Overdue - 1

I had already made one catastrophic decision earlier that week. But I didn’t know that it was catastrophic yet, just like I didn’t know that—by the end of the day—I would make another. As I opened the double doors and breathed in the cold outside air, my chest swelled with hope. Everything smelled clean and sharp. Delicate and heavy.

“Soon,” I said. “It’s going to start coming down any minute now.”

“That’s what you said an hour ago.”

I looked back over my shoulder and flashed my coworker a dazzling smile.

“Shut the doors,” Macon grumbled. “You’re letting out all the heat.” But as his eyes returned to his computer, they sparked with telltale amusement.

The doors were old and required a good shove to close. Woodsmoke replaced the scent of the forthcoming snow. A fire crackled inside the stone fireplace in the back room. Flames were forbidden on county property, but the North Ridgetop Branch Library was a registered historical building, so the beloved fireplace had been grandfathered in.

I plopped into my chair behind the circulation desk, pleased as ever to have cracked through Macon’s curmudgeonly exterior. I was one of the few people who could do it. Our stalwart desk contained two stations. I had occupied one for the past four years, and he had occupied the other for eleven. Both literally and figuratively, he was my closest work friend.

An oversize book slid across the desk to me. “Lunch?” It was open to a photograph of a rambling cottage garden with a cast-iron table and charmingly mismatched chairs.

“No way,” I said. “Not today.”

“No?” He sounded surprised.

“Are you kidding? Today is one of the good days.”

This was a favorite game of ours: picking out a place where we’d rather be than at work. But today was a good day. Snow had been predicted for the high mountains of North Carolina, and our small city of Ridgetop thrummed and jittered with excitement. The library was empty apart from a handful of patrons using the computers. Everybody else was at the grocery store, purchasing milk and bread before the inevitable early closings, and hurrying home. It only snowed a few times a year here, and the reaction was always deliciously overwrought.

“Fair enough,” Macon said as I slid the book back to him. He placed it onto the returns shelves and then resumed reading an exhaustive online article about the statistical probability of an imminent global food crisis. Macon enjoyed nonfiction about topics that were terrifying, as well as lengthy classic novels that took weeks to read. I read and liked almost everything.

“I’ll meet you in that garden for lunch,” I said, referring to the picture, “as soon as the snow melts.”

“Supposed to be a big one.”

“It’d be nice to have another day off tomorrow.”

“To go home early tonight.”

We spoke as if we hadn’t been engaged in this same speculative conversation for hours, just like we spoke as if everything between us was normal … because only I was aware that it was not. My stomach flipped and tumbled. For all our talk of lunch, I’d been too anxious to eat during my break.

I wasn’t sure how to tell him. The subject had consumed me for days, but now that the time had finally arrived, the task seemed insurmountable. Because how could I tell the person I wanted to kiss—that I wanted to more than kiss—that I was suddenly single, but only for one month? Any which way I framed it, it sounded ludicrous.

This should have been my first hint that it was ludicrous.

The doors burst open, and a diminutive elderly man bellowed, “Should auld acquaintance be forgot—”

“Happy New Year, Mr. Garland,” I said as he pushed a mystery novel vigorously through the returns slot in my side of the desk. I sat there because it was where most patrons went first, and I was friendlier than Macon. The better greeter. Although I was introverted like many librarians, I wasn’t shy. I was a good listener, I was curious about others, and I loved to laugh. Ingrid Effervescent , Macon sometimes called me. It was a dig, but I secretly liked it because I suspected that he did, too.

“Ingrid Dahl! Macon Nowakowski!” Mr. Garland beamed at us both. “Did you have a nice holiday?”

I smiled back at him. “I did, thank you.” It was the third day of the year, a Tuesday. We were always closed on Sundays and Mondays, but I’d been away for even longer, on vacation since before Christmas. “How was yours? How did that Yule log cake turn out?”

He was already power walking away toward the new releases. “Can’t complain, can’t complain! Gotta get another book before the storm hits.”

Macon had become stone-faced at the intrusion of high energy. Although he had the exhausted spirit of a man approaching retirement, he was only thirty-nine. Ten years older than me. Quiet and grouchy, Macon had a carefully modulated voice and an unnervingly intense stare. His wardrobe was limited, and from autumn through winter he wore the same coat every day, often inside—a large duffel coat with toggles. The grumpiest Paddington , I liked to tease him. He was frequently late, prone to rants, and his dark brown hair was always in desperate need of a professional trim. There was purposefully, handsomely messy … and then there was Macon.

I found him delightful.

He gestured to his brass nameplate, knocking it over with his coat sleeve. “I’ll never forgive the county for forcing us to use these.” The public library was funded by the county government, whose rules tended to fluctuate. The mandatory nameplates had shown up on our desk the previous spring, and he was still irritated whenever somebody used his full name.

“It’s not so bad.” My smile shifted into a grin. “And at least Mr. Garland always pronounces your name correctly. Mason.”

“How dare you.” But Macon was enjoying his indignation.

My surname was mispronounced everywhere except the library, where most patrons were familiar with Roald Dahl’s splendid books even if they were unfamiliar with his untoward bigotry. (“No relation,” I was always quick to say, although we both had Norwegian roots. A relation was possible.) It was Daal , but the lazier Doll was close enough that I didn’t mind. But Nov-a-kov-ski was too difficult for nearly everybody, especially those who didn’t know to replace the Polish w ’s with v ’s. And to Macon’s everlasting irritation, the butchery didn’t stop there. Most people misread his first name, too. “I’m not a canning jar or a fraternal organization,” he often groused. Instead, it signified that his family was also Southern, as it was often used in this part of the country as a name for a city or county or street.

Mr. Garland hustled back into the room.

“That was fast,” I said.

He dropped a hardcover onto the desk, tossed his stylish scarf over his shoulder, and whipped out his library card. “I’m a man who knows what he wants.”

Mr. Garland was in his eighties, and his spiky hair, short stature, and tailored clothing reminded me of a sprite. He only ever checked out new mysteries, and only one at a time because he liked having an excuse to visit regularly. Back when his husband was still alive, Mr. Garland had checked out teetering stacks, and we only ever saw him when they were due. Because of this, I always tried to give him my full attention. Today, however, my mind was elsewhere.

“Tough crowd,” he said in a theatrically lowered voice. He was talking to Macon, but his nod was at me. I was already handing the book back to him with the due-date receipt tucked inside. He’d been spinning a tale, and I’d missed the punch line. And the tale.

“Sorry.” I winced. “I’m a million miles away. Have been all day.”

Mr. Garland pretended to look affronted. “As long as it’s you, not me.”

I gave him the laugh he wanted. “Stay warm out there, okay?”

In response, he popped his coat collar with a flourish and made his grand exit. “Until next time!”

“Next time,” Macon said, standing up to close the doors, which Mr. Garland had left ajar, as always, “I’m going to lock these when I see him coming.”

“He just wants a little attention.”

Macon shut the doors with more force than necessary.

“He’s lonely,” I said. A lot of our regulars were lonely. Libraries were safe spaces for people who led solitary lives, including some of the librarians. Including Macon.

“He sings every time he enters the building.”

“You love the singing.”

He dropped back into his chair and rotated toward me in accusation. “A million miles away.”

“What?”

“You just said it, and you are. You’re past the moon. Headed toward Mars.” I tried to brush him off, but he pressed on. “ And you’re fiddling.”

“Fidd—” Realizing what he meant, I dropped my necklace. My fingers had been unconsciously twisting its chain.

“You’re going to tangle that, and then I’ll have to fix it. Again.”

I raised my empty hands. “I let go!” But I was laughing. I had a nervous habit of fiddling with my jewelry. Fortunately, Macon was a patient and skilled untangler. Headphones, charging cords, strings of lights. Balls of yarn for storytime crafts. My hair, caught in a barrette. He could sit with a mess for as long as was necessary to puzzle it out and set it straight again.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I said too quickly. Fear shot through me. I’d been searching for an opening all day, and he’d just handed it to me. Still, I struggled against my own resistance.

He stared at me and waited.

Ask me again , I begged.

But the moment had passed, and he swiveled away with a shrug. It wasn’t in his nature to press for more information or overstep boundaries.

The words issued forth in an out-of-body experience. “Cory moved out.”

Macon stilled. His chair swiveled back in my direction.

I twisted my necklace around my fingers again. “It happened over Christmas.”

“What happened over Christmas?”

The question emerged before its speaker, a woman with a round face and round glasses, who turned the corner behind Macon. We both startled. Alyssa had been in the children’s section in the back, replacing a display of winter holiday picture books with one featuring snowmen.

Scrambling for a response that was honest yet withholding, I settled on the beginning of the story. “My sister got engaged.”

Macon’s brows lifted.

“Engaged!” Alyssa predictably lit up. “To the basketball player?”

“Yep,” I said. I glanced at Macon, and his brows settled back down into impassivity. He understood that we were having a different conversation now.

“Thank goodness.” Sue appeared from the annex. “Have we officially stopped working? I’m too distracted to get anything done this afternoon.”

“Did the email arrive?” Elijah asked, wheeling an empty cart behind the desk. He was the page, which meant he reshelved the books. Sue was the branch manager, and Alyssa was the children’s librarian. The five of us comprised the entire staff.

“Not yet,” Macon said. The desired email would come from the director at the main library downtown, and it would give us permission to close early.

“We never get the email until it’s actually snowing,” Sue explained.

“Damn,” Elijah said, removing his earbuds to fully join the conversation. He listened to nonfiction science books and sci-fi novels while he worked. He was the youngest employee, only two months shy of his twenty-first birthday. He knew the policy but was still young and optimistic enough to hope it might have suddenly changed. Like the nameplates.

“Ingrid’s sister got engaged,” Alyssa said.

Sue looked interested. “To the basketball player?”

Everybody was always interested in Jess. My sister’s fiancée was a shooting guard in the WNBA and a two-time Olympic gold medalist. She had met my sister, Riley, when they were in a COVID bubble together during a shortened WNBA season that the press dubbed “the Wubble.” Riley was one of the nurses who did the daily testing.

“To the basketball player,” I confirmed.

“How tall is she again?” Elijah asked. Everybody always asked.

“Regular tall. Five ten.”

“Who proposed to whom?” Alyssa asked.

“Jess proposed. They’d splurged on a Disney cruise for the holidays”—this got a laugh; everyone enjoyed the fact that my no-nonsense sister and her pro-athlete girlfriend were adorable Disney nerds—“but apparently, Jess was so nervous that she didn’t notice my sister was seasick. She got down on one knee at the exact moment Riley puked over the side of the ship.”

The others kept laughing, but Alyssa looked taken aback.

“They thought it was funny, too,” I assured her.

“If Tim had proposed to me while I was throwing up, I would not have said yes.”

“That’s unfair,” Macon said. “Poor Tim.”

I exchanged a glance with Macon, but we both managed to keep our faces straight. We liked Alyssa despite not having much in common with her. She was only a year younger than me, but she was a bit naive. And she could be overly critical, especially of her husband, which was unpleasant. But Tim had these same qualities, and he was a bore. Alyssa was mostly fun.

“Would you have asked Dani while she was throwing up?” Alyssa asked Macon about his longtime, but notably ex, girlfriend.

Macon’s expression flattened. “There were no circumstances under which I would have proposed.”

“Snow or not,” I said, eyeing Macon as I steered everyone back to a safe topic, “at least the two of you get to leave soon.” I turned my gaze to Sue and Alyssa, who would be off at six o’clock, the usual time. Tuesday was one of our branch’s late nights, and if the snow didn’t start soon, Macon and I would be there, along with Elijah, until eight.

Sue glanced at the wall clock and sighed. “Not soon enough.”

Unlike Macon, who only acted as if he were two years away from retirement, Sue actually was, a fact that she mentioned on a near-daily basis. She was always as ready to go home as the rest of us, but her attitude was relaxed and efficient, and she ran our branch the same way. I admired her and secretly thought of her as a maternal figure—my Ridgetop mom. It was the main reason I didn’t want to tell her what was going on with Cory and me. I didn’t want her to worry. And I didn’t want Alyssa’s judgment, and Elijah was too young.

It took ages, but eventually the three of them drifted back to work. The instant we were alone again, Macon pivoted toward me, his brow furrowed with concern. But I shook my head. I didn’t dare resume our conversation until Sue and Alyssa actually left the building.

Cory and I had moved to Ridgetop seven years earlier, the day after we graduated from college. Born, raised, and educated in Orlando, we’d driven up for a getaway during our senior year, and that first crisp bite of mountain air had tasted more like home than Florida’s sticky humidity ever had. Although both cities were driven by tourism, Ridgetop was an arts haven that attracted dreamers and wanderers. Known for effortlessly—some might say mystically—welcoming its new residents, Ridgetop had a way of making you believe that things would work out, and they had for us.

So it made sense that the fateful call had come while we were back in Orlando, just over a week ago, visiting for the holidays. We were in my parents’ kitchen on Christmas morning, glazing a spiral-sliced ham that neither of us would eat—Cory had a limited diet, and I was mostly vegetarian, though my parents never remembered or maybe kept assuming we’d grown out of it—when the landline rang. Riley and Jess were docked in Tortola and asked to be put on speakerphone.

When we heard their news, my mother exclaimed with joy and my father chuckled with satisfaction, and then the rest of our day was spent in a frenzy of marveling and speculating, discussing and planning. It wasn’t until that night, after the tins of homemade cookies had been passed around for dessert, that my parents finally realized how quiet Cory and I had become. Tension cloaked the sugar-dusted atmosphere.

My parents didn’t ask what was wrong, but they didn’t have to. They loved Cory and treated him like family. But they also fervently believed in minding their own business, so the subject of us getting married had crossed their lips only once, after my mother had drunk too many blue margaritas at our graduation party. Cory’s family, on the other hand, was loud and boisterous and teased us frequently about the subject. His parents also lived in the suburbs of Orlando, and we always spent half our vacation time with them. But they were laid-back and had never put any actual pressure on us.

Riley’s happy news was an unexpected blow. And the more it churned in my mind, the more perturbed I felt. This was my sister. My baby sister. Who had only been dating her girlfriend for two and a half years. And, sure, two and a half years was plenty of time to know if you wanted to marry somebody. Except.

Except.

Cory and I had been together for eleven.

We had met during our first week of community college. The first minute of the first day of our first class , we liked to brag to new acquaintances. He took the seat beside mine in Psych 101, and because college was an ideal opportunity to take risks, he didn’t wait to ask me out. I was so startled that I said yes. We had lunch together that same day, then more lunches, then dinners, and it was easy, and it had never been easy for either of us before. We’d both been unpopular kids, genuinely awkward, lonely and bullied.

Cory had been my first and only boyfriend, just like I was his first and only girlfriend. But despite our inexperience, our relationship had always been healthy and enviable. We made each other laugh, rarely fought, had a good sex life. And although neither of us was interested in having children, it was understood that we would get married someday. But for whatever murky and uncomfortable reason, we had never discussed when . Even as our friends hit their late twenties and began marrying around us, we’d shrugged off their nosy inquiries. We’ll do it when we buy a house , we would answer vaguely. But we had never discussed doing that either.

I finally summoned the courage to ask him about it a few days after Christmas. During our long and atypically solemn drive home, the question swelled and throbbed and gurgled inside my throat until it became more uncomfortable not to ask.

“Why do you think we’ve never gotten married?”

To his credit, Cory didn’t seem alarmed. He continued to stare straight ahead at the road before us as if he’d been contemplating the same mystery. “I don’t know,” he said, although it sounded like he might have an idea. “Maybe there’s just some part of us that isn’t willing to commit until we’ve experienced something else.”

The interstate didn’t crack open and swallow me whole. Our life as a couple didn’t flash before my eyes. It was as if he’d said what I’d been thinking, even though the thought had never occurred to me before.

“Some one else,” I said.

Macon was reading a review journal and circling titles to add to our collection, but his pages weren’t turning very quickly. His pen kept tapping against the desk. And his occasional glances at me felt as weighty as the impending snowfall.

Time itself was restless. The minutes stretched and crawled. Red, blue, green, and gold light illuminated the bookshelves on the western side of the building as the sun began to set. Ridgetop was famous for its stained glass, but the windows at our library were particularly notable.

Arthur Frey Brisson was the man responsible for bringing the trade to town, an artist so skilled that his only U.S. rival was Louis Comfort Tiffany, although many believed Brisson was more deserving of fame. He was also the devoted husband of Mary Brisson, founder of Ridgetop’s first public library in 1879. Situated beside a small but pretty body of water called Thistle Lake, her library—our library—was small, too, but it had a cozy lakefront porch where folks could sit in rocking chairs and read for as long as they liked. And it had the windows.

On the bottom, Arthur had installed clear panes that let in enough sunlight to read, but the top panes were a glorious and hectic design of stained-glass books and spines, and beside the porch door, a large stained-glass Mary cradled a book like it was a child. A halo of golden pages ringed her head. It was a remarkable portrait, a blasphemous scandal, and now a minor tourist attraction.

These colorful shards of light had all faded when Sue and Alyssa said their dispirited goodbyes at the regular time. Neither the snow nor the email had arrived.

Macon closed the journal and tucked his pen behind his ear, where it normally sat. I once asked him, “Isn’t that uncomfortable with your glasses?” and he had said, “No.” But twenty minutes later, he’d added in a defensive tone, “I have big ears.” They were only a little bigger than average, though. I liked them, and I liked the pen, too.

He rolled his chair away from the desk to peer into the stacks. Satisfied, he rolled back. Closer to me than he’d been before. “He’s plugged in,” he said, referring to Elijah’s earbuds.

Earlier, I’d been ready to tell Macon everything. Now I was not ready.

“I’m sorry.” His tone was sympathetic, though his face was inscrutable. “Breakups are hard.”

“Oh.” The misunderstanding helped me find my voice. “We didn’t actually break up. We’re taking a break.”

I noticed his underlying eagerness only as it fell away, but it spurred me forward.

“My sister did get engaged, which got us wondering, you know? About why we haven’t gotten married. And we realized it’s probably because neither of us has ever dated anybody else, so we’re taking the month off to go out with other people.”

His expression fell even further. “And what happens at the end of the month?”

“He’ll move back in, and we’ll figure out our future. Marriage and all that.”

“Marriage,” he said. Completely without enthusiasm.

“Yeah.”

“And he already moved out?”

“We moved his stuff into an Airbnb on New Year’s Day.”

Macon shook his head slowly. “That’s a hell of a resolution.”

It was. But it also wasn’t. We had reached our decision with careful, pragmatic thought. It was the most adult decision that we had ever made. January would be a month of promiscuity without repercussions, but it wasn’t about dating or kissing or even sex. Not really. It was about getting the unknown out of our systems so we could finally move forward together.

We had agreed that it would be sensible to refrain from contact until February. That was when we would decide to either separate or get married, although we were certain it would be the latter. For the first time ever, we had even discussed our wedding. It would be in autumn, our favorite time of year, with only our closest family members. Or maybe that was even too much. Neither of us particularly liked weddings, so perhaps we’d just get hitched at the courthouse.

However, despite my generally optimistic disposition, I understood that this plan made my vision seem wholly rose-tinted. I understood how it would sound to other people.

“I’m sorry,” Macon said, “but this sounds like a terrible plan.”

“I know.”

“You do?”

I shrugged and smiled. “Sure.”

“And that doesn’t worry you?”

“Nope.”

He removed the pen, then his glasses, and rubbed the space between his eyes.

“It’s okay.” My smile grew reassuring. “It only needs to make sense to me, and it does. I know what I’m doing.”

Unfortunately, this was the exact moment that I realized I did not know what I was doing. That somehow, despite all the scenarios that had run through my head since saying goodbye to Cory, I had neglected to imagine this crucial transition between telling Macon I wanted to date and telling Macon I wanted to date him . The omission now seemed glaring. It also occurred to me only now—at the worst possible moment—that this might be considered using him.

I supposed I figured … it would just happen. That he would be up for it. Because he knew, we both knew, that our friendship had always held the capacity for more. The air hummed thicker between us. It startled us with intermittent and unpredictable sparks. This wasn’t the one-way charge of seeing somebody attractive; the charge was striking in both directions. It happened whenever we reached for the same object at the same time, accidentally bumped or brushed against each other, ran into each other outside of work. Any time we appeared in a place the other didn’t expect us to be, our world shimmered.

There was one late shift about a year ago when the building was empty, and we were slaphappy, and for whatever reason, I wondered aloud if I could still do a cartwheel. Macon said, “Go on,” and when I performed one successfully in front of our desk, he cheered. Seized by a mania to keep impressing him—I don’t know why I believed cartwheels would impress him—I launched myself toward the stacks and attempted to perform several in a row. I made it to one and a half before crashing into the audiobook display.

“Oh my God,” I heard him say, and an instant later he was above me.

In shock, I blinked up at him from the floor. Then I released a whoop of crazed laughter.

His fear fell away, and he gripped me with both hands. But as he helped me to my feet, I landed too close to him, way too close, close enough for his chest to heave against mine. The energy between us pulsed—and then surged. Instead of laughing and taking a quick step backward, we drank each other in. His pupils dilated. The moment lasted only seconds before our hands and bodies flew apart, but those seconds lasted an eternity.

As notable as incidents like this were, however, they hadn’t mattered at the time. This energy wasn’t anything we would ever speak about or act upon. Until a year and a half ago, he’d been with his girlfriend, Danielle, and I’d always been with Cory, and neither of us was the cheating type. And we were both the type who could have just a friend.

And yet. Even still.

When Cory and I had made our unusual arrangement, my first thought hadn’t been picking up some stranger in a bar. My first thought had been Macon Nowakowski.

Without another word, he put his glasses back on, and then the pen, and then wearily pushed away to his side of the desk.

The library felt colder. I’d spent all day yesterday preparing for today—shaving, painting my nails, selecting the right outfit, packing a lunch that wouldn’t offensively impact my breath. I’d even placed a toothbrush and travel-size toothpaste into my bag for freshening up afterward, though I hadn’t needed it since I’d been too nervous to eat my smashed chickpea sandwich. And then I’d brushed my teeth anyway. My simple plan suddenly seemed a lot more complicated.

As my cheerful poppy nails picked at my favorite vintage trousers, the ones that made my legs, my best feature, look especially long, my pocket lit up. I tugged out my phone, knowing exactly who had sent the text.

How did it go??

Kat was a librarian, too, in a coastal town in Western Australia, in a time zone currently thirteen hours ahead of mine. She had probably just woken up. Even though we’d never met in person, she was one of my closest friends and the only other person who knew about the Cory situation. And she was the only person, period, who knew of my intentions toward Macon.

I have no idea , I replied.

He glanced at me. Unlike the rest of the world, Macon wasn’t addicted to his phone, mainly because he didn’t trust it. Black electrical tape covered the cameras on his device, and normally when he caught me texting, he made a droll comment. Tonight he said nothing.

I stuffed my phone back into my pocket, paranoid that somehow he’d be able to read the screen.

Ninety minutes remained until closing. Mr. Brember, a permanent fixture of our computer section, was the only patron left in the building. Outside, it was fully dark.

There was still no sign of snow.

Had I been wrong about Macon? He seemed upset, maybe even disappointed in me. Or maybe he was confused because I hadn’t explained the situation clearly enough. I’d definitely been too flippant. How could he know I was interested in dating him if I hadn’t articulated it—or even been flirtatious? As my panic rose, my breathing grew shallow. My palms sweated. I’d never made a move on anybody before. I had only ever been on one first date, and I was eighteen at the time. Had Cory already slept with somebody else? While we were both skilled at talking to strangers, he was more extroverted than me and enjoyed going out. I hadn’t gone anywhere yet because I’d been waiting for tonight. Waiting for Macon.

Two clocks were ticking: twenty-eight days until February, eighty-five minutes until closing. And I had no idea what to do.

A stiffness to Macon’s presence indicated that he was still observing me. My throat thickened. I lowered my head, trying to hold myself together.

His chair rotated back toward me.

I forced my chin up. Forced myself to meet his gaze.

His eyes were serious and kind. “Are you okay?”

I nodded my head for yes. Shook it for no. My skin flushed like a teenager without social skills or self-control.

“That seems about right,” he said. And then he smiled.

It wasn’t that Macon never smiled, but he never gave a false smile, which meant that they always reached deeper inside of me. They penetrated at an atomic level, while everybody else’s only brushed my skin. This one was meant to reassure me, and miraculously, it did. I wiped away a tear that had managed to leak out and laughed at myself.

“So, how did you choose who got to stay and who had to move out?” He was trying to distract me to keep me from falling apart.

“Of our apartment? That decision was easy. I have more clothes and makeup and stuff. You know, everything required…”

“… for going on a date.”

“Yeah.” I swallowed to steady myself. “So I got to stay. We’re each paying for our own place this month.”

“Oh. Shit.” His concern shifted. “Is that a lot?”

It didn’t bother me that he was asking about money. All of us librarians talked openly about our lack of finances. The government didn’t pay us well—fully weaponizing the knowledge that anybody willing to work with books would be willing to do it for a meager salary—so we were all thrifty by necessity.

“It’s not bad. I mean, it’s not great. But I have enough.”

“Still haven’t gotten the email?”

A gruff voice interrupted us. Like Mr. Garland, Mr. Brember was in his eighties, but he was far less sprightly. He came in every day to work on his funeral plans, which wasn’t as morbid as it sounded. He was in good health; he just wanted to make sure that when he did die, he received the appropriate tribute. The last time I’d glimpsed it, his document was more than a hundred pages long and contained detailed instructions regarding wreaths, choral arrangements, a marching band, fireworks, refreshments, and Clydesdale horses.

“Not yet,” I said.

He grunted. “It’s getting dangerous. Wind’s picking up.”

With a start, I realized it was true. The stained-glass windows were rattling. Mr. Brember didn’t drive, so I was thankful he only lived around the corner. “Be careful out there.”

“You should close,” he said, scolding us as he skedaddled away. (Long ago, Macon and I had decided that skedaddled was the most accurate verb to describe the way he moved, and I could never unthink it.) “Never wait for somebody else to tell you what to do.”

The doors shut behind him with a loud, wind-sucked pop.

“Somebody like you?” Macon said dryly.

But Mr. Brember had a point. Macon would never, not in a hundred thousand lifetimes, tell me that he was interested in taking advantage of my month of freedom. We had been friends and coworkers for too long. He was respectful. Professional. It would be up to me to make the first move.

“Did we get the email?” Elijah called out from across the library.

I cupped a hand around my mouth. “Not! Yet!”

“Fuck it.” Macon pushed away from the desk and stood. “We’re empty.” And then he strode away to prepare for closing anyway.

The familiar clanks and thunks told me he was putting out the fire in the back room, so I searched for shelves to straighten and discarded items to file away. The historic building was shaped like a rectangle with a single wall down its center, which divided the space into the form of an “O.” I traveled clockwise through new releases, fiction, and young adult. The wooden shelves were smooth from hands and age, and potted plants were nestled into every available nook. Macon was the plant guy, and his charges were, without exception, full and healthy, even the ones that were supposedly difficult to care for. Patrons were always asking him for advice.

Everything looked crowded but neat and tidy. With so few patrons that day, the shelves were still in order, or perhaps Elijah had already done the work. Most likely both. As I passed the porch door, I discreetly bowed my head at the portrait of Mary Brisson beside it. The stained glass had transformed her into a patron saint for those with a calling to put good books into people’s hands, and normally I felt a kinship with her, although she was not currently on my mind. The bow was habitual, maybe even superstitious.

I proceeded through the back of the building, which was divided into three sections: the children’s section, with its braided rug and squashy chair; the periodicals section, with its scratched tables and stone fireplace; and the computer section, with its modern tables and glowing screens.

Macon glanced up from his position on the hearth. I startled and stared back too feverishly. His expression grew unsettled, and I hurried away with smoke in my nostrils.

Elijah was shelving in nonfiction. He was a lanky Black kid with a slightly lazy eye, full of exuberant charm. We nodded, and he did a double take at something behind me, but I was already halfway through the media section—audiobooks, music, movies—when he shouted, “It’s snowing!”

Sure enough, the first tiny flakes of the year were finally tumbling down. Hope reignited inside me. “It looks like magic, don’t you think?” I said, turning to Elijah.

“It looks cold,” Macon said as he swished past.

My nerves jolted.

“And a little magical,” he conceded from the front room. His mouse clicked, and I assumed he was refreshing his email.

“Anything?” Elijah asked as we joined him. He pushed his empty cart into the space where it was stored and then hopped up and sat on it. We were all done working, whether it was official or not.

“No,” Macon said. “But it’ll come.” He typed up a sign that read CLOSED FOR SNOW and hit print.

“Check it again,” Elijah said.

The printer kicked on with its loud routine, and I went to fetch the sheet of paper.

“Nothing,” Macon said. But then, “Oh, shit. We got it.”

My heartbeat stumbled.

“ All Colburn County libraries will close immediately ,” he read aloud, “government bullshit, government bullshit … and will open two hours late tomorrow .”

“Yes!” Elijah vaulted back to his feet. “Y’all don’t need me, do you?”

“Get out of here,” Macon said.

Elijah saluted, snatched up his belongings, and then tripped as he exited.

It was almost time to make my move. My heart was pounding now, and my head went woozy. “I’ll get the doors.”

“I’ll get the porch door and computers,” Macon said.

With trembling hands, I turned the lock and taped up the sign. Elijah’s car pulled out of the lot, leaving only Macon’s and mine behind. Macon drove a Volvo sedan, old and practical, and he took immaculate care of it. I drove a sunshiny Beetle, old but impractical. It was constantly breaking down, but he always made sure that my engine started before he left. He always made sure I was safe.

You are safe , I reminded myself. It’s only Macon. You can do this.

The hardwood floor creaked as he moved from computer to computer, turning them off. I closed the register, and the small change for fines, photocopies, and printouts slipped across the desk as I counted it. I had to recount twice. I took the cash into the annex, the only part of the building that wasn’t original, and when I returned from locking it in Sue’s office, Macon was already holding my coat and my tote bag along with both of our lunch sacks.

“Did you eat any of this?” he asked, frowning at the weight of mine.

I made a noncommittal noise and accepted my coat. The tremble in my hands turned into a shake as I tried to button it. He flicked a switch, and the library darkened. A single emergency bulb glowed and buzzed, highlighting the already-charged atmosphere.

Macon held open one of the doors. The watery mineral scent of snow, fresh and fragile, rushed into my lungs. I took my bags and then ducked and passed underneath his arm. I’d never done that before, and he laughed. “What was that?” he asked.

But when he locked the doors and turned around, he saw that I was not laughing. I was standing directly behind him, unmoving.

His dark eyes widened.

Snowflakes caught in the light of the streetlamps and twinkled like stars, infinite wishes whirling and eddying around us. The flakes had gotten thicker. They clung to our coats and our hair. This was it. This was the moment.

I leaned forward—

Closed my eyes—

Parted my lips—

“No.” Macon stumbled back and clunked against the doors. “Ingrid. No.”

My hands flew to my mouth in mortification. “Oh my God. I’m…”

So sorry. So wrong. So ready to hurl myself into the lake and drown.

“No, I’m …” But he couldn’t finish the sentence either. He bolted to his car. His windshield wipers burst into action at the same time as his lights, flinging snow back into the sky, and he was already reversing, already turning, already driving away.