1. Nellie
ONE
NELLIE
12 Years Ago, April
I’ve made a terrible mistake, I think as yet another half-drunk person decked out in a baseball hat and jersey slams into my side. If I had bothered to use my brain, I’d have checked the baseball schedule before arranging a time for my parents to pick me up from the station. I can never remember how early in the year the season starts. Hell, I would have walked from Toronto all the way home. It would have taken me until tomorrow afternoon, but at least I wouldn’t have to deal with this buffoonery.
As the train pulls in, people ignore the yellow line on the edge of the platform. The yellow line you’re supposed to stay behind to lower your risk of dying by getting hit the very train you’re waiting to board.
People have now surrounded me, and my hope of securing a place to sit slips away. When the door opens, I’m jostled violently as people catch themselves on my backpack and kick my suitcase this way and that.
“Don’t mind me,” I call out. “I enjoy being invisible.” I’m hoping I sound as bitchy as I feel but probably not. I’ve been told that I’m too easygoing, and even when I’m miffed about something, it takes a great deal of effort to get my true feelings across. A chronic people-pleaser, that’s me.
I feel hands on my shoulders and immediately stop breathing, but those hands keep me in place as another person rams into me.
“Not invisible.” A voice comes from behind me. “Just too nice.” His hands leave my shoulders, and he steps to my right. I look over just in time for him to gesture towards the train. “After you.”
He steps on after me and is forced to stop just inside the door as I block the way forward. Sure enough, every seat is taken and three people are sitting on the stairs, blocking the way to the second level. It looks like I’ll be standing at the entrance for the next little while. I take a step to the side and pull my backpack to my front and my suitcase as close as possible, and let out a sigh as my back hits the flimsy train wall.
Mr. Chivalrous leans against the wall to my right on the other side of the door. He looks completely unbothered by the entire situation. His long legs are crossed at the ankles, and his attention is on his phone. I use his distraction as an opportunity to study him. He’s tall and lanky with dark brown hair that curls below the base of his cap. It’s hard to tell his age, but I’d guess somewhere around my own, early twenties. I’m staring at the crest on his jersey when I feel that telltale tingle of being watched. When I glance up I see that he’s looking back at me, eyebrows disappearing under the rim of his hat. I smile shyly and immediately look away, but not before he sees my entire face turn bright red.
We spend the rest of the time between leaving the station and the first stop, exchanging not-so-subtle glances. I catch him looking at the tattoo behind my right ear, and he catches me staring at his hands. He has a ring on his one index finger, a thick silver band, and when he’s not texting, he’s spinning it with his thumb. I can almost feel those hands on my shoulders still. The comforting weight of them keeping me firmly in place while people pushed by. Then that voice, smooth and deep, letting me know that at least one person sees me
Right before the first stop is announced, people begin to gather at the door and block my view of my seatless buddy. The sudden disappointment at not being able to see him shocks me. Perhaps I just prefer looking at him to staring down at my feet or my reflection in the window across from me.
After people disembark, I notice he’s gone, and my heart sinks a little. I must just be tired or ashamed that I didn’t thank him for being kind when everyone else just pushed by. But then I hear the same voice from earlier.
“Hey. I snagged you a seat.” And sure enough, when I look over, he’s sitting in a section of four seats, three of which are empty.
“Thank you,” I say sitting kitty-corner to him. “And thanks for earlier.”
He smiles over at me shaking his head. “No need to thank me.” He’s got pretty nice teeth, although his canines are so pointy I can’t help wondering if he’s ever made someone bleed when kissing them. Don’t think of him kissing anyone, Nellie, I scold my wandering mind. I force myself to wonder what I’d do if I had teeth like that. For starters, I’d be a vampire or some kind of faerie character every Halloween. When people asked me where I got the teeth, I’d say my mom and dad gave them to me and probably laugh maniacally.
For three more stops, we sit quietly pretending not to look at each other. But as the train empties even more, it feels weird to be sitting this close to someone without headphones and not talking .
“How was the game?” I ask, slipping my cardigan off. I don’t know if the train is hot or if this guy is having some kind of physical effect on me, but I do know that the extra layer is now totally unnecessary.
I see his eyes follow my actions and then stick to my arm. “It was good. They won so can’t complain. Are you a fan?” he asks, tilting his chin towards the blue jay in flight on my inner forearm.
I wince. “No, not really. I’m not a sports girl.”
“So just a bird girl then?” His eyes land on the black swallow on my wrist.
“My dad’s an ornithologist, and birds are kind of our thing.”
“That’s someone who studies birds right?”
“Excellent deductive reasoning,” I say approvingly.
“Is that what you’re in school for?”
“How do you know I’m in school for anything?”
He points at my suitcase. “It’s the end of the school year, you look around my age, and you’ve got a suitcase without any airline tags. Also”—he nods down at my backpack—“there’s an Ossington University pin on your backpack."
“Right…” I say slowly looking down at my case and then back up at him. He’s smiling again with one eyebrow quirked, waiting for my answer. “No, but my major is equally nerdy.”
“Geology?”
I shake my head.
“Elvish?”
“Elvish? I don’t think that’s a thing.”
“Oh, it’s definitely a thing. There’s a course at Ossington.”
“No, there’s not,” I reply in disbelief because I would know.
“There is. I nearly took it,” he claims, almost proudly.
“Why didn’t you?”
He leans in, smirking. “Too nerdy,” he says quietly, a wide smile replacing the smirk. “Nah, I didn’t have room for it in my schedule.”
“Well, clearly I’m not majoring in Elvish if I didn’t even know there was a course on it.” I straighten primly, trying to ignore what that smile does to me. Trying desperately to not think about what those teeth would feel like against my tongue.
He studies me for a beat. His hand with the ring pinching his bottom lip, keeping my attention right where I’m trying not to look. “I’m not sure I can think of anything as nerdy as those three things.”
“I’m a library sciences major.”
“So you can be a…”
“Librarian.”
He looks taken aback. “I don’t mean to be rude, but you need a degree to be a librarian?”
“What is it that you think librarians do?” I ask with a slight tilt of my head.
“Tell people to be quiet and stamp books.”
“Yes, well, there is a proper way to shush people,” I say with a straight face. “I need two credits in Shushing to get my degree. It’s basically a language course in Library Science.”
He leans back and crosses one ankle over his knee. “I don’t fully believe you, but I also had no idea that librarians needed a degree so I’m not confident in my assumption.”
“Stick with your gut. It’s not a course. The goal is to be an information professional.”
“Like a professional know-it-all?” He offers a crooked grin, and if I had been standing, I’m pretty sure my legs would have given out.
“Well, that sounds like someone who would be the most unpopular person in the room.”
“Sorry, I don’t mean it negatively,” he amends. “I’m just trying to understand what it is you study then. Like, do you just learn everything? Is it something you need additional schooling for?”
“A master’s is pretty much necessary. But I’ll have loads of job opportunities. It’s not just libraries, it’s working for corporations, media, law…” I could go on, really delve into my courses and career opportunities, but I don’t want to talk about me anymore. “What about you? What kept your schedule too busy for Elvish?”
“Environmental Science.” He blushes when he says it. He’s hot, chivalrous, and is interested in the natural world? Be still my nerdy heart.
“Ah, so you can be a professional environment know-it-all?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know, it was just a major that appealed to me, and having a degree can’t hurt, right?”
“So you’re not passionate about it?”
“I mean, I am, in a way. I like nature, being outdoors, and knowing things about being outdoors. I just don’t really know what I’m going to do with the degree. Probably something with trees. I like being in the forest. Ask me in a couple of months.”
“Shall we meet on the train to discuss in two months?”
“I was thinking maybe you’d give me your number… or I could give you mine.”
This catches me off guard, and the lie slips out before I can stop it. “I’m not sure my boyfriend would like that.”
He blanches. “Shit, sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed. I mean, look at you.” He says it so softly I’m not even sure I hear him correctly.
“It’s fine. I’m flattered. Do you regret saving me a seat now?”
“Nope.” He shakes his head without breaking eye contact. “I had no ulterior motive before we started talking.”
“What stop is yours? ”
“Wellington. You?” So close, only a twenty-minute drive from me.
“Stewardsville.”
“You from there?”
“No…” I debate lying about where I’m from, but decide he doesn’t seem like the type of guy who’s going to track me down. Not that that kind of guy is going to be wearing some kind of identifier. “Comrie.”
“Ugh, so you’ve gotta take the bus the rest of the way home?”
“Thankfully no. My parents are meeting me in Stewardsville. My dad would drive to the ends of the earth as long as he didn’t have to go through Toronto. So I get as far from the city as I can via train. That way he avoids the city and I avoid a bus. It’s a win-win.”
“Solid arrangement. Did you go to Centennial?”
“I did. Did you go to Wellington High?”
“Sure did. Do you know Spencer Caldwell?”
“He may be a distant relation of mine.”
“No shit. He ended my high school baseball career by hitting me with a line drive.”
Awkward. “Did I mention he’s a distant relation?”
“You did, yes.”
“So did you have grand dreams of playing for the hometown team before my distantly related cousin ended your promising career?”
“Nah.” He shakes his head, laughing softly. It’s a nice soothing sound in this somewhat chaotic environment. “I was a mediocre pitcher just trying to get through high school with a decent number of extracurriculars.”
“What else did you do? Maybe you know someone who ended my debating career or something.”
“I don’t think we had a debate team. ”
“We didn’t either, but I wish we did. All those American shows with debate teams made me so jealous.”
“I would have been terrible. I’m too much of a pushover. I was in the orchestra, if you can believe it.”
“Oh?” My mind immediately tries to guess what instrument he played. He has long fingers which would come in handy for many things—I mean, instruments. “Cello?”
“Think smaller.”
“Violin?”
He smiles and nods.
“Huh.”
“What, don’t I look like a violin player?”
“I’m not sure anyone wearing a baseball hat, jersey, and jeans has ever looked like one.”
“You know I can take these things off, right?” I feel my face heat again. “Like I have other clothes.”
“Well, I figured. Do you still play?”
“Occasionally. Makes my mom smile so I’ll play for her sometimes.”
Why the hell did I tell him I have a boyfriend?
“You don’t play for you?”
“Okay, once in a while I’ll play for myself too. I have to practice, after all. I’d hate to subject her to a wrong note.”
“You’re a good son.” I offer a small smile, and he returns it.
“I hope so.” He looks out the window, and I see his brows furrow slightly in the reflection. “How about you?” he asks, turning back to me, his face relaxed again. “Play any instruments?”
“Ha! I have no aptitude for music. Hitting the play button is as close as I get to it.”
“Well, we can’t all be good at everything, or life would be boring.”
“True. I read a lot. ”
“How else are you supposed to know everything if you don’t read?” he jokes. “What do you like reading?”
“Historical fiction and fantasy, mostly.”
“Those do not seem like two genres that go together.”
“I don’t know. They both kind of take the reader out of the real world. I mean, historical fiction is the real world, I guess, but I tend to read books set before the end of World War Two. So it seems otherworldly sometimes.”
“I don’t read much, but I do like it when I do. My dad’s a big spy novel guy and is always recommending his latest to me. They don’t really appeal to me, though.”
“What about them don’t you like?”
“I don’t know.” His forehead scrunches up in thought. “It’s like someone gave an author a checklist of manly things and said, ‘Include all this stuff, and men will read the book.’ It feels so forced.”
“You could say the same thing for some romance. But it’s definitely not all the books, so maybe there is one out there you’d enjoy. I mean, the nice thing about books is that there is something for everyone. Some people want a very formulaic story, and there’s nothing wrong with that. While others, like yourself it would seem, need something a bit more out of left field.”
“Look at you with the baseball term,” he says proudly.
“Hard to avoid when it’s part of everyday vernacular.”
His eyes widen and that crooked grin appears. “Vernacular, nice word. Okay, question. If you were to recommend two authors for me to check out, one in each genre, who would you suggest?”
I think for a minute. “Kate Culliver for historical fiction. And… Maira Sahni’s series The Forest of Despair. You can’t go wrong with either. ”
He pulls out his phone and taps away, probably typing “This girl is a nerd.”
The next stop is announced, and I feel myself panic as he stands. “You know, I don’t think my boyfriend would mind if I gave you my number to talk about books.” He looks down at me in a way that makes me think he sees through my lie.
“I’ll only use it for book purposes, scout’s honor.” He holds up his fingers in a salute and hands me his phone.
“I think that’s the Girl Guide’s salute.” I laugh as I type out my number and add “Library Girl” into the name field before handing it back.
He looks down at me, and for a minute I don’t think he’s going to say anything. But then his lips tilt to the side in a crooked grin. “It was nice to meet you, Library Girl.”
“You too, Enviro Guy.” And then I watch as he steps off the train and waves back. I have the sudden urge to stick my head out the door and yell that I’m single, but instead I watch as he disappears down the platform, barely noticing the jerk of the train as it starts towards its final stop.
Five minutes later my phone pings with an unknown number.
Unknown
Thanks for the book recs, LG.
I can feel the heat of the blush as it spreads across my face, and I add him as a contact under Enviro Guy.
Anytime, EG.