3. Evan
CHAPTER 3
Evan
T he carefree girl who'd danced on Florida's white sands seemed worlds away from the librarian meticulously typing in front of me. Her appearance was carefully curated. Not that the prim and proper button-up blouse did anything to hide her curves or detract from her natural beauty. She even had a few strands of gray hair sparkling against the rest of her dark locks, pulled back tightly to the nape of her neck.
How was it that Samantha Brown, with her tidy bun and glasses perched on her nose, was the same girl who’d worn the black bikini and cutoff shorts I’d tackled into the waves?
“Libraries sure have changed since I last stepped into one," I ventured, trying to bridge an ocean of history with levity and awkward small talk.
"And yet, quiet is still a requirement," she replied without looking up, the briefest quirk of her lips betraying her amusement at her own quip. She had this authoritative librarian thing down pat. And I was totally loving it.
“So, do I need a library card, or can I check you out another way?”
Had I really just said that? I cringed, looking away as my cheeks flushed. My brother would be laughing his butt off if he heard me.
The thought sobered my flirty thoughts. Before we went to the club that night, I’d gone golfing with him. He had even told me that he liked Sam. He said she brought out the real Evan.
Her eyes flickered to mine, a wrinkle deepening between them. “The borrowing limits on our library cards include twenty books and ten movies, audiobooks, or CDs.”
I let out a low whistle. Okay then. No more librarian pickup lines.
“Okay, I’d like a library card.”
Without even looking, she slid a form across the desk, and I moved to the side to fill it out as she helped the next patron. She was all smiles and sugar with the preschool-aged boy, and I couldn’t help but be jealous. A fact that boded well for my sanity, for sure.
"Any plans for updating the kids section?" the mother asked, her voice hopeful as she gestured toward the back corner, where I could see a faded mural and worn chairs. “The one in Greencastle just got an awesome storytime stage.”
Samantha's lips thinned, her professional mask slipping just enough to reveal a glimpse of frustration. "I've been pushing for a renovation for years. New books, updated furniture..." She sighed, catching herself. "But funding is always the hurdle."
"Such a shame," the mom murmured, her toddler tugging impatiently on her sleeve.
An older gentleman walked up, obviously overhearing the last bit. "Yes, it would be nice," he said in a tone that sounded like he was discussing the weather rather than the future of the children's area. "But with the budget we have, dreams are all they'll ever be." He proceeded to step behind the desk and sit at the computer next to Sam. I eyed his nametag while pretending to focus on my form.
Patrick Henley, Library Director. Her boss, perhaps?
His dismissive comment hung in the air, and Samantha's shoulders tensed while she finished scanning the stack of picture books. I felt a tightness in my chest, the same protective instinct that had me charging into burning buildings.
Why did this matter to me? I had no real stake in the children’s section at this tiny library, and yet the hint of Samantha's disappointment bothered me. I shrugged off the feeling; I was here for a library card, not to get involved in municipal funding issues.
"Thanks, Sam. Tell Sophia I said hello," the young mother said before she led the little boy by the hand toward the door.
Samantha stiffened. "I will," she replied, but the warmth that usually accompanied such exchanges was noticeably absent. Her eyes didn't meet mine.
Sophia... The name echoed in my head, stirring up a whirlwind of questions. Who was Sophia? A friend? I could have asked, pushed her for an answer. But something in Samantha's guarded posture told me not to—told me she wasn't ready for me to know anything personal about her. My eyes flew to her left hand, reassuring me I hadn’t missed a wedding ring there.
Still pretending to fill out the short form, I observed the strained interaction between her and the director. He was leaning over her desk now, flipping through some papers with an air of authority that seemed unnecessary given the quiet efficiency with which she worked.
"Make sure these are filed correctly, Samantha. And avoid engaging in idle chit-chat about financing; it's not professional," he chided without even a glance in her direction.
"Of course, Mr. Henley," she replied, every word measured and controlled. But her hands betrayed her, clenching ever so slightly before returning to the keyboard.
Watching them, I recognized the subtle dance of power and resistance, a dynamic far too familiar from the high-stakes world of my family's expectations.
I slid my completed form across the desk. “All set.”
"Just need your proof of address," she prompted, her fingers poised over the keyboard after typing in the information I’d provided.
"Right. 42 Westbrook Lane, Unit C." I handed her my utility bill, glad I’d thought to grab it.
Something flashed across her face that I couldn’t identify. But as quickly as it had come, it was shuttered behind her implacable mask. She typed in the address and hit a few more buttons, then grabbed a piece of paper from the printer beside her desk.
"All set. Here’s your temporary card." She slid the paper across the desk, our fingertips nearly brushing, though she quickly pulled hers out of reach.
"Guess I'm officially a patron now. Do I get another welcome basket? Maybe a complimentary bookmark?"
"Budget cuts," she said, but this time the smile reached her eyes. "You'll have to make do with free knowledge and the occasional late fee."
“Personal tour?” My hopeful tone betrayed my desperation. Why wouldn’t she give me even a passing glance?
She pointed to various areas around the room, never leaving her seat. “Fiction, non-fiction, computers, kids, young adults. Upstairs are meeting rooms and reference materials like periodicals, local records, and genealogy resources.” Her smirk told me she knew the game I was playing and that she was determined to win it.
"Fair enough," I conceded, holding onto the fleeting warmth of her gaze like a lifeline.
"Listen, Samantha," I started, my voice barely above a whisper, "I wanted to say—"
"It's in the past, Mr. Mercer," she said, each word clipped and precise as she rearranged a stack of books on her left. "Let's keep our interactions professional, please." There was a sorrow in her eyes, the same sadness and regret I saw in my own expression every day.
I swallowed hard, the taste of regret bitter on my tongue. It was like trying to stitch a wound with barbed wire—the more I reached out, the deeper I cut myself. She was right, of course. Almost fifteen years had passed. What right did I have to dredge up old heartaches?
But there it was again—that familiar weight, compressing my chest until my breaths felt like sips through a cocktail straw. It seemed no amount of smoke I'd faced in burning buildings could suffocate the guilt that smoldered within me.
Was I trying to apologize to her? Or to assuage my own guilt? I wanted her to know that I wasn’t a bad guy.
Of course, I had been having sex with her in a nightclub bathroom while my brother died in a fire across the building. So maybe that wasn’t an achievable goal.
"Of course," I managed to choke out, the words heavy and hollow.
The fireman in me wanted to rescue her from any hint of sorrow, but the man in me knew better. How much of it had I been the cause of? Had she looked for me after the fire? Waited for my call? Even if my phone with her number hadn’t been lost at the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico, would I have? Everything changed when I found out Mason had died. I should have been with him, but I’d been too busy selfishly betraying my own values and taking advantage of the innocent woman who was now sitting across from me.
Her fingers paused, and for a moment, I hoped for a look, a sign—anything to suggest she saw me as more than just another patron with overdue books.
"Your card will be mailed to you within five business days," she said, handing me a receipt with a practiced smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Is there anything else I can help you with?"
"Nope," I replied, popping the P, though my mind screamed a litany of unfinished sentences and unasked questions. I didn’t need anything from her. Nothing except to understand why God had brought her back into my world. Was it simply that I needed to right the wrongs I had done back then? I’d confessed and repented that sin long ago. But I’d never made things right with Sam.
And so far, she didn’t seem inclined to let me.
As I stepped away from the counter, the distance between us stretched beyond the physical space. It was filled with what-ifs and if-onlys, bridged only by the faintest glimmer of hope that maybe God had a plan for broken things.
And in that moment, I realized I cared about the answer more than I dared to admit.
I tucked the paper card in my wallet and rapped my knuckle on the desk before stepping away.
I lingered between the stacks of novels, pretending to browse the latest Charles Martin books. I told myself I should let Samantha be. The tight set of her shoulders, the measured cadence of her voice—it all spoke to a door firmly closed, a chapter she had no intention of reopening. And if she was determined to keep that door shut, who was I to pry it open?
It wasn’t as though I were interested in rediscovering what we had. Truth be told, curiosity gnawed at my insides. It demanded answers to the mystery of Samantha's reaction, to the significance of Sophia, or anyone else that held a permanent spot in her life. I wanted to know everything about Samantha.
My curiosity was going to be the death of me. I cast one last glance over my shoulder as I edged toward the exit. I should leave her alone, but I wasn’t sure I was strong enough to ignore the pull.