Page 5 of The Librarians
“I have an oddish question I hope you can help me with,” Perry continues.
If he enunciated better, he’d sound like a Shakespearean actor, someone who bellowsOnce more unto the breach, dear friendseight times a week to thunderous applause. But he lacks that perfect elocution because of a speech impediment—and she once found it so very charming.
“I can try,” says Hazel.
“A friend of mine is a movie producer. Occasionally, when he evaluates a script, he wants a little on-the-ground research.”
This is beginning to sound eerily, grotesquely familiar. Is his next sentence going to be about a thriller that takes place in a library?
“The script he’s looking at is a thriller that takes place in a library very much like this one. And he wants to know, realistically, how long a book can sit undisturbed on the library’s shelves. And what library policies or procedures might shorten or elongate that time frame.”
Is this what it feels like to have her eardrums blown out?
“Interesting questions—must be a fun script,” says Hazel. “I’m probably not the best person to answer since I’m new here. But I’m sure my colleagues can help.”
She looks behind herself. “Jonathan, could you come here for a second?”
Astrid thought she’d turned into a pillar of salt. But at that moment she moves fast enough to give Usain Bolt whiplash.
On the day Perry first came into the library—with those same questions—Astrid too asked Jonathan for help. She wasn’t exactly sure how RFID technology worked and wanted Jonathan’s input.
Another librarian might not have remembered Perry, but Jonathan would have taken note of a handsome Brit who respectfully acknowledged his expertise.
And she couldn’t bear it if Jonathan were to see her now.
Not at the moment he realizes, as she did, that Perry is just a younger, posher version of theFifty Shadesdude.
Six and a half months ago
Astrid stares across the parking lot of the library.
With the vine-laden trellises behind her, she can only see cars, asphalt, and the apartment complex beyond. But she knows that less than a mile ahead, the land folds into small canyons thick with yaupon and ash juniper—the first undulations of Texas Hill Country.
As long as it isn’t stuck under a heat dome, Austin, ribboned with greenbelts and rich in reservoir lakes, is a great place for the active lifestyle. Despite having always loved books and libraries, Astrid also adores open air and an unpaved path.
When the very outdoorsy Becky became her roommate, Astrid was delighted. She envisioned them hiking, cycling, and paddleboarding around town. She even imagined road trips to Marfa and Big Bend.
Then Becky showed a normal amount of interest in Astrid and Astrid became Greta Garbo, noted recluse.
Now Becky is moving out. She and her boyfriend might even buy a place together, if they can find one they’ll qualify for. Astrid is happy for Becky. But Becky progressing to the next stage of her life only highlights that Astrid is stuck.
No, worse than stuck. Her life has shrunk year by year.
“Hi, is this seat taken?”
Astrid looks up. It’s the British guy who asked about a movie script’s verisimilitude earlier. And he’s gesturing at the bench on the other side of the picnic table.
“Ah, no,” she said. And then, after a moment, “Feel free.”
He sits down across from her and smiles. “Spring in Texas is less sweltering than I feared—I thought I’d have to stay inside all the time.”
He has a nice smile and bright, even teeth—have Hollywood standards of glamour swept aside the supposed British disdain for orthodontia and cosmetic dentistry? The smile also brings out attractive wrinkles on the outer corners of his eyes. Earlier she gauged him to be in his midtwenties, but he must be her age—twenty-nine—or thereabouts.
“April is unpredictable. Last week the temperature went up to”—she calculates in her head—“around thirty-three degrees Celsius.”
“You mean more than ninety Fahrenheit?” He grins again. “In the UK when it’s cold, we use Celsius and say it’s below zero. But when it’s hot, we switch to Fahrenheit, because it’s much more dramatic to shout, ‘Blimey, it went over a hundred!’ ”
She chortles, even as the gears in her head smoke from trying to figure out if he’s flirting with her.
