Page 32 of Minted

Whenever I want their tacos, I valet at the fancy place next door. Parking in NYC is a nightmare, so I valet whenever possible, and I pray they don’t jack up my car. This time, I’m guessing they won’t. Barbara’s mom’s Buick isn’t nearly as bad as she said it was. And instead of the mothballs she joked about, it smells like cinnamon.

My grandma used to always carry around Big Red gum, and it smells just like that.

I kind of like it, really. It’s almost Christmassy.

I’m finally getting out of the car and surrendering the keys when my phone buzzes. I whip it out, already smiling in anticipation of what Barbara might say about the pile of clothes. . .that she might have been worried was actually a photo of me, naked.

But it’s not her.

Lila the Librarian says, I’m here.

Goodie.

I should be more excited. I’m doing what Dave told me to do, and what Barbara also thinks is the right move. And who knows? I’ve met dozens of air-brushed Lilas and never clicked before, but it only takes once, right?

I square my shoulders, and I walk into the taco stand. I’m prepared that she may look nothing like her photo. She may be a man. She may talk like my dad. Or maybe she’ll hate books and say she thought it was a funny joke.

Only, when I see her, she looks exactly like her photo. She actually might be a little more luminescent in person.

“Lila?”

She smiles, and I notice her teeth are almost annoyingly perfect. That’s a good thing, right?

“I’m Bentley. I hope you didn’t wait long.”

“I just got here.” She stands and holds out her hand, like we’re here for a business deal. Which is better than, like, biting her lip and blowing me a kiss or something, I guess.

I shake her hand, which is firm but not overpowering. If I were thinking of acquiring her business, that would be good.

“So you’re a librarian,” I say.

“That’s what the paycheck says.” She perches on the stool again.

“What other things does the paycheck say to you?”

She laughs. “Usually things like, ‘sorry I’m not bigger.’”

“I don’t imagine librarians are handsomely paid, not with our government being the employer.”

“No, most people aren’t all about raising taxes for that sort of thing.”

The waiter comes, and she orders as fast as I do, which is nice.

“But, I do love what I do, and I decided when I was in high school that if I was going to work, it should be doing something I love.”

The conversation’s pretty fluid, and some of what she says is actually funny. Our tacos have finally arrived—she got three instead of just one like the last girl I brought here, which is refreshing—when my phone buzzes.

She’s mid-sentence, but I can’t help myself.

I whip it out.

“Is anything wrong?”

MY PHONE DIED.

That’s it? One text?

Then another comes through. THEN I ALMOST DIED. BENTLEY, WHAT WERE YOU THINKING? I DELETED THAT LAST PHOTO BEFORE IT COULD LOAD.

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