Page 48 of Love in the Stacks
The man introduces himself as Jordan, who I spoke with on the phone. He confirms that they have the tire my car needs in stock, and they can fit me in right away.
I walk back out to the car to get Nicole. We grab our snacks and water bottles. As we settle into the plastic chairs in the waiting area, I tell Nicole, “He said it will take about two hours. We should getto New Orleans by nine. Not soon enough to go to the welcome reception, but still, not too far behind schedule.”
She nods in response. “Again, Adam, I’m really sorry.”
“Again,” I smile. “It’s really not your fault.”
Nicole stares at the wall behind me, a faraway look in her eyes.
I quietly prompt, “Do you want to talk about it? Friend to friend?” I give her a gentle smile and my heart feels tight when she smiles back.
“I, um, I have pretty severe anxiety,” she says. I’m surprised, but I don’t interrupt her. “I’ve been anxious my whole life. Once when I was maybe four, I was backstage after a ballet recital. I let one of the teachers lead me all around searching for my bag—I even described it to her—because I just didn’t know how to tell her that I didn’t even bring a bag.” She shrugs. “Another time, I was maybe seven? There was this babysitter who took me and my sisters to the mall to get ice cream. The ice cream shop was upstairs, and we were going to have to go on an escalator to get there. I just couldn’t go on that escalator; I was too afraid. She spent like fifteen minutes trying to convince me it was fine and then got frustrated and we left. Molly was so mad at me. It was my fault we couldn’t get ice cream. When Mom found out, she was mad, too, at the babysitter. Never hired her again. The next day Mom bought all the fixings for ice cream sundaes—chocolate sauce, caramel, sprinkles, whipped cream. We had so much fun. Molly forgave me.
“Around middle school, I started having symptoms of depression too. All the hormones and everything. I was a pretty morose teenager. Angsty with no reason to be. A little emo, a little goth,but without ear gauges or anything. I could never stand how those looked. I usually wore all black.”
Again, I’m surprised, but I want her to continue, so I say nothing. Instead, I reach for her hand, tucking it inside my own.
“It got pretty bad. I had a lot of dark thoughts. Dark emotions. My parents took me to the doctor, and I started taking medication. Things were much better after that. I felt more like myself. Even with the medication, I’ll always feel a little anxious, especially when I’m stressed. But the depression has only come back once. After I graduated from college during my first semester in library school.”
Nicole stops talking for so long that I wonder if she’s done.
I clear my throat. “What happened?” I ask. “I mean, did something trigger it?”
She looks up at me, her eyes glassy. I’m about to tell her that she doesn’t need to say, doesn’t need to talk about it anymore, when she drops her head and continues.
“My, uh, boyfriend at the time,” she starts. Her eyes flick up to mine for a tiny moment. “We went to college together and dated for over three years. After we graduated, we both stayed local. I was in library school, and he was, well, mostly couch surfing and looking for a job. He ran hot and cold. Either I was the love of his life and he couldn’t get enough of me, or he couldn’t stand to be near me and froze me out. Sometimes within the same week. I, um, I took it very personally. I was in love with him. My anxiety was through the roof because I never knew where I stood with him. I second-guessed everything I did around him, everything I said. I would lie in bed after hanging out with him and dissect every word, convinced thatif I had only worded things this way or didn’t talk about whatever, he would love me better.” She puffs out a long breath. “Obviously things were pretty toxic, but I didn’t realize it at the time. When he finally broke up with me, I started seeing a therapist more often, in addition to the medication.”
She stops now and meets my eyes, flashing me a sheepish smile. As ifshe’sashamed. As if she’s the one who was in the wrong. My hands are bunched into fists, knuckles pressing into my thighs. I don’t remember ever being as mad as I am right now. I’m not an angry person. I remind myself that anger is not going to help Nicole right now. I breathe a deep breath through my nose and release the air through my mouth.
“Nicole,” I start, but my voice sounds scratchy. I clear my throat and try again. “I’m honored you trust me enough to share that with me. I wouldn’t have guessed.”
“I’m in such a better place now,” she rushes to say. “Really, I am. Like I said, though, the anxiety never really goes away, and every once in a while, I have a panic attack, like the one today.”
She pauses and her eyebrows pinch together, as if she’s trying to solve a riddle. “I’ve never before come out of an attack as quickly as I did today,” she says slowly.
The intense green of her eyes captures me and I can’t look away. Not that I want to. She’s holding me in place with just her gaze, and I can hardly breathe. Before I can say or do anything to act on the impulse to reach for her and crush her against my chest, to shield her from tough emotions and jerk ex-boyfriends, she exhales a long breath, shaking her head quickly back and forth.
“Anyway,” she smiles. “You were awesome today.”
The quick transition is enough to give me whiplash. Nicole’s saying she’s done talking about it. Message received.
I force a smile. “Nah,” I say.
She pushes on. “You really were! Changing the tire. And the fact that you happened to have a chair in your trunk. You are prepared.” She pauses, then smirks. “You were a boy scout, weren’t you?”
I feel the tops of my ears warm. “I made Eagle,” I admit.
After just under two hours of sharing our Buc-ee’s snacks, laughing, and joking together, we’re on the road again.
Chapter twenty-two
Nicole
Friday morning on the first full day of the conference, I’m still feeling drained from the emotional exertion of the day before. Adam did a pretty good job of talking me out of feeling embarrassed, instead helping me feel safe in my vulnerability, but the aftereffects of the panic attack are still lingering in my nervous system. I’m on edge, but I’m also determined to make the most of this conference I’ve been looking forward to for weeks.
I spend the morning in various workshops and conference sessions, jotting down pages of notes: AI tools being built into databases, strategies for working well with faculty, the newest trends in pedagogy for library instruction. I stand in line for what feels like an hour to buy an overpriced, wilted sandwich from the food stand inside the convention center.
That afternoon, I carve out some time to visit the exhibit hall. I follow the NLA conference signs at the convention center until I reach a stairway. Stepping aside, I stop and look over the half wall onto the exhibit hall floor below. I gasp. It’s like a village. Hundreds of thousands of square feet of temporary walls, elaborate displays, large signs, and even stages. I recognize the names of many of the library vendors, but there are some I’ve never heard of, too. This isn’t my first NLA conference—I went to one back when I was in my master’s program—but I didn’t spend much time in the exhibit hall when I was here before. Today, I don’t have any real goals in the exhibit hall. I’m not in charge of purchasing so I don’t need to meet with vendors. Instead, I want to get a sense of it, to experience it. I saw in the directory that there’s a graphic novel and gaming stage, surrounded by booths for comics vendors. I know I want to see that.
