I was behind the return desk when Heather slipped the latest issue of the Willow Creek Gazette into my hands and began to read the poem printed on the front page. If I hadn’t known any better, I was certain I would have swooned right then and there; the verse was the kind that made the whole town gasp. The Gazette’s sales always spiked once a month, all because of a mysterious columnist who signed every piece as “A.?Nonymous.” I forced myself not to stare at the back of my head while Heather, a hopeless romantic convinced that Prince Charming was just around the corner, murmured the lines aloud.
I pulled the return bin out and started scanning the books while Heather reread the poem, more for herself than for anyone else. “Any chance you want to help?” I asked, while her eyes glazed over. I hated to interrupt her day?dreaming, but she was about to leave, and I wasn’t about to spend the whole afternoon stacking returns on my own. The forecast called for a storm that night, which meant the library would be practically empty, perfect time for me to finish my coursework with a cup of tea.
“Sure, I’ll be right back,” she said, setting the newspaper on top of the empty runner cart and heading toward the shelves. I often felt a pang of jealousy; Heather could drift through her own world without a single worry. I cleared my throat, hoping the cough would snag her attention. “Bless you,” she replied half?heartedly, still enchanted by the cryptic romance.
“Heather.”
When I finally caught her attention, I pointed to a stack of books she needed to shelve. “That might be helpful,” she giggled, shuffling over to the counter and retrieving the stack. “Okay, I’ll be back,” she called as she vanished behind the rows. I watched her go, relieved to have the quiet I needed to finish my work before the storm slammed the doors shut for the night.
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After Heather left, I tucked the return bin back into its nook, checked the hold requests (none this time), and swept the entry rug flat so I wouldn’t have to mop later. The newspaper rack was empty, and the dark clouds outside promised a heavy downpour. I pulled the free?book rack inside and closed the door. Now to make sure the seasonal habit of opening windows for fresh air didn’t leave the library vulnerable. Even books, I liked to think, needed to breathe once in a while. But with a storm like this that would need to wait.
I rounded the library shutting the windows until I found Heather, who spoke first “I’m going to head out after this. I want to get home before the weather gets really bad.” I smiled and told her to go; as long as the returns were finished, I didn’t mind her leaving early. Our occasional girls’ nights were fine, but at work her nonstop chatter could be draining.
She returned to the desk shortly after me and slipped the runner cart back into place. Turning on her heel to head to the break room, i called after her “Can you turn the kettle on?” hoping she would hear me.
She nodded, but I knew I would have to check it myself anyway, her track record for remembering the kettle was only seventy percent. Heather reappeared, coat and purse in hand, "See you tomorrow,” she called.
“Drive safe,” I replied, only to find she was already out by the sidewalk.
Back in the break room I found the kettle already humming, though it was empty. I filled it, locked the two back doors (a habit I never understood in a town where no one ever tried to rob a library), and settled into my chair with a steaming mug. I opened my learning portal ready to tackle the week’s algebra lesson, my second attempt at the class, and I was still hovering at a C. I didn’t mind; passing was all that mattered. Once I passed, I could focus on the courses I was good at that would bolster my nursing program application.
