Page 1 of An Overdue Match
1
Libraries aren’t famous for their penal codes, but some literary offenses deserve due punishments. I haven’t decided yet where I stand on late fees—for or against—as I truly can see both sides of the argument on that one. As someone who has impatiently waited in the digital queue for my turn for a book to become available, a little incentive to the lackadaisical reader to get a move on is useful. However, I also understand the desire to linger between the pages of certain books and how hard it is to move on after a literary hangover.
On the issue of mishandling of books, however, I am firmly in the camp of some sort of consequence, for to mistreat a book is most certainly a punishable crime.
I unfold the dog-eared corner and smooth out the cream-colored paper of the hardcover in my hands, making soothing, cooing noises under my breath. A book doesn’t have feelings, but it does have a soul. Life exhaled into every word by the author and then breathed into each person who reads those same words. So, in a sense, books are both alive themselves and give life to others simultaneously. Which is why they should be treated with care and not irresponsibly—something the patron who folded these pages clearly disagrees with. I turn the page and unfold another corner.
“Uh-oh. I know that look. Did someone write in a book again, Evangeline?” Hayley teases as she retrieves a paper from the printer, one bearing the list of titles to be pulled from the shelves and set aside for patrons who put in holds on the library’s website.
I turn to her, frowning. “I’m not against writing in books. The margins are great for that and so are a rainbow of highlighters. If someone wants to commit marginalia by engaging with the text in their own copies, who am I to judge? What I’m against is people writing inlibrarybooks. There’s a big difference.” I turn a few more pages and hold up the offending evidence. “But some Neanderthal dog-eared at least seventy percent of this title. Seventy percent! He should be dragged from his cave and beaten with his own club.” I mutter that last part under my breath.
Hayley gasps in mock horror. “A duel for the author’s honor must be in order. It’s pistols at dawn.”
I shake my head while swallowing back a grin. “You know I prefer swords for a duel.”
“Swords? Really?” Her button nose scrunches. “I’d imagine they’d be really heavy to hold out in front of you. Wouldn’t your muscles tremble and your palms get so sweaty they’d lose their grip on the hilt? Then you’d be run through and I’d be left alone to do the reshelving by myself. Oooh!” Her eyes alight with mischief the second a new thought enters her head. “Unless you’re dueling some regency rogue and he decides that instead of running you through, he’ll teach you the proper way to wield that deadly weapon.” She shimmies her shoulders. “The perfect excuse to get close and use his charms to seduce and disarm you.”
My cheeks twitch at her theatrics, a smile threatening to unleash. With sheer willpower, I force a deadpan look onto my face. “I changed my mind. I choose pistols. Pull the trigger. Bam. Done.”
She tries to push out her bottom lip to pout, but her laughing makes it impossible. “You’re no fun, you know that? Besides, the hero coming up with an excuse to teach the heroine a skill, eliciting the need to put his arms around her, is a well-established device of romance novels for a reason. Plus, bullet wounds bleed a lot. You don’t want that. Think of the mess you’d have to clean up.”
I’d rather not think about it, thank you very much. Somehow our conversation has gotten off topic, although that’s not exactly unusual when it comes to Hayley.
She extends the paper with the list of holds out to me. “Want to keep an eye on the dastardly dog-eared deviant under the guise of getting actual work done?”
“Nice alliteration, and yes, I do.” I take the paper.
I’d only gotten a quick look at the retreating form of the patron who’d turned in this mistreated book. He’d headed toward the nonfiction aisles, specifically the biography shelves near the back corner, opposite the children’s section.
I quickly scan the library’s barcode on the cover and return the book in the system, noting the borrower’s name. Tai Davis. I’d only moved to Little Creek (pronouncedcrick, like the ache you’d get in your neck) six months ago, and though the town is small, the name Tai Davis doesn’t ring any bells.
But if he’s willing to mutilate almost every page of a book, I really don’t trust him to roam the aisles of the library unsupervised. I take my job as protector of free thought, untold universes, awaiting adventures, and expanding personal perspectives seriously. Because books are more than just paper and ink. They’re a portal leading to anywhere you ever wanted to go—heart, mind, or soul.
Hayley and Martha, the children’s librarian, like to tease me about my strict standards when it comes to the treatment of books. Martha points out that at least my patrons don’t chew on the pages of paperbacks, the books coming back soggy,slobbery, and smelling of spit-up. She has a point, and I also concede that I may go beyond the bounds of what’s deemed the appropriate amount of caring when it comes to library property, but I can’t help it. Books are my friends, and I can’t stand to see them bullied. Call it my quirk.
I straighten my leopard-print pencil skirt, then run my thumb along the waistband to make sure my vintage library due date card graphic tee is tucked in before I step around the beveled corner of the desk and head toward the back of the library.
Between theJandKshelves, I spot him. The same black leather jacket pulled taut between impressively wide shoulders and ending in large silver buckles at a trim waist. His head is bent, and although I can’t see what’s in his hands, it doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes on the case to figure out it must be an open book. Location is a dead giveaway.
I walk softly in my red canvas high-tops to the aisle of shelves just on the other side of him. I can watch him through the small space between the top of Walter Isaacson’s published works and the bottom of the metal shelf holding our copy of Antonia Fraser’s writings on Mary, Queen of Scots, and Oliver Cromwell.
The man isn’t that tall. Maybe a smidge over an inch of my own five-foot-three frame. With my restricted view between the shelves, I can only really see from the top of his shoulders to the middle of the back of his head. His hair is thick, black as an inkwell, and swirls softly over the large collar of his biker-style jacket like an artistic script font. He turns, putting himself in profile, and I suck in a sharp breath.
I blame my reaction on surprise and the ingrained teachings of my granny, Carol Sykes. I’ve never seen anyone with a neck tattoo in person before. According to her, the only people who would permanently mark themselves in such a visible location on their bodies are “dangerous” and I should “stay away for mysafety” because they probably “got their tattoos either in jail or as a gang sign.” Which, to be fair, maybe was the case fifty years ago? I don’t know. I wasn’t alive fifty years ago, and things do tend to change over the course of a couple generations.
Even though I read profusely and open my mind to many different viewpoints, the voice of my childhood—of my granny—is still loudest overall. Which is probably the reason I subconsciously take a step back. It’s definitely not because I correlate a human canvas with anything deviant or think that he “put graffiti on God’s temple,” or that he will “regret his decisions when he’s old and wrinkled.”
But even from this distance, the beautiful artwork draws my eye—so much so that granny’s voice in my mind fades as my focus pools to one location. It’s a simple red rose with unfolding petals so soft looking that I want to run my finger over the bloom to feel the velvety texture. It’s delicate. Intricate. Beautiful. Made even more so because of the contrast of the hard lines framing the picture. The strong angle of the man’s stern jaw ends in a powerful set chin. Even his neck is corded muscle and thrumming veins, a juxtaposition against the soft blossom.
Guilt sits heavy in my stomach, though I can’t pinpoint its exact cause. There are too many options to choose from, starting with the fact that I haven’t turned on my heel and distanced myself from a man I’ve been conditioned since childhood to see as dangerous. Or maybe it’s because I’m openly staring at a man, ogling the lines of his neck—both natural and inked—instead of acting like a proper lady and averting my eyes. Or maybe it’s as simple as being at work and not actually getting any work done at the moment.
Whatever the reason, the guilt isn’t enough to propel me into any sort of action. I stand there and I stare, tracing the different weighted lines with my gaze.
In reading fiction, I’ve learned that there are, in essence,three types of people. There are main characters, who are your heroes and heroines. The stars of the story. They may see conflict within their journey, but ultimately they receive their happily-ever-after in the end. Then there are the secondary characters. The supporting cast, if you will. Their job is to be a sort of shining light for the main characters, adding just enough spice to the story to bring out the flavor but never steal the show. And finally, the third category is the villain. The antagonist to the protagonist. Whether slightly sinister or downright diabolical, this is the fictional persona readers love to hate.
Personally, I’m a secondary character. For reasons that shall not be named at this time, I will likely never fit into the heroine role. Not in my own story. Not in any story. Contrarily, the level of my ability to be nefarious is set at exactly zero, therefore I don’t fit into the mold of a villain either. Which is fine by me. Everyone loves a good sidekick.
But where does Mr. Tai Davis fit? I can tell that under no circumstance would he ever be mistaken for a secondary character. Maybe it’s the way his presence commands the space even though he’s currently the only patron in the J–K aisle, no underling for him to direct. That, along with the width of his stance and set of shoulders, is just the first entry of proof that he would steal the attention on every page he stepped onto.
