Page 4 of Seas the Dating Coach

“Face it. You’re the stereotypical evil outsider here to ruin all their bizarre town traditions.” Alec cackles.

I frown at the waves crashing on the warm sand. Alec’s assessment is probably an accurate interpretation of their viewpoint. My library staff stops speaking the second I enter a room, and I’m scowled at while buying milk from the tiny market. I might as well be the boogeyman. The only part of relocating to this town that hasn’t been miserable has been moving into my bayside rental house and joining the combination Crossfit/boxing gym beside the fire station.

Crossing my arms, I shift my focus to watch the dolphins swim down the coast. The beachgoers pay them no notice since seeing a dolphin splashing beyond wave break is a commonplaceoccurrence. The beaches surrounding Virginia Beach are teeming with tourists this time of year, but with its challenging accessibility, Wilks Beach remains locals only.

“I’m not an outsider. Until very recently, I lived in the city where everyone here has to do all their major shopping, or go to church, or school, or get a haircut, for Pete’s sake.” I hear the rising irritation in my voice and tamp it down.

Besides the library, Wilks Beach only has a small market, one restaurant, the coffee shop, the gym, and a fire station. The rest of the narrow strip of land contains single-family homes except for the condo tower and a park near the inlet.

“It’s just a year. You can sip seawater in the moonlight or belly dance to bring good waves for a year, can’t you?” My closest friend’s voice nearly breaks with laughter.

I roll my eyes. On top of having paltry hospitality, inhabitants of this town are also known for having…let’s just say, less than logic-based beliefs regarding the ocean.

In truth, I’m one more negative interaction away from taking part in a mermaid protection ceremony—or whatever I need to do—to be accepted. My staff here—all of whom are locals—need to not onlylike mebut support my future application for library director. Only a current branch manager can apply for directorship, and only those managers with glowing reviews from their staff make it to the second interview.

No one but me and another Central Library librarian I’ve sworn to secrecy knows that Ralph, the current director, is preparing to retire in a year. He let that nugget slip after too much scotch at a recent networking dinner. I was fortunate that the Wilks Beach Library manager retired shortly afterward so I could jump on the opportunity to manage this branch.

Everything needs to fall in line over the next year, or my younger sister’s future will be irrevocably changed. At a youngage, I vowed to take care of her, and even though we live in different cities now, she will always be my priority.

The pressure builds in my head again, and I take a slow breath to combat the impending migraine.

I’d hoped to break the glacial iceberg this morning by chatting with locals while grabbing my second cup of coffee at the local shop, but no one would even say hello. You’d think that preventing one of their own from falling in a puddle of caffeine would garner a modicum of kindness, but three of them immediately launched into various attacks of how I was destroying their library—as if shifting funds to update the ancient computers in the media room and wanting to properly preserve their historic texts was criminal.

“I’ve gotta go. My next client is here.” Alec lowers his voice. “Not much I can do for this one since she won’t stick to the diet I gave her, but if she wants to keep paying me, I’ll keep taking her money.”

I flinch at my friend’s callousness. Being a personal trainer makes Alec more body critical than most people, but women don’t need to be waif thin in order to be attractive. In my opinion, it makes them less attractive.

We hang up as movement behind me draws my attention away from the tranquil coastline. The corner of my mouth lifts, seeing the woman from the coffee shop again. She’s still in her green dress, but a pair of bright-pink flip-flops have replaced her stained shoes. Almost everyone in the reading room gives her a wave. She wordlessly reciprocates, a shy smile joining her small wave.

A few steps before the glass door to an unoccupied study room, she pulls her cell phone from a canvas bag covered in llamas wearing various sunglasses. Then she’s typing the six-digit numerical code that she would have received when she’d reserved the room on the library’s website into the keypad lock.Because again, as much as these people want to think they are their own municipality, this littleislandis connected to the larger city beyond. This library is one branch of eleven within the library system.

Curiosity gets the better of me as I watch her unpack a laptop, a spiral notebook, a scratched water bottle, and a pack of Skittles from her tote. My stomach reflexively lurches when she pours the Skittles on the multi-use desktop before popping several in her mouth. There’s no way that’s sanitary. A custodian cleans the library throughout the day, but I doubt they wipe down the desktops.

She clicks on the decorative table lamp after plopping into the wooden chair that would be better suited at a dining table. Before I can avert my eyes, she kicks off a sandal and draws her foot up on the chair, revealing white polka-dotted bike shorts beneath her dress.

Cute.

The word spontaneously reverberates through my brain for the second time that day. The first time had been when she’d barely been able to meet my gaze earlier. Green Eyes is definitely not my type with her sweet, girl-next-door charm. The women I date are usually the female counterpart to myself—outgoing, career driven, and unafraid to take what they want.

The phone on my desk rings with Patricia from the circulation desk downstairs. “Mrs. Cook is here to speak to you.”

Internally, I sigh, though I infuse my voice with cheerful warmth. “Thank you. I’ll be right down.”

Every other day, Carol Cook visits me to express her opinion that the historical archives should not be relocated to a designated area for better preservation. My goal is to move the ancient texts and artifacts of the island into a dedicated, temperature- and moisture-controlled room to better showcase and preserve their historical value. I truly thought the townwould be behind me on this initiative, but it seems I could say “Bless you” after someone sneezes, and they’d still sneer at me.

After a riveting hour of being lectured at by Carol while arduously ignoring the spittle dripping from her smudged lipstick, I decide to take my time looking through the stacks downstairs before returning to my desk.

Fiction and non-fiction stacks divide the main floor, the town’s historical books lining the back wall. An open atrium with high, stained-glass windows stretches directly above the main circulation desk and center display tables. The back staircases weave to the right to the upstairs reading area and librarian offices, or to the left to a half-flight portion, which contains several stacks of young-adult books before a set of glass doors leads to the children’s room.

I run my finger along a fiction shelf. Half of the stacks bow beneath the weight of the books. Though I appreciate the overall aesthetic of the warm, wooden shelves, metal would be more practical and durable.

Yet another item for the list of improvements.

“What are you doing over here? I thought I put you on the center display last Tuesday?” a quiet female voice says from the other side of the stack. There’s a hum and then, “I suppose someone could have borrowed you, read, and returned you in that time. How splendid!”

Stepping slowly, I gravitate toward the voice who’s moved on to wondering aloud if the wallflower book should also join the bluestocking book on display. There’s something familiar about the soothing tone of her words. The rounded Tidewater accent that Carol berated me with sounds wholly different from her lips. Light and lilting. I’m just about to turn the edge of the stack to see who’s speaking when the voice’s tone changes.

“Oh, no. No. No. No. Not now,” she whines. “I’m not ready.”

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