Page 26 of Haunted Hearts
I’m still thinking about that gorgeous foyer when I get home at six. For someone who’s so against the changes being made to the library building, I’m disconcertingly impressed with the rendering Will showed me today. The paneling along the walls, the modernized yet still subtle lighting, the graceful sweep of the majestic banister, commanding all the attention away from the elevator shaft and automatic door. It isn’t lost on me that he reworked the design forme. He listened.
But still—that damn elevator. That freaking door. Thatcomputerlab. There’s a rock in my stomach when I think about it, because Iknowit’s what’s best for the community. Only aprivileged bitch would turn up her nose at making the library a more accessible place to the public. But that’s exactly what I’m doing. And I kind of hate myself for it.
I just… can’t let go. I can’t let go of this place. Or of Mom, and our memories together there, and her dream of having it recognized as the historical landmark it’s always been. She loved this place even more than I did. I guess it’s a good sign that I’m starting to chip away at Will Holloway, get him to see my side a bit more. He’s at least listening, which is more than anyone on the board has done so far.
I just need to keep at him, keep making my case. I’m nothing if not determined.
I throw my bag on the counter and pull out the Nespresso machine. I know it’s evening, but I’m too up in my head to even think about going to bed anytime soon. A little coffee will give me a jolt of energy to help me dissect the never-ending stream of thoughts. Or at least, I hope so.
As the water heats up, I lean back against the counter, scrolling through my phone. Instagram is the same cacophonous mire it always is, but I flick through it anyway, glad for the distraction as the Nespresso machine gurgles. Bookstagrammers gushing about cowboy romance novels, amateur fashionistas with better style sense than I’ll ever have, stupid memes from the library science account I followed in grad school. Some of those still make me laugh.
But then there’s a story that makes me suck in my breath. Actually, I flick right past it, and only when it registerswhatthat just wasdo I scroll back to see it for real.
And I was right. My split second first glance hunch was right.
There’s a couple on the shore, waves crashing behind them, who are all over each other in a way that, were they not fully clothed, would probably get their accounts banned. And yeah—the account who posted it? It’s fucking Dylan.
He’s holding the girl like she jumped on him, hands squeezing her jean-clad ass, and her legs are wrapped around him. And unfortunately for us unsuspecting scrollers, they’re turned to the side—so we can see every bit of their full-on make-out sesh. The girl’s long blond hair tumbles down her shoulders, and although I can’t see her face very well—and nor do I want to try—I’d bet anything it’s the blonde from the Farmers Market. The one he introduced as his “friend”.
I tear my eyes away from the photo to read the caption, and my heart sinks further into my stomach.
Truly the love of my life. Happiest man in the world.
God,fuckhim. It’s been—what? Four months since we broke up? I’m not trying to judge how fast people fall in love, but for someone who was just two weeks ago trying to booty call me, asking me to give him a second chance, his phrasing is more than a little suspect. And it makes my fucking blood boil.
Who thefuckdoes he think he is? And what does he takemefor? Some kind of side piece he can mess around with on a whim, keep in the wings for when he’s not feeling the love of his life so much? Fuck that shit. I amsoglad I never answered that goddamn text of his.
That was the text that Will?—
Something in my stomach gives a little flip. I barely know the guy, but I’d be willing to bet Will Holloway would never pull a stunt like this. Granted, he’d be too standoffish to really care about someone in the first place, but from what I’ve seen of him, I doubt there’d be much messing around.
And… thanks to him, I happen to have his number.
Well, shit.
I barely even let myself think about what I’m doing as I flick out of Instagram and head to my contacts. This is ridiculous—Iam ridiculous—but I’ve got to dosomething. I know I can’t just sit here all night, crying alone into my espresso. I need company.I need a distraction. And I tell myself it’s for precisely that reason when I fire off a text to Will.
Hey. It’s Lydia Chandler. You around?
I see the little blue dots dancing almost immediately. I’m a little embarrassed by the way it makes my heart jump.
Sure. What’s up?
I pause. I don’t know how I want to play this. I don’t even know what my goal here is, just that I need out of this house and that I need a distraction. I decide I may as well be honest.
I need to get out, get some fresh air. You wanna join?
This time, I see the read receipt pop up, but the blue dots don’t appear. My stomach clenches, and I close my eyes. He’s clearly seen my message but is taking his time to respond—if he evendoesrespond to something so out of left field.Way to appear over eager, Lydia. So attractive.
But then my phone buzzes, and my eyes pop open.
Actually, I’m headed to the shore. It’s really nice this time of night. Meet me at the library and we can walk over together?
I only pretend to think before replying.
Sure. See you in ten.
My heart’s still pounding from the photo I just saw five minutes ago, but now my stomach’s fluttering, too. I try to push them both down, get my head screwed on straight.
