Chapter 19 #2
Andie purses her lips. “And do you believe him, whatever explanation he gave?”
I want to say yes. I want to say no. What comes out is, “I don’t know.”
The silence stretches, soft but absolute.
Andie tilts her head. “What do you want, Simone? Really.”
I stare at the window, at the sun lighting up the smudged glass, at the dust motes spinning through the air. I want to say I want to be done, that I want to torch all my feelings and start over.
But I’m so tired of lying, even to myself.
“I want him,” I say. “But I’m scared. I’m scared it’ll be like before. That I’ll just be another variable. That he’ll use me, and I’ll let him, and then I’ll hate myself for it.”
It sounds so pathetic out loud that I have to bite my lip to keep from crying.
Andie nods, her face calm. “You don’t have to decide right now, you know. You’re allowed to want him and hate him at the same time.”
She reaches out, covers my hand with hers. “It’s not like feelings are easy to explain, and they don’t go away just because you want them to either. You’re allowed to be confused.”
We sit like that, the warmth of her palm grounding me, until my phone vibrates again.
I pick it up, dreading what I’ll see.
It’s not Liam.
It’s Dylan.
Hey. Can we get coffee tomorrow? I have to talk to you about something. -D
I show the screen to Andie.
She snorts. “Two at once. You’re a heartbreaker.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s not like that. Dylan is a friend to me.”
Andie fixes me with a look. “Yeah, but does he know that? You know boys sometimes. They just hope and hope and hope and never give up unless you spell it out to them in capital letters.”
My friend’s right, and she isn’t. There’s no part of me that wants Dylan, not really. But it’s nice to be wanted. It’s nice to have something—someone—that isn’t so fucking complicated.
I shrug and decide to go for it. We’re friends. It’s fine. I text back: Sure. Library?
Dylan replies in under a minute: You’re the best. See you then.
Andie watches me type, then says, “You know, he’s in love with you.”
I laugh, but it sounds wrong. “He’s in love with the idea of me. It’s different.”
Andie shrugs. “Sometimes the idea is better. Cleaner. Less sharp around the edges.”
She leans back, tugs her braid. “You don’t owe anyone anything, Simone. Not even yourself. You can fuck up, you can change your mind, you can walk away. That’s allowed.”
The words hit me in the gut. “Is it really?”
She smiles, the soft, sad one. “It’s not easy, but it’s allowed.”
We get back to studying, but the mood is changed. I feel lighter, somehow, like the worst thing has already happened and everything else is just aftermath.
As we pack up for the library, Andie pulls me into a quick hug.
“You’re not broken or malfunctioning,” she whispers. “You’re just scared.”
I hug her back, hard. “Thanks, Mom.”
She grins, then pelts me with a granola bar. “Now let’s go pass American Lit so we can get matching jobs at Target.”
We laugh, loud enough to echo down the dorm hallway. And for the first time all week, I almost believe that everything might be okay.
We leave the room, the lights off, the desk still a mess. But we’re moving, at least. Forward, or sideways, or just out the door.
Maybe that’s enough for now.
The library’s empty except for the ghosts of finals week.
Every surface is sticky with desperation and coffee residue.
The old building has that distinct collegiate smell—dust, ink, ancient varnish, a hint of mold that the Facilities staff will never fully eradicate.
The lights hum overhead, a low, persistent whine, and the only movement is the slow orbit of the reference desk librarian as she does another circuit to shush the invisible.
I’m in the stacks, hunting. There’s only one copy of Tragedies of Hawthorne’s Women on the entire campus, and I need it for the final paper I’ve been dreading all semester.
According to the online catalog, it lives in the sub-basement, in the “American Letters – 19th Century” section, a place so rarely visited it’s begun to decompose into its own taxonomy of dust bunnies.
I descend the tight spiral staircase, feeling each rung vibrate through my shins.
It’s a dungeon down here, the fluorescent bulbs casting everything in an unflattering blue.
The shelves are tall and close-set, the books old enough that they all have that papery, dry-moss look, their spines faded to near-anonymity.
A single study table is shoved against the far wall, its surface carved with the detritus of decades: “Class of 1999 = LEGENDS,” “Confess your sins to the Chem Squirrel,” “Call Jenny for a good time—(218) 555-1212.”
The quiet is thick, but not comfortable. There’s the constant threat that someone will cough, or drop a book, or appear behind you with a request for the Dewey Decimal number you just memorized.
I find the right shelf and scan, squinting at the microscopic catalog numbers. There it is, wedged between two volumes so dusty I almost sneeze: Tragedies of Hawthorne’s Women, spine cracked and gold lettering half-flaked off.
I reach up to grab it, but it’s higher than I anticipated. On my tiptoes, I can just barely brush the bottom of the cover. I try again, this time wedging one foot up onto the lower rail of the shelf, and—fingertips on the book—I hear footsteps echoing down the aisle.
My heart punches my sternum. I expect a librarian, maybe even Andie, but when I turn my head, it’s Liam. Of course it is.
He stands at the end of the row, hands in his pockets, hair slightly mussed in a way that suggests he’s been running his fingers through it for hours.
His blue eyes look almost grey under the dim lights, and he’s wearing a wool coat over his usual crisp dress shirt, the collar askew.
For a second, we both just stare, like deer clocking each other across a dark road.
I drop my arm, hiding the way my hand shakes. “Hi,” I say, voice barely audible.
He nods, not moving closer. “Hi, Simone.”
There’s a long, bright second where nothing happens. I try not to squirm.
He glances at the book in my hand. “That’s a good one,” he says. “Page 149. There’s a line about guilt that always gets me.”
I force a laugh, not sure if I’m meant to be flattered or creeped out. “Did you memorize the whole book? How did you find me, anyways?”
He shrugs, one shoulder, and smiles ruefully. “You’re not the only one who reads books, Simone. It’s actually a profession for me.”
We stand in that too-narrow aisle, both pretending it’s not the most loaded hallway in the state.
He finally moves closer, stopping an arm’s length away. His voice is careful, the way you talk to someone with a wound you gave them. “How are you holding up?”
I look down at the book, then back at him. “I’m alive. Finals are finals.”
He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You always were a fighter.”
The phrase lands somewhere between compliment and accusation.
I want to ask if he’s really okay, or if the darkness under his eyes is just the light, or if he’s been sleeping at all. Instead I say, “I’m working on the Hawthorne paper. Trying to avoid, you know, emotional subtext.”
He laughs—really laughs, this time, a raw sound that’s all relief and disbelief. “Good luck with that.”
I want to leave. I want to stay. I want him to touch me, just once, so I know I haven’t made the whole thing up.
There’s a pause, the silence loaded. He opens his mouth, maybe to say something real, but I beat him to it.
“I’m doing better,” I say. “And I know it’s weird, but I wanted you to know I’m okay. I’m not a disaster.”
He nods, eyes fixed on mine. “I never thought you were. You’re the best student I’ve had in ten years.”
The compliment should feel like a gold star, but instead it burns. “Just a student?”
The words come out sharp. I regret them instantly, but he doesn’t flinch.
“No,” he says, voice low. “Not just that.”
We stand like that for a minute, neither moving, both pretending that this is normal, that we’re just people in a library and not two halves of a whole, our edges jagged at the moment.
There’s a clatter from the far end of the stacks, and my heart sinks when I see who it is: Dylan, all muscle and windbreaker, bounding down the aisle with a backpack over one shoulder. He sees us and stops, sizing up the scene with a single, predatory glance.
“Hey, Simone!” he calls, his voice bouncing off the shelves. Oh my god, his voice is way too loud, and I feel embarrassed for the boy. He reminds me of an oversized puppy with too-big feet.
I feel my face flush. I want to disappear.
Dylan walks up, planting himself between me and Liam, his swimmer’s shoulders eclipsing the aisle. He glances at the professor, nods. “Professor Thomas.”
Liam’s expression flattens into something unreadable. “Dylan.”
Dylan puts an arm around my shoulders, his grip warm and heavy. “You ready for our study session?” he asks, pointedly.
I nod, trying not to notice the way Liam’s hands ball into fists at his sides.
Liam’s voice goes cool, professional. “Good luck on the final, Dylan.”
Dylan grins, all teeth like a shark. “Thanks, my man. Means a lot.”
For a second, nobody moves. The three of us locked in a triangle, all sides quivering.
Liam looks at me, just once, eyes searching for something he’s not sure is there.
He says, “Simone—if you need anything, you know where to find me.”
I can’t speak, so I just nod.
He leaves, his steps echoing down the marble hallway.
Dylan lets his arm fall, then looks at me. “What was that about?” His voice is light, but there’s a hardness behind it.
“Nothing,” I say, though I’m not sure I believe it.
Dylan gives me a look, then shrugs. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get out of here.”
We walk up the spiral stairs together. I look back once, but the aisle is empty now.
I wonder if it always was.