Page 24 of The Boyfriend Goal

Shit. There is that issue to contend with now. The I lied to Dad’s girlfriend issue. But maybe it won’t be such a lie soon enough.

Wesley: I’ll explain it next time I see you. But trust me, we’re not dating. I gotta go.

She says goodbye, and I set the phone down, then pull out of the lot while mentally revising that last statement. We’re not dating yet. When I get home, I flop down on the couch, fire up my laptop, and pay my parking citations. Happily.

Do I walk past Better With Pockets a couple times this week? Yeah, I do. Do I hope on some off chance I’ll run into Josie there? Abso-fucking-lutely. Do I? No, I am not that lucky.

But men who rely on luck don’t get far in life. Dating is like hockey. You need a plan. You need a strategy. You need to know what you’re doing. On Thursday I head into a store on Fillmore Street called Effing Stuff. The place sells little tchotchkes, mugs, coasters, and magnets. I walk up to the counter where a woman with box braids and a nose ring says, “What can I help you with?”

“Hey there. I need a gift bag. For a girl.”

“A girl you like?” the woman asks.

“Yes.”

“What’s her favorite color?”

“Black and white,” I say, feeling a little smug that I know the answer. Hoping the answer leads me to another yes from Josie with no last name.

8

CACTUS ATTACK

Josie

Three days into my new job at a small branch of the San Francisco Public Library, and my stomach didn’t growl embarrassingly during my meeting today, my teeth didn’t become a net for lettuce when my new boss took me to lunch at a nearby salad bar yesterday, and I didn’t trip and fall on my face, ass, or knee at all this week.

Not that I am prone to those things. But I am human after all. And I’ve read enough books where the heroine has a Very Bad Day during the first week on a new job and thus needs to drown her sorrows in chardonnay and cookie dough that weekend.

I’m counting the fact that I don’t need a double dose of food and wine sympathy as a big win.

Bonus points I’m giving myself? I didn’t once try to massage the kink out of my ass, neck, or back while at work. This might be the biggest victory of all since that loose spring in Maeve’s couch is no joke. I’m so convinced it’s out to get me I’ve named it The Kid. As in, The Kid from Shel Silverstein’s The Giving Tree—also known as the greatest villain in all of literature.

The Kid is sharp, pointy, and merciless, and my body is paying the price. But I’m moving into my short-term rental tomorrow after work, and I refuse to complain about another night on the floor (since The Kid was so vicious last night, I moved to the hard wood at Maeve’s, hence the migration of said kink to my back and neck.)

Besides, I’m all about looking on the bright side after my week kicked off with the world’s greatest one-night stand. My string of good luck then continued. My new boss, Thalia Rosenstein, is super cool. She told me there’s a guy named the Great Grimaldi and when he comes in to use the library’s recently opened digitization center I should jump at the chance to help him, since he’s digitizing his old magic shows and you can learn the coolest things. She also spilled that Eddie, who handles the city’s research collections, likes to nuke tuna fish in the microwave every day at 12:01 so the break room is best avoided then, and the rattling noise in the stairwells isn’t a ghost but a raccoon, who may or may not be living in the walls, but who occasionally has been spotted in the ladies’ restroom on the third floor.

Thalia also set me up with real projects on my first day—not just busy work. Thanks to a newly established grant the library won from The Violet Delia Foundation for Library Digital Empowerment, I’m here at this branch in the Upper Haight on a three-month position to work on its digitization initiatives. That includes teaching some classes to patrons on how to best use online resources and helping the public digitize their own materials, like cassette tapes, Super 8, and floppy disks. I’ll also work on managing the library’s existing digital collections and promoting them to the public. Since digital archives was a key focus for my master’s degree, I jumped at the chance.

As I’m packing up behind the second floor desk, I turn to Thalia, who’s taking a pile of books from the returns tray.

“Thanks again for the raccoon tip. I’m not sure if I want to only use the third floor restroom or never use it now,” I say. “I mean, raccoons can be cute.”

“It’s a real dilemma,” she says dryly, then swivels away from her desktop, and lifts a finger, covered in silver skull rings that match the silver bracelets jangling up and down the light brown skin of her arms. How she wears bracelets and types all day is a mystery to me, but the bracelets sound like pretty bells so I don’t mind the intrigue. “Oh! One more thing, Josie. On Fridays, Dolores from the children’s wing brings her special brownies.”

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.

---