Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
I pause, digesting that nugget. When I hear special and brownies I think of the ones some of my friends made in grad school—special as in laced with a little something extra to make the day, or night, feel real chill. I arch a curious brow but keep my tone even as I ask, “Special in what way?”
“As in they’re made with melted dark chocolate.”
Oh, that’s a relief. “What time do I need to be here to make sure they aren’t all gone?”
She nods approvingly. “I knew you’d understand.” She looks around furtively, then whispers, “Eight fifty-five. The vultures from circulation descend at nine. Also, tomorrow afternoon we have a training session on how to help people experiencing homelessness. Might last into the early evening since there are often lots of questions.”
“I’ll be there,” I say, glad the library is tackling this important topic since any library staff member these days needs to work compassionately with the unsheltered, as well as patrons with substance use disorders or mental illnesses who come through our wide open doors.
For now though, I’m happy to leave work behind. Because this little information specialist has a project and a plan for her Thursday night.
After I sling my bag over my shoulder, I grab the tiny cactus I picked up last night at Welcome to the Jungle, a plant shop over on Fillmore Street run by a retired hockey star from the Sea Dogs. I smooth my free hand over my white button-down blouse, then along my black pencil skirt and head to the circular stairway. My flats click clack with a loud but satisfying echo through the weird little library that’s quickly become my home away from home.
I reach the exit, then walk past the fire station next door. Some of the guys who work here are out washing their cherry-red truck. I smile a hello, and the three of them smile back. I continue on in the San Francisco evening. It’s warm since it’s October, but I still instinctively reach for my scarf to wrap it around my neck. But of course, it’s not here. A pang of sadness hits me every time I do this phantom move. I realized when I left the hospital on Monday afternoon, after cuddling my little nephews as much as I could, that I’d probably left the accessory behind in the hotel room.
But when I popped into The Resort that evening to see if it was in their lost and found, the clerk checked and then frowned an apology.
“Sorry, Greta,” I say to the sky, since that scarf was her favorite. It was the scarf I’d played dress-up with as a little girl when I’d stayed with her. I’d wrap it around my head, put on her glasses, and pretend I was a granny. Or we’d dress up her rescue Labrador, turning Lulu Blossom into a cowgirl with it, or Rosie the Riveter.
“Scarves are the unsung heroes of the fashion world. They add personality to an outfit, they add flair, and they add a certain je ne sais quoi,” Greta had said, then tucked a finger under my chin. “And you, my love, are a je ne sais quoi type of person, so wear it that way.”
I’d like to think wearing it as a belt on Sunday night was so very je ne sais quoi.
And if I had to lose the scarf, leaving it at the scene of my night in sex heaven seems the perfect place to let that part of me go. I straighten my shoulders and walk like I’m still wearing it. I’ll find another one. I’ll hit the thrift shops this weekend once I move into my new place. Once I’m settled, I can tackle the rest of Greta’s list in earnest. I’ve already started researching the second item she left for me to do. Now that I’ve tackled the first one, it’ll be easier—I think—to work my way through the list.
But even though I’m researching item two, I can’t stop thinking about item number one.
The way Wesley touched me. The way he teased me. The way he talked to me. A hot shiver slides down my spine.
And the way I see it—I was faithful to the list when I checked that first item off. It was a one-night stand with a sexy stranger through and through. Since I completed the task so perfectly, I figure I’m free and clear to see him again. Not as a one-night stand.
I mean, the logic holds up. That is, if I can find him again. My stomach dips with nerves and hope.
I’m almost tempted to tell my mom I started doing the list her sister gave me before she died. Mom hasn’t seen the list, but she knows it exists. She’s asked me a few times about it. Right now though, she’s way too focused on her athlete son’s babies. Understandable. Truly it is. Though, she’s always been focused on him. She’s a former athlete, so I get it. My dad is too. Mom played college volleyball and won an NCAA championship, and Dad ran track, so they’ve always just had their bond with their firstborn who skated before he walked. It’s fine. I’m used to it. Mom’s flying in this weekend to help out for the next week.