Page 13 of Love in the Stacks
mom wants to do a video call after dinner
Molly:
I’ll be around
Nicole:
Me too
When I get home, I realize I haven’t been grocery shopping and have almost nothing to eat.Come on, Nicole, I think to myself.You can do it; stores are still open, if crowded, at this hour on the day before Thanksgiving.
After changing my clothes, I order a rideshare. I have the car wait out front at the grocery store, so I shop quickly. I’m definitely not cooking a big feast for just myself, but I do try to get somewhat festive foods: sliced turkey for turkey sandwiches, frozen sweet potato fries, and a Marie Callender’s pumpkin pie.
Back home, as I’m putting the groceries away, I can’t help but sigh. This is just pathetic. Alone for Thanksgiving. I take my pity party into the living room and binge watch every fall-related episodeof theGilmore Girls. When I first started watching this show, I was obsessed with Rory’s boyfriends. I’m somewhat reluctantly team Jess, but really, I wish we could create a mixture of Jess’s bookishness and Logan’s charisma. That guy would be unstoppable. Anyway, these days I’m more drawn to Lorelai’s love interest, Luke. If only I could find a man as supportive and committed as Luke. Cooking skills wouldn’t hurt either. Sure, he’s a little rough around the edges, a little antisocial, but so what? But I don’t know when I’ll be ready to date real men again anyway, so for now I’ll settle for watching fictional Luke Danes in Stars Hollow.
On Thanksgiving Day, I watch the Macy’s Parade alone and then the dog show that comes on right after it, because why not? I make myself a turkey sandwich and heat up some sweet potato fries in the air fryer. We try to do a three-way video call between my family in Austin, Molly, and me, but it’s glitchy and frustrating.
I’m homesick. It seriously sucks to be away from my family during a holiday. Next time, I’ll buy the airfare knowing it’s well worth the money.
The next day, I try calling Molly, but she’s keeping herself busy working in the lab. I try to call Olivia, but she’s Black Friday shopping with her friend, Annie.
I start mindlessly scrolling social media and realize I miss Adam’s daily memes. They’ve become such a part of my routine over the last couple of weeks. So, I sneak over to his meme library account and spend an embarrassingly long time exploring. He tries to capture everything, whether they’re to his own taste or not, but I notice that he uses the hashtag #adamspick to denote his favorites. I go down therabbit hole of everything with that tag and see quite a few I recognize from his messages. Without thinking, I “like” the ones that make me laugh. I like at least twenty posts before I realize with horror that Adam is probably getting notifications about my likes. My screen name is definitely recognizable—it’s just NikkiDee (nobody calls me Nikki in real life though)—and I use my real picture for the profile.
I could go back and unlike each post one by one, but if Adam has already seen the notifications, he’ll know that I unliked them and that will look weird. If he hasn’t seen the notifications, will they disappear when I unlike the post? Or will they still be there, and he’ll still see them and wonder why he’s getting the notification when NikkiDee is not showing as a like on the post? I could change the profile picture and screen name of my account and lock it down so when he sees it, he doesn’t know it’s me. I could completely delete the account altogether. My finger hovers over the delete button when I realize I’m spiraling.
I set the phone down and do my deep breathing exercise instead. Then I put on shoes and go for a walk to guide my brain through the logic of reality. Fact: Adam will see that I liked a bunch of posts on his public meme social media feed. Question: So what? Answer: It’s not a big deal. The feed is made for the public to view. Adam himself shared the link with me, so he knows I have it. He’ll probably feel happy that I’m enjoying the content.
Once I talk myself down, I get out of my head and focus on the sights around me as I walk. St. Anastasia is a tourist destination, so there are plenty of people around for the holiday weekend. In fact, I would say it’s busier than normal. Bunches of people arecrowding together in the town square, looking like they’re waiting for something. I wander over and settle myself inside the throng. I listen in on the buzzing conversation around me and discover that the city’s lighting ceremony for their holiday light display is tonight. In about twenty minutes, in fact.
The holiday lights are a big deal in St. Anastasia. The city is often on travel lists of the “Best holiday light displays” and “Best places to visit at Christmas”. I saw the lights last year, of course. Each of the tall oak trees in the city square drips with strands of warm white lights. The lights extend along the sidewalk by the water and over the bridge to a nearby barrier island. It’s breathtaking! Businesses in the downtown area participate and compete for who has the best decorations. In the spirit of commercialism, the trolley companies that run historical tours during the day turn into rolling holiday parties at night, blasting festive music and ferrying tourists to see the lights around the city.
The annual lighting ceremony is a notable event, but I didn’t go last year. The festivities start with a choir from the local high school singing carols. Then, the mayor gets up and speaks for a few minutes. Finally, it’s the big countdown. “Ten! … Nine! … Eight! … Seven! ... Six!” I chant along, in unison with the crowd. “Five! … Four! … Three! … Two! … One!”
In a flash of light, the switch is flipped and the branches above our heads sparkle in the November night sky. The collective energy around the square is one of excitement and awe. Around me, families with children point and clap at the bulbs. Couples steal kisses in the dim glow. And I’m by myself, but for the first time all week,I don’t feel alone. I feel like I’m part of something here, a shared experience amidst a community of people.
It gives me hope, for the first time in a long time—before Steven probably—that I belong. That despite my mental health struggles, and my loud hair, and my penchant for confrontation, it could be me out here one day, sharing this moment with a family of my own. And that I am deserving of that future, if I want it.
Adam’s face swims to the front of my consciousness. I quickly swipe it away. To preserve the feeling of hope, a nebulous face on my future love is all I can handle at the moment. I’ll admit an openness to the possibility of connecting with a man again, but nothing more. Without specifics, it stays a beautiful, hazy dream that will carry me through the rest of the weekend.
Chapter eight
Nicole
Isqueal as soon as I open the email from Herb. It’s been two weeks since Thanksgiving. This is the last week of the semester, and the library is shutting down after next Wednesday for the winter break. I was afraid Herb would keep us waiting on the graphic novel pilot proposal until January.
But here it is! The email saying that he approves of the pilot project, and we can move forward.
I jump up from my desk and dart down the hall to Adam’s office. The door is open, so I poke my head inside. He’s focused on his computer screen, his eyebrows pinched together and his mouth in a serious line. For the first year I knew Adam, this is exactly the face I most associated with him—serious and grumpy. But, in these last few weeks where I’ve worked with him more closely, I’ve realized that the frowning, serious Adam is actually the exception rather thanthe rule. As if that thought has heralded my presence, Adam looks up just then. When he sees me, his whole demeanor changes. His brown eyes brighten, appearing almost amber in color, and his lips curve into an immediately pleased smile. His brows unfurrow as he removes his glasses and rubs his eyes before regarding me again.
“Hey!” he says.
“Hi,” I answer, suddenly feeling shy about standing here at his office door uninvited. My face heats with his eyes on me, my stomach flipping in a way that feels almost like butterflies. Still standing in the doorway, I push my words forward into the room.
“Did you see Herb’s email?”
“No.” He frowns, and his eyes return to his computer screen as he clicks into the email program. “What did he say?”
“He said yes!” I step forward until I’m just in front of his desk. My hands are clasped together where I’m holding them just below my chin.
