Page 4 of Overtime with Orion
“Mind if I walk with you? I’m heading back to Cassie’s booth.”
“Sure.” She started walking, and I fell into step beside her. “How are you finding the festival?”
“Different than I remember.” I glanced around at the booths and vendors. “More…organized.”
She laughed, a sound that did things to my chest. “Everything’s more organized when you let the librarian help plan it.”
“Let me guess—you volunteered?”
“Volunteered is a strong word. More like I made some suggestions that turned into spreadsheets, which somehowturned into being in charge of vendor placement and signage.” She shrugged. “It’s a sickness.”
“The organization thing?”
“The inability to leave well enough alone.” She glanced at me sideways. “Case in point—your sister’s book display this morning.”
“She told me about that.” I grinned. “Said you made it look ‘actually professional’ for the first time ever.”
“Don’t tell her I said this, but the way she had them arranged was giving me anxiety. Like, physical discomfort.”
“That bad?”
“Book Four next to Book One of a different series, Orion. Book. Four.”
She said it like it was a war crime, and I found myself chuckling. “I’m guessing that’s not how libraries work.”
“Libraries have systems. Beautiful, logical systems that make sense.” Her eyes lit up as she talked. I could listen to her explain library science for hours. “Everything has a place, and when it’s in its place, the world makes sense.”
“Must be nice,” I said quietly.
She glanced at me, something shifting in her expression. “What do you mean?”
I wasn’t sure why I’d said it. The words had just slipped out, revealing more than I’d intended. “Nothing. Just…I’ve been feeling like nothing makes sense lately.”
We’d reached the library booth—a small table staffed by an elderly woman who lit up when she saw Larkin. “Oh good, you brought reinforcements!”
“Mrs. Meade, this is Orion. Cassie’s brother.” Larkin hefted her bag onto the table and started pulling out books. “Orion, this is Mrs. Meade. She basically runs the library when I’m not there.”
“Which is never,” Mrs. Meade said with a fond smile. “This girl practically lives at the library.”
“Someone has to make sure the books stay in order,” Larkin said, but she was blushing.
I set my box down and helped her arrange the new books on the display. Our hands brushed as we both reached for the same novel, and the contact sent electricity up my arm. From the way she sucked in a breath, she felt it too.
“So,” Mrs. Meade said, apparently oblivious to the tension crackling between us, “you’re the famous football player people around here are always talking about.”
“Former football player,” I corrected, probably more sharply than necessary.
“Oh.” Mrs. Meade looked confused, but Larkin shot me a look that was pure understanding. Like she got it—the loss, the identity crisis, the feeling of being stuck between who you were and who you’re supposed to be now.
“Mrs. Meade,” Larkin said smoothly, “didn’t you want to go check on the children’s reading corner?”
“Right, yes.” The older woman bustled off, leaving us alone.
“Thank you,” I said.
“For what?”
“Not asking questions. Not pushing.” I arranged the last book on the display. “Most people want details about the injury, or they tell me everything will work out fine, or they have suggestions for what I should do next.”
