Chapter 7
Ellie
Derek is sitting on the bench outside the library when I pull into the lot Monday morning. Tailored coat, legs crossed at the ankle, a paper cup from Betty's Diner balanced on his knee like he's posing for a catalog. He stands when he sees my car, smooths the coat and smiles.
"Hey, El."
He hasn't called me El in five years. The last time I heard it, he had marinara on his fork and divorce papers in his jacket pocket and he kept eating while he told me about the paralegal. My stomach drops, and it isn't because of desire.
I get out of the car with my tote and my keys and I don't stop walking. "The library doesn't open until nine, Derek."
He falls into step beside me. "I know. I looked it up."
"Then you also know I'm working."
"Five minutes." He holds up a hand. "That's all I'm asking."
I should keep walking. Unlock the door, go inside and close it behind me.
But Derek has always known how to aim a request so it sounds reasonable, so refusing makes you the difficult one, and I stop on the top step because five years of therapy didn't cure me of the reflex to be polite to the man who left me for a twenty-six-year-old.
He sits on the bench. I don't.
"Tara was a mistake," he says. He doesn't use the word paralegal. He uses her name. "I was in a bad place. Midlife garbage, second-guessing everything, you know how I get. I self-destructed. That's on me."
I grip my keys. The library door stands two feet behind me.
"I miss us, El." He leans forward, elbows on his knees. "I miss our apartment. I miss Sunday mornings. I miss coming home to someone who actually knows me."
He means the apartment in Portland, the couple we used to be, the life he walked out of. He touches my arm when he talks. I pull it back.
"You filed papers between bites of pasta, Derek. On our anniversary."
"I know. I know that. And I've sat with it."
"You've sat with it."
"I'm in therapy now. I go twice a week. I've done the work."
He says it like checking a box.
"Good for you," I say. "I mean that. But I'm not interested."
He nods, slow and patient, his not-listening nod. "Can I say one more thing?"
I should say no but I don't.
"I know what you're doing here, El." He gestures at the library, the parking lot, the town beyond it.
"The small-town library. The cozy life. The orc.
" He pauses on the word. "You're playing a role.
The quirky librarian who dates the monster.
It's a story you're telling yourself because the real story—our story—scared you. "
My chest goes tight.
"You always did that," he says. "Picked the version where you're the underdog.
The one who finds the hidden gem, the overlooked book on the back shelf.
You build a narrative where you're brave for choosing the unconventional thing, and it lets you avoid asking whether you chose it because you wanted it or because the alternative terrified you. "
"And the kid," he says. "El, come on. You're mothering his twelve-year-old.
You probably met her at the library and now you're, what, picking out her reading lists?
Helping with homework? You're playing house with someone else's daughter because we never had one of our own, and you're so deep into the story you can't see it. "
My vision goes white at the edges.
Lily is a kid who sketches camera angles in her notebook, argues about Le Guin and sat next to me on the library floor with me. I will not let this man reduce her to a symptom of my loneliness.
"You need to leave, Derek."
"El—"
"No. You don't get to say her name. You don't get to use a twelve-year-old girl to prove your point.
" My keys dig into my palm. "You're not here because you miss me.
You're here because Tara left too, and you can't stand being alone.
That's what this is. You ran out of women to impress, and I'm the one who was stupid enough to stay the longest, so here you are with your therapy buzzwords and your nice coat, trying to get back together. "
His face changes. The smooth mask slips for half a second—something raw and ugly underneath—and then it's back.
"I'm staying at the Cove Hotel. I'll be here through the week." He tips his coffee cup toward me. "You'll figure out what's real."
He walks across the parking lot, gets into a rental car, and drives away. I unlock the library door, go inside and then lock it behind me. My hands hold steady. My chest doesn't.
I open on time. I run the desk. I check in returns, print overdue notices, fix a jam in the copy machine with a paperclip and the same instructions I've taped to the wall twice because nobody reads them. The morning runs like every other morning.
Derek's voice follows me through all of it. You're playing a role.
The county library board meets at six-thirty in the conference room at City Hall. I get the email at noon. Chairwoman Patricia Holden, cc'd to three board members and me, subject line: Special Session: Community Concerns Re: Youth Programming.
Apparently three parents have filed complaints that the head librarian maintains a personal relationship with a member of the Feral Sons MC. The library hosts workshops involving monster children. There are concerns about safety and community standards. The board will be convening to discuss.
Dale Rickman's name doesn't appear anywhere in the email.
His fingerprints cover every sentence. The polished language, the reasonable tone, prejudice dressed up for a business meeting.
I've seen his flyers. I've read the notes someone pushed through my mail slot.
This comes from the same place, just with better grammar.
I close the email, call my boss in the county office, and confirm that I will attend. Then I sit at my desk for ten minutes and stare at the drawer where I keep the hate mail and think about what I'm going to say.
The boardroom holds twenty people and tonight it holds nine—five board members at the table, three parents in the gallery, and me.
I wear my good blazer, the navy one with the brass buttons I bought for the state library conference two years ago.
I sit in a plastic chair facing the table and fold my hands on the binder I brought: programming calendars, attendance figures, workshop evaluations, a letter of recommendation from Holly, and a stack of handwritten thank-you cards from parents whose kids attended the photography workshop.
Chairwoman Holden opens the session. She reads the complaints aloud. The language stays neutral, the concerns stay vague: "appropriateness of staff conduct," "community perceptions of safety," "questions about judgment and oversight." Nobody says orc. Nobody says motorcycle club.
I answer their questions. I walk them through attendance data for the youth programming, the partnership structure with community volunteers, the evaluation process for any adult who interacts with children in the library.
I keep my voice level and my palms pressed flat on the desk.
A board member named Cliff Palmer asks about the photography workshop: who organized it, who supervised, whether background checks occurred.
"Holly Summers organized and led the workshop.
She's a professional photographer with exhibition credits and no criminal record.
Every adult volunteer cleared a county background check.
I supervised the full session." I flip to the evaluation page.
"Twelve children attended. Eleven returned evaluation forms. All eleven rated the experience four or five out of five. "
Cliff nods. His pen moves across his notepad.
A woman in the gallery raises her hand. I recognize her before she speaks—Diane Webber.
Her son is one of the two boys I sent home from the photography workshop for calling Dani a freak.
"I'm not questioning the programming. I'm questioning the environment.
My daughter said the librarian's boyfriend picked up his kid at the end of the session.
She said he's an orc. From the motorcycle club. "
"Lily's father picked her up, yes. He picks her up from the library most days."
"And you're involved with him."
Diane has her arms crossed and her chin lifted, she believes she's protecting her children. I recognize the posture because I've seen it on a hundred parents who walk into the library nervous and leave reassured, and I've never resented it before.
"That's not relevant to the quality of the programming."
The room holds still.
Chairwoman Holden clears her throat. "Ms. Frost, I think it would help the board if you could address the concern directly. Are you in a personal relationship with a member of the Feral Sons MC?"
I sit in a plastic chair in a conference room in a town I chose because nobody expected anything from me after six o'clock, and every board member looks at me, and the question isn't about programming or safety or community standards. The question is if I'm sleeping with a monster.
Five years of being the quiet one. The safe one. The woman who never makes a scene, who folds her hate mail into squares and tucks it in a drawer, wears earth tones and sensible flats and keeps her voice steady.
"Yes," I say. "And my personal life has no bearing on the quality of my work or the safety of the children in this building."
The room exhales. Cliff's pen scratches his notepad. Chairwoman Holden makes a note.
"The board will table the complaint pending further review," the chairwoman says. "We appreciate your time, Ms. Frost."
I keep my job. I collect my binder, thank them for their time, walk down the hallway and push through the double doors into the parking lot.
A man I don't recognize stands between my car and the one beside it. He's not doing anything—leaning against the other car's fender, arms crossed, watching me cross the lot. Average build. Ball cap pulled low. He straightens when I get close.
"Ms. Frost." He says my name. "Quite the speech in there."
"The meeting was closed to the public."