Page 20 of Best Year Ever

I laugh. “I always have time for you,” I say, knowing she’s joking. Wanda is eighty if she’s a day, and she surely has a team of doctors and specialists keeping her in perfect health. “Whenever you show up, I can see you. And if you want, I can call in a massage therapist and a manicurist. We can get you all fixed up.”

“Would you mind staying a little late this evening?” she asks. “Can I come after six?”

There’s no laugh in her voice.

She’s serious. She wants me to give her an exam. And she wants to come after hours. I feel a prickle of worry at the back of my neck.

“Of course.” I hear my voice change as I realize she’s not playing. “I’ll be here. If the door is locked, ring the buzzer and I’ll be right with you.”

“Thank you for fitting me in,” she says softly.

Her words send a shiver up my arms. She’s always so fun, so playful. This quiet, serious woman sounds frightened.

I don’t want her to be afraid.

“Always. Any time,” I tell her.

When she comes, I will do everything in my power to help comfort her. I’m glad she can come in today, because if she’s as worried as she sounds, I want to be able to help her immediately. Whatever she’s afraid of, I don’t want her to have to sleep on it. In fact, I almost call her back and tell her to come right now, but if she wanted to come in now, she would have asked if I could see her now. And if she’d asked, I’d have said yes.

I know everyone at Chamberlain loves Wanda, but she always makes me feel like I’m special to her. Her favorite. I have a suspicion that everyone here feels the same, but I’m pretty sure she really does like me best. Not that I’ve done anything to deserve it. She’s just generous with her heart that way.

I can’t concentrate on email, and nothing else seems important enough to distract me from worrying about Wanda. I get down on the floor of my office and do push-ups—enough to get my heart beating, but not enough to make me sweaty. I have to get back to work in a few minutes. And I need to get my head straight. Between Wanda and Sage, I’m likely to be way too distracted to do my job.

6

SAGE

The library is crowded and busy this evening, and even though I’m constantly moving between the circulation desk and the workroom and the stacks, it’s not enough to keep my mind off Grayson Mercer.

Not that I try very hard to ignore the thoughts.

I picture him leaning in doorways and sitting with his back against trees and smiling while he looks down, like maybe he’s shy. I mean, he’s not shy, but it’s a good look on my imaginary version of him. I keep thinking I see him walking into the library, but it’s never him. Nobody else has that same way of walking into a room, with casual confidence and great posture.

I hear someone laugh, and I think it could be him, but no. Just a couple of students with their heads together looking at a phone.

A kid comes to the desk and asks for help finding a book. He speed-talks as if he needs to get this over with. “I forget the title. My brother and my roommate both told me to read it. It’s a Mercer.”

Mercer. He’s everywhere. I twitch. “It’s a what?”

He slows down. “A mystery?” He says it like a question this time, as if maybe this library assistant has no idea what the third most popular fiction genre is. Right.Mystery.

Okay, Sage. Time to get your head in the game.

“Sure. Tell me what you remember,” I say. He gives me a few unhelpful details, but after he mentions a trip on a private yacht, I know the book he means. I type the title into the computer.

“The paper copies are all checked out, but you can borrow digital or audio,” I tell him.

“Audio,” he says, and runs his ID card under the scanner.

I’m determined to do my job without any more Dr. Mercer-style distractions. I’m not picturing him standing across from me or directing that devastating smile at me. I don’t see him walking through doorways. I can’t hear his voice saying my name.

You may be wondering, why are we even talking about this? Is it somehow difficult to not see what isn’t in front of me? Are you kidding me? I’m exhausted. It takes all my focus. How is that even possible? How am I working so hard not to notice someone who isn’t here? And I can’t even say anything about it to anybody, because admitting this battle would only prove I’m driving on the crazy side of the street.

I huff out a frustrated breath and start picking up pieces of paper lying around the circulation desk. Come on, people. Clean up after yourselves. For an organization that succeeds in a digital world, the Chamberlain library is held together by a massive number of sticky notes. I make piles and slip them into the cubby holes. If someone needs this note about skate board velocity, they’ll have to go through the stack to find it.

I swipe up a few pieces of mail, ads, and a magazine before my fingers graze over the gold-embossed invitation I threw on the counter the other day.

Frustration at the clutter turns instantly to something else.

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