her loyalty, but as I walked home through the gathering dusk, I couldn’t shake my disappointment.
It wasn’t just about the ladder anymore.
Over the past few days, I’d developed a strange connection to this mysterious Rion—a connection built on brief exchanges about structural integrity and cross-bracing, yes, but a connection nonetheless.
There was something about his directness, his precision, his unexpected moments of dry humor that had wormed its way into my daily routine. I’d found myself looking forward to his texts, to the little glimpses of his unusual mind.
And now I’d ruined it by pushing for more than he was willing to give.
It’s probably for the best, I told myself as I unlocked my apartment door. Getting attached to a mysterious stranger who won’t even tell you what he does for a living is definitely in the top ten list of “Bad Life Choices for Otherwise Sensible Librarians.”
I’d just settled onto my couch with a cup of tea and my current novel when my phone buzzed.
My heart leapt into my throat as I lunged for it, nearly spilling hot tea across my lap in the process.
The message was from Rion.
“I apologize for the delayed response. Your situation requires more consideration than a hasty reply would allow.”
I held my breath, waiting for the inevitable “but” that would precede his refusal.
Three dots appeared, indicating he was typing more. They pulsed for what felt like an eternity before the next message appeared:
“A meeting may be possible. Under specific conditions.”
I stared at my phone, hardly daring to believe what I was reading. He was actually considering it? After days of deflection and avoidance?
What conditions?
And thank you for considering it. I know you’re not comfortable with the idea.
The three dots appeared again, disappeared, then reappeared. Rion seemed to be struggling with how to phrase his response.
Finally: “Location must be public yet private. Minimal exposure to others. After business hours. Dim lighting preferred.”
I frowned at the strange requests. Dim lighting? Minimal exposure? It sounded like he was planning a covert intelligence drop, not a discussion about library furniture.
“Would a quiet cafe work?” I suggested. “There’s one near the library called The Night Owl. It’s open late, and they have those high-backed booths in the back corner that are pretty private.”
Another long pause before his reply:
“Acceptable. Tomorrow. 9 PM.”
Tomorrow? My pulse quickened. This was happening so fast suddenly, after days of stalling.
“Tomorrow works,” I replied, trying to keep my tone casual despite the butterflies taking flight in my stomach. “I’ll bring the measurements and photos of the space.”
“Bring the broken pieces as well. I need to assess the material quality.”
Practical as always. That was Rion—focused on the technical aspects, the concrete details.
“Will do. And… thank you. I really appreciate this.”
His response was characteristically brief:
“Until tomorrow.”
I set my phone down carefully, as if it might explode if handled too roughly, and then promptly let out a most undignified squeal that would have earned me a severe shushing had I made such a noise in the library.
I was going to meet Rion. Actually, physically meet the mysterious person who had been occupying my thoughts for days.
And I had less than 24 hours to prepare.
Oh God. What am I going to wear?
The thought ambushed me from nowhere, followed immediately by a cascade of other anxieties.
What if he was nothing like I’d imagined?
What if the easy back-and-forth we’d established via text didn’t translate to in-person conversation?
What if he took one look at me and decided I wasn’t worth the trouble?
Stop it, I told myself firmly. This is a professional consultation about a ladder, not a blind date.
But the butterflies in my stomach disagreed, fluttering with a mixture of excitement and apprehension that felt decidedly un-professional.
I spent the next hour pacing my small apartment, alternating between bursts of nervous energy and moments of paralyzing doubt. Should I prepare specific questions about ladder construction? Should I bring samples of wood for him to assess? Should I wear my hair up or down?
Focus, Clara, I scolded myself. Focus on the practical aspects. The ladder. The measurements. The structural requirements.
But my mind kept sliding sideways into speculation about Rion himself. What did he look like? Why was he so self-conscious about his appearance? Would he be as tersely direct in person as he was via text?
I’d built up a mental image over our days of communication: tall, serious, perhaps with intense eyes and capable hands. The kind of person who measured twice and cut once, who valued precision and efficiency.
But what if he was completely different? What if my mental image bore no resemblance to reality?
And what was I so worried about anyway? This wasn’t a date. It was a meeting about a ladder. A ladder, for heaven’s sake.
Yet I couldn’t shake the fluttery feeling in my chest, the sense that tomorrow night’s meeting represented something more significant than a simple discussion about library furniture.
I finally managed to settle down enough to finish my tea and return to my novel, though I found myself reading the same paragraph three times without absorbing a word.
Tomorrow. 9 PM. The Night Owl Cafe.
I was going to meet the mysterious Rion.