Page 25

24

Mor

“I’m off. Thanks for your hard work today, Assistant Librarian.” I give Bo a salute as I slip my purse over my shoulder.

His snow-pale cheeks redden.

“You don’t have to call me that.”

“I know I don’t. But I’m a librarian. You’re my assistant. Therefore, you are an assistant librarian.” Holding his eyes is easy when they’re such a pretty blue.

“I’m being accurate. Feel free to use it on a résumé for future jobs.”

Bo slips his hand up to the back of his neck, massaging the thick column.

The first few times I watched him make the move, I thought his neck might be paining him.

Now I theorize it’s a move he makes when he’s embarrassed.

“Do you not want to be an assistant librarian?”

He stares downward, still tugging on his neck.

“I-I guess I do.”

I’m still baffled how such a big, powerful, conventionally attractive man could be so insecure.

What kind of life did he have in that trailer?

What world did he live in seventeen years ago that curved his shoulders with so much invisible weight?

Now, it’s not like I wish Bo were a cocky asshole.

We’ve got enough straight white cis mystics who think they are the gods’ gift to the world.

But the more I get to know Bo, the more of his kind core I spy under his stony exterior.

Every workday, he shows up and is helpful, humble, and curious.

Three of the most attractive qualities in a person.

I find I like knowing he’s nearby.

That he’s watching over my library when I get distracted by some half-legible passage about god objects in an ancient grimoire.

I trust Bo.

Which means he’s more than earned the title of assistant librarian.

“We should get name tags,” I declare, embracing the sudden urge to emblazon the job title on a little metal pin that he can wear for everyone to see.

Where he can’t doubt the truth.

“One for me and one for you. It’ll make it easier on patrons.” That last bit is bullshit.

Most everyone who comes here is a local or a professor at Ramla.

They already know my name, and Bo’s is easy enough to remember.

But who cares? Name tags are happening.

“Uh … okay?”

“I’ll order them next week.”

Bo drops his hand and nods.

Then he steps out from behind the front desk and follows me toward the front door.

Even though he was a few steps behind me, somehow, he manages to grab the knob before I do and holds the door open for me, showing some of that Southern gentleman charm I didn’t think I cared for until Bo started doing it.

“In addition to name tags,” I say, not sure this is the best segue, but I keep going, “you also have access to health insurance. As a full-time employee.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Now for the tough part.

The theory I hope to broach without making Bo retreat.

“That includes vision.”

“Hmm.” The hum sounds like he’s humoring me.

Because he doesn’t know why I’m bringing this up.

I sigh, then dive into the deep end.

“Bo, I think you get headaches when you read because of your eyesight. Not because of your intelligence. You should schedule an appointment. It’s fully covered under your insurance.”

I hand him a business card for Galen’s Gaze, Folk Haven’s optometry.

“Oh.” He swallows hard and accepts the card.

Then he squints at the tiny text.

Proving my point.

I grasp his wrist and guide him to flip the card over, where I wrote the phone number in bold, large print.

“Thank you,” he mumbles, cheeks reddening.

When I release his hand, he tucks the card into his back pocket.

“Any fun plans for tonight?” I change the subject as I lock up the house.

“I can give you a ride to town if you need one.”

“Maybe. I …”

When I turn, I find Bo frowning down at the toes of his boots.

The scuffed footwear he found at a secondhand store is probably better for yard work than working inside at a library all day.

But when he asked about needing more professional attire, I pointed out that, most days, I’m in leggings and sweatshirts.

As long as Bo is comfortable in his clothes, that’s all I want for him.

After years of discomfort, he deserves it.

“You what?” I prompt him when he hesitates to finish his sentence.

“Never mind. I can walk.”

“Walk to town?” I jingle my car keys in the air.

“I just told you I’d take you. I don’t mind.”

“You probably have plans to get to,” he mumbles.

“My only plans are with the cereal aisle in the grocery store. I’m low on Chex Mix.”

He perks up.

“You’re getting food? That’s what I need too.”

Doesn’t surprise me.

He’s a big guy, and the RV has limited pantry space.

“Perfect.” I wave him to follow me to my car.

“We’ll go shopping together. Drive all the food back right after so nothing spoils.”

Bo grunts in agreement, but before I realize my normal shields have relaxed, I catch the lemon yellow of eagerness, paired with rosy longing.

This guy must be pretty hungry.

Our drive from the library to the supermarket is quiet, only broken by the radio station playing Top 40 hits.

I turn the volume up a few notches.

“Music. That’s something you might want to catch up on,” I offer, figuring a few three-minute songs are easier to digest than the entire internet.

“This is Taylor Swift.”

Bo’s brows pop up.

“I know her. She’s got that song about teardrops on her guitar.”

“Wow.” I give a dry chuckle.

“That takes me back.”

“It does?”

“Yeah. That was her first big hit. But she’s had tons more. And her career … actually, she’s a pretty good place to start to get an idea of the evolutions in pop culture.” I toss Bo a quick grin.

“What do you say? Want to hear about the last seventeen years of T. Swift history?”

From the corner of my eye, I swear I see a twitch toward a smile on his mouth.

“Please. Educate me.”

So, that’s how we spend the rest of the car ride and all the time in the produce section of the supermarket that sits technically just outside of town limits.

I walk Bo through awards show drama, and toxic label contracts, and musical genre shifts, and A-list dating, and everything else Taylor-related he would’ve heard about if not for spending years as a statue.

He laughs at the funny parts and growls in outrage when I describe the injustices.

“I’ll play you a few of my favorites tomorrow. Before anyone gets to the library.”

“But only if they’re Taylor’s Version,” Bo insists, and I smile in response.

He pushes the cart behind me as I add foodstuffs to a growing pile.

We turn down the cereal aisle, and I seek out the Chex Mix.

Some people like to snack on chips, but I like to munch on a bowl of cinnamon breakfast food.

Once I toss two of the extra-large boxes in the cart, I turn to find Bo holding a box of Lucky Charms, frowning at the front.

“What’s up? Is it damaged?”

Bo blinks, then places it back where he found it.

“No. I just …” His eyes sweep the cereal aisle.

“I recognize the brands, but it’s like they all decided to redo their boxes in one night. Familiar but different. It’s eerie.”

His hands return to the cart handle, knuckles white.

Before, Bo seemed interested in my Taylor Swift saga.

Eager to learn about what changes occurred.

But now he’s back to looking lost.

I wish I could ease the strangeness of this time for him.

“What’s your favorite food?” I ask.

Bo’s brows crinkle. “My favorite food?”

“Yep. Favorite food that’s sold in a grocery store.”

“I guess … barbecue potato chips.”

“Perfect. Let’s go.” I march down the aisle and scan for the one I want, knowing Bo will follow.

When we reach the chip selection, I point to the Lays Barbeque chips.

“These. Or another kind?”

“Those.” He nods.

“Yeah, those.”

I grab one of the bags off the shelf.

“Is the logo different?”

He glances at it, then at the tiles beneath our feet with their dull shine.

“Yeah.”

“Close your eyes.”

Bo’s brows crinkle again, but he does as told.

There, in the middle of the supermarket, I tear open the bag and pull out a single chip.

With a gentle knuckle, I tap the bottom of his chin.

“Open.”

His lips part.

I place the chip on his wide tongue.

“Chew. Swallow. Tell me how the taste is.”

Bo follows my instructions, surprisingly obedient.

“Good,” he rumbles. “Just like I remember.”

I grin and still am when he blinks his eyes open and stares at me, confusion a fog in his eyes and in his aura.

“A lot will look different,” I explain.

“But under the surface, past the distractions, I think you’ll find a lot of the good things are still the same.”

Bo blinks, and then he lets a hesitant smile claim his mouth before plucking another chip from the open bag and crunching down on it.

I situate the chips in the kiddie seat of the cart so Bo can keep snacking as we shop.

“Any reason chips are your favorite food?” I ask offhandedly, my main focus on checking a dozen eggs for any cracks.

“Never thought about it,” Bo says.

Then, after a pause, he goes on.

“I think it’s because of my dad.”

That gets my attention, but I try not to show how piqued my interest is as I carefully set the eggs next to his chips.

“They were his favorite too?” I hazard the guess.

Bo shrugs. “Maybe. But I remember when my dad had some extra cash, he’d take me out for subs, and sometimes, he’d tell me I could get a bag of chips. Only if he was in a really good mood though. Guess I associate chips with my dad being happy. Which was a rare thing.”

Is he part of the reason that Bo is hesitant?

Did he teach his son manners, or did he teach him to be afraid?

“What about your mom?” I stare at the rows of butter, but I can’t see them when I just want Bo to keep talking.

“Did she ever treat you to some food?” Did she give you love on the days when your father wasn’t happy?

“Don’t remember anything. She left when I was four. A mermaid who said this lake was too small for her. Not sure where she went.”

“You didn’t keep in touch?” I think I know the answer before I even ask the question, but my heart aches to find some ray of happiness in Bo’s past life.

“No.”

An uncomfortable silence settles between us, and Bo doesn’t reach for any more chips.

So, of course I blurt out the first thought that comes to mind.

“If it helps you feel less alone, I just want to say, my parents are both horrible. Like, truly terrible beings. I’m not sure they are capable of loving anyone other than themselves and each other.”

Bo’s brow furrows.

“But … they have four kids.”

“No,” I mutter.

“They had four experiments.”