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I close my eyes and take a deep breath before trudging forth.

The layout on each floor is deliberately confusing. It’s designed to make you lose yourself in the stacks—literally and figuratively. Study nooks are carved out of the walls with desks and lamps, like something out of an academic fairy tale. And plush chairs are scattered about for those who are claustrophobic.

I lead Gerard down a winding path toward the horror section. He follows closely, his footsteps heavy on the thin carpet. His presence looms over me, not unlike a friendly giant unsure of how to interact with the villagers.

“We shelve things by genre up here,” I explain, more to fill the silence than because I think he needs to know. “Fiction takes up most of this floor. Non-fiction is downstairs on the second.”

Gerard nods. “Cool. I don’t read much fiction.”

Of course, he doesn’t. I imagine his nights are filled with ESPN and protein shakes. Not novels.

As we turn a corner, I glance back at him. “What do you read when you do?”

“Textbooks, mostly.” He shrugs. “Whatever I need for class.”

That figures. However, to be fair, most college students are in the same boat. Finding time for pleasure reading is hard when you’re drowning in assignments.

We arrive at the horror section, and I scan the shelves for any sign of a misplaced hockey stick. Nothing jumps out at me.

“I thought your coworker said it was here,” Gerard whines, sounding more puzzled than accusatory.

“She said maybe here. Someone probably moved it.” I start walking toward the tables at the far end of the floor.

As we weave through more stacks, my mind drifts to the romance section we just passed. The spines of those books are like old friends to me. Jackson always makes fun of me for reading them—calls me a housewife-in-training—but they’re what give me hope.

Hope that one day I’ll have a steamy romance of my own, complete with passionate kisses in the rain and heartfelt confessions during sunset walks on the beach.

We reach the tables, and I ask the student worker spraying Lysol over everything if anyone turned in a hockey stick. She shakes her head.

“Looks like you’re out of luck,” I tell Gerard.

“Dang,” he says again. Seriously. Whoisthis guy?

I walk toward the elevator, assuming our business is done, but Gerard lingers. “You never said if you’re into hockey.”

“I watch enough to keep up with Jackson.” I lie because he doesn’t need to know the truth. “He’s obsessed.”I’m obsessed.

“Jackson Monroe?” Gerard’s face lights up like a Christmas tree.

“You know him?”

“No, not personally. But I’ve been to a few football games. The dude has a killer arm.”

“That he does.”

Jackson has been the star of our college team since his freshman year, and now that we’re juniors, scouts are starting to notice. He’s even been getting emails and letters from NFL teams expressing interest in signing him.

He downplays it all, but I know he’s thrilled. He’s worked so hard to get to this point, and I hope with everything in me that he makes it.

“That guy is going places,” Gerard says, still grinning.

I nod. “Yeah. He is.”

An awkward silence settles over us. I’m not sure what else to say to this giant ray of sunshine who seems determined to make small talk with me. I want to ask him why he’s suddenly so interested in my life, but I fear the answer.

“Can I use the restroom before I go?” Gerard asks, breaking the silence.

I shrug. “It’s a public library.”