The Rebel and the Bookish – by Stephanie Scott #3
“Why else would I be here?”
“I don’t know. How about this computer? Seemed like you were working on something. World domination by spreadsheet?”
She looks worried. No, something else. She chews at her soft looking lower lip and avoids my gaze.
“You know what? It’s none of my business. “Sorry, I?—”
“I’m a mod on the Stone Hearts Reddit forum,” she blurts.
My cold, dead heart rattles awake. I can’t have heard her right. “Sorry, what?”
“And I keep the Wikipedia page updated. The Stone Hearts page. I’m also a chief contributor to the most prominent indie music archives site on the internet.
We’re archiving music history and ensuring dead internet sites don’t lose content.
The era of blogging might have forever shifted, but it’s important. From an archivist perspective.”
“You’re archiving our band’s music? Online?”
She nods, not looking me in the eye.
This is incredible. “Wow. That means so much.” It’s been a full decade since I’ve played live with the guys after going our separate ways.
Dylan (stage name Dylan Heartache) went on for a solo career that never quite panned out, but the guy has tenacity, that’s for sure.
Over the years, I worked stints in recording studios as a session musician.
I patched together odd jobs to scrape together a life in Los Angeles.
“I hated that the band ended, but at the same time, it felt like we ran our course.”
“Do you miss performing?”
“I do occasional recording work for friends. But yeah, sometimes I miss playing live. I just had a lot of other stuff to figure out.”
“Seems like you figured it out.”
“Did I?”
“You said your kids trust you. That says it all.”
Valerie
“I’m so honored you care at all about the Stone Hearts,” Ian says.
They’re words I should love to hear, but the inner Valerie who crushed on Ian as a teenager wins out. My shyness takes over. My cheeks ignite. I want to stop the world and melt right into the floor.
I am the opposite of a musician on stage. Put me backstage, taking notes, quietly cataloging.
But you know what? I’m a grown woman. And doggone it, I am a library scientist. “Preserving art, cataloging music history, that matters to me. I like tending to small niches that might be overlooked. The music that shaped me matters to me. It matters to a lot of people.”
I chance a look at Ian. Why does he have to be so terminally hot?
Silver bands ring more fingers than not.
He wears all black. Nothing pretentious, just black clothes that make him stand out rather than blend in.
Every single time he’s shown up at the school I felt aware of his presence.
Other parents noticed too, naturally. Ian is a topic of conversation among the moms, the dads, and a teacher who belongs to the online fan club forum.
“Why aren’t you calling for help, Valerie?”
Shoot. He asked again. “Look, I told you. I’m up for promotion. If Doreen finds out I’m here, I won’t get that job.” And if she finds out I’m with you, doubly so. If one can doubly not get a job.
“You mean Mrs. Fisk? Sorry, I can’t think of that woman having a first name.”
“She’s a real person, not a story villain.”
“Sure seems like a villain if you’re afraid to tell her you’re stuck down here. If she’s your boss, she should be aware of safety issues with her staff.”
“You think I’m not safe?”
He flashes a deadly smile. “You’re with me, aren’t you?”
Even joking, the light threat does its work on my body.
Ian has always felt a little dangerous. A little unpredictable.
And truth? I don’t fully trust myself here with Ian.
We’re two divorced adults, alone, with nothing but time.
He’s apologizing for years of built up frustration.
Not to mention, I’m a fan of Ian Heartbreak.
Let’s be serious here. I archive this man regularly.
I would gladly archive this man in a whole new way.
“ Valerie .” he says my name slow, teasing out the syllables. “What’s going through your head?”
My throat dries. I’m a practical woman. A parent. A librarian.
I’m also a woman who longs for more. For a grand gesture. For love. The kind of love that sweeps you off your feet. The kind of love you dream about at sixteen with tour busses and flights to Europe and backstage passes.
Or even a simple song, strummed on a guitar, over the dim light of a campfire.
That’s what’s going through my head. But the reality is, we’re two single parents stuck in an unfortunate situation until I do something about it. Which I am unwilling to do at the moment.
I sigh, thinking back to Old Mrs. Fisk. “I love working here. But Mrs. Fisk is tough. She’s forever correcting me.
She turns everything into a lecture, as if I don’t have a degree in library science.
I take courses online and do conferences to stay current with the industry.
Over and over, I try to prove myself. She still manages to make me feel so small. ”
Ian grinds a fist into his palm. “She made me feel small too. Like I didn’t belong.”
It hurts to hear him say that. No sullen teen should be made to feel like they don’t belong at the library.
“And Old Fisky is our only way out?” he asks. “No one else can unlock the library?”
“There’s Alan, but I don’t have his number.”
“Alan who you pounded on the door for?”
“I…” Somehow, he makes that sound dirty. “Yes. There’s another full timer, but she’s out of town this week.”
“Alan’s info isn’t on this rickety computer somewhere?” Ian hits the space key and the monitor wakes up.
I suck in a breath. There it is. My archive work. Band stuff. Ian stuff. Right there on the screen. I squint. It’s an online article from a few years back with a photo of Ian nested within the text. A little gray in his hair. Glasses.
Oh, the glasses. When Ian wears glasses, I feel things.
It’s public information, not like some private diary, but it’s Ian, on-screen.
It’s Ian, sitting directly in front of me. If he had on those dark framed glasses right now? I’d be a goner. Total goner.
Standing helps expend my nervous energy and gives me a chance to flee to the bathroom if desperate. Ian swivels away from the screen in his chair, leaning his elbows on his knees. “I’m going to say something and I want you to hear me out.”
I nod, still unable to fully breathe.
“I think you like being here. Trapped. With me.”
I want to deny it. So bad I want to, but he’s not wrong.
Not at all wrong and oh my gosh is this terrifying to be so close with Ian Heartbreak, ridiculous name and all, but not ridiculous to me, never to me.
His lean, tattooed arms call to me. And his dark hair with threads of silver, marking his years of experience.
This is no cocky teenager. Ian is a man, all grown up. He’s everything I feared he’d be. Thoughtful, considerate of his kids (despite my insistence he lets them run wild), apologetic, curious.
I do like being here, in my favorite little underground bunker. And I like him. I like Ian. I hate that I like him, but I like him.
“You have neither confirmed nor denied my statement.”
I observe things. I don’t live out teenage basement fantasies in the library.
He gets up from the chair. “I’m just an ADHD dad, standing in front of a librarian, asking her not to shush me.”
I could die. I could die right here. “I guess you know movies not books? Big surprise.” I mean to deflect with snark, but the snark is weak. Real weak.
“Hey, I read. I know books.”
“What’s your favorite book?”
He steps closer. “I don’t have one.”
I gulp. “Don’t have one or can’t think of one?”
Another step. “I’m not a guy who can list one favorite thing in each category. I like too many things.”
Bet that applies to women, given his history.
“If you think that applies to women, it does.” He gives a wolfish grin.
The spell is broken. “You’re just like I expected. An entitled rock star.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “Star is pushing it. Unless I played guitar with Nirvana, my kids don’t care. They also don’t care I was too young to be in Nirvana. We were still in high school. But you know all that, Ms. Archivist.”
“The date your world changed,” I whisper. Okay, so the spell hasn’t been broken.
He stills. “I said that. You remember?”
“April 8, 1994. And yes, I remember you said that.”
“When Kurt Cobain died. I felt like I lost a friend. I’d never felt that before. We were at?—”
“The library,” I finish for him. “And that’s the date the world found out, but he died three days earlier.” I expect him to roll his eyes at my specificity, but he doesn’t.
“The library used to be my sanctuary. My safe place. You should know that. You were always there.”
“You were disruptive in the library. You were always talking.”
“You think I was some kind of delinquent. I was just a kid in a band who spent a lot of time trying to not have to go home.” He’s close now, the safety latch is off.
“My parents were just trying to get by. I can see that now, with thirty years’ hindsight.
Back then, I just felt like I couldn’t do anything right.
I was a drain on them, and it was better if I wasn’t around. ”
I never knew. “And here I thought you never saw me.”
“I saw you.” He moves in another step, so close the heat of his breath reaches my lips.
I look up at him. His brown eyes spark with mischief. With something more. Desire? For me? “How about I won’t shush you.”
“Deal.” He closes the gap and meets his lips with mine.
Ian
Valerie tastes like sweet strawberries and long simmering honey. Like my favorite guitar through a stereo delay and drowning in reverb. Like coming home.