Page 7 of Love in the Stacks
“No,” Adam protests. “I don’t mind. I’m interested in learning about it, and I can tell you’re not only an expert, but have a passion too. I like hearing interesting people talk about their interests.”
He smiles then. A genuine smile that shows his teeth and crinkles the corners of his eyes. It transforms his face, and I find myself staring at the way the corners of his lips push the apples of his cheeks higher, his eyes creasing with enjoyment.
“In that case…” I laugh but don’t continue. He laughs, too. I find that I’m not feeling irritated anymore. I’m almost at ease. Maybe this will work out after all.
“Would our graphic novel collection be mostly nonfiction?” he asks.
“Well,” I answer, “mostly, I think, but it will depend on why we’re selecting each particular title. Titles for the history department should be nonfiction, or close to it, but titles for the art department could be anything as long as the illustrations are particularly noteworthy.”
“That makes sense,” he says. Then, more unsure, “Can I make a suggestion?”
“Okay,” I answer, bracing myself.
“I’ve been looking at graphic novel collections at other libraries, especially academic, and I see that there’s no clear convention for classification. Some libraries are using author last name, especially for fiction collections, and some academic libraries are using Library of Congress.” He pauses here and focuses his eyes on me, as if watching for my reaction. “We should use Library of Congress, so it matches the bulk of our collection upstairs and makes it clear how the graphic novels fit into our collection academically.”
“But not shelve them with the rest of the collection, right?” I ask carefully.
“No. No, they can still be their own collection on their own shelf but ordered on the shelf and with call numbers that align with the larger collection. So, like, the Holocaust book you mentioned would be D 804 whatever.”
He’s talking about organizing the books by subject, rather than author or something else, using the Library of Congress classification system, which is the system most academic libraries use for theirnonfiction collections. Almost everyone knows, at least by name, the Dewey Decimal system, which assigns numerical numbers to books based on subject and determines where they are placed on the shelf, but many don’t know that Dewey Decimal is mostly used by public libraries and doesn’t work as well for the deeper, scholarly collections at college and university libraries. I have to admit, I’m impressed that he pulled that classification number out of the air, matching it seamlessly to books about the Holocaust. I mean, I haven’t fact-checked him, andIcertainly don’t have categories memorized, but I’m assuming he’s right.
I haven’t yet responded to his idea, and he’s still watching my face closely. I wonder what it’s telling him. I don’t want to be overly enthusiastic—I’m still a little bitter about the situation as a whole—but it isn’t really Adam’s fault that Herb assigned him to babysit me. He’s just trying to help.
“That works for me,” I finally say.
Another smile, smaller this time. “Okay, good.”
We coordinate schedules to set our next meeting. We need to start making a list of specific titles for the pilot, and the liaison librarians will need a chance to look at those title suggestions before we finalize the proposal.
The next couple of hours pass quickly, and soon I’m walking home. It’s a cool November evening. Cool for Florida in the fall, anyway, a brisk sixty-five degrees as the sun starts waning. I pull out my keys as I walk up the short flight of stairs to my apartment. Opening the front door, I dump my purse on the entry table and head to my bedroom to change.
Now in joggers and an oversized Harkness T-shirt, I collapse onto the couch, letting myself relax for a few minutes before I figure out dinner.
Without prompting or permission, my brain starts replaying the interactions I had at work that day, like the brief run-in I had with Samantha, another librarian, in the breakroom. Making small talk, she said something about the cinnamon raisin bagel she was eating, and I told her I didn’t like raisins. I consider how the tone of my voice sounded when I said that. Hopefully friendly and not argumentative or dismissive. I mean, I don’t like raisins, but I don’t know why I said so. Why not just make a noncommittal comment about my lunch or the deliciousness of cream cheese or anything that would invite connection instead of being off-putting? Ugh. Why am I like this?
I wonder what Samantha thought of the interaction.
I take a breath then—deeply in through my nose and then out through my mouth. I remind myself, or rather I hear the voice of my old therapist from Texas inside my head reminding me, that the people around me do not spend time dissecting their interactions with me. I am not important enough in their lives for them to even remember the conversations more than a few days later. I understand that on a cerebral level, I do, but on an emotional level, I’m still left spiraling a little. Maybe they don’t remember the words or the tone of voice or give it much thought, but surely each interaction gives them a subconscious sense of me that combines to form their overall impression. Like, “Oh, Nicole? Yeah, she’s that awkward woman who’s always talking too much in meetings.” Andthey don’t even know how they arrived at that estimation of who I am, but it was built up over many small, forgettable moments of me saying or doing something weird.
Anyway. Yay, anxiety. The medication I take helps a bit with the spiraling thoughts, especially early in the day, but mostly it helps keep the serotonin and dopamine levels in my brain to a decent level. When I’m particularly stressed, I try to proactively do more things that bring me joy, like eating certain foods, being outside in nature, or reading. My body will actually start craving these things. The eating thing can get me into trouble though. I’ve never had a very fast metabolism, and my “little treats” add up. I am what would be considered “slightly overweight” for my height, but I’m trying to eat more like an adult and less like a teenager, even though I don’t have much self-control when it comes to the food that makes me happy.
Speaking of—I force myself off the couch and make my way to the small galley kitchen. Dinner. I really should plan my meals better, but with just myself to worry about, I can’t seem to find the motivation. Taking stock of the pantry and refrigerator, I pull out a box of pasta, a jar of fancy tomato sauce, and some steam-in-the-bag frozen vegetables. Easy. And a much better option than ordering take-out. Good job, Nicole at the grocery store three days ago!
When everything is ready, I carry my plate out to the small balcony just off the living room and set it on the table. I don’t have a dining room or space in the kitchen for a table, so I mostly eat my meals outside. If it’s raining, I eat on the couch or stand at the kitchen counter.
I step back inside to grab my tablet. Settling into a chair in the cool, evening air, I pull up an e-book on the tablet, setting it on the table next to my dinner plate.
I like graphic novels in print form, but for my other reading, I love e-books. They’re convenient, don’t take up space in my small apartment, and have the added bonus of being discreet. Truth be told, I’m a closet romance reader. I’m not sure exactly why I feel I need to hide it. I don’t even read too much of the “spicier” stuff, though I do read some. My college boyfriend knew and teased me about it. Looking back, it may have been more mocking than teasing, really. We were both English majors, and he felt that genre fiction was beneath us, somehow. Like the only books worth reading are the literary ones; the ones that say something profound about people, about life. I do like literary fiction and appreciate how the words come together in beautiful ways, but nothing matches the joy I feel from reading a book with a guaranteed happily ever after. It’s almost freeing that instead of eschewing the cliché, romance writers proudly advertise what tropes readers will find in each book. And readers love it, seeking out recommendations for books with their favorite situations and plot lines. I certainly gobble them up, that’s for sure.
I sigh contentedly, enjoying the evening, my simple dinner, and my book.
Chapter four
Adam
Ipull into the driveway, big enough for a single car, in the back of my two-bedroom townhome that evening. The entry I use most often, leading into my living room, is technically the back door. After unlocking it and going inside, my first move, as always, is to greet my dog, Joan. Or rather, stay put while she greets me, rubbing against my legs and wagging her tail. She’s a three-year-old pit bull mix who I adopted from a local rescue when she was a puppy. Joan, short for Joan of Arc, weighs about sixty pounds and has dark brown fur with white markings.
Dropping my computer bag on the couch, I grab Joan’s leash from the side table and hook it onto her collar. We walk the same route we take every morning and every evening, winding through my small subdivision of townhouses, and then the small subdivision across the street. It’s about a mile, but usually takes us thirtyminutes to complete because Joan likes to stop and smell pretty much everything along the way.
