Nell’s shift was over before the library closed, so she tucked Art’s not-quite-a-gift book in her messenger bag and caught the bus to head over there. Not that it was far—Colchester wasn’t exactly a city—but she had a bus pass, so she might as well use it. Plus, this way she could start paging through Since You Went Away on the ride over and see exactly how much Art might end up paying her for.
First person, ugh. So trendy. And present tense. Wasn’t that the domain of indie presses and self-publishers? Too hip and chatty for the trades, right? Apparently wrong, because here it was, I this and I that, after the first dozen pages or so of advance praise from big-name authors who got to use this chance to have their most recent books put after their names.
Nell blinked and had to laugh because she wasn’t a failed author or anything. Just grumpy, apparently. She tucked the book back in her bag in time for her stop, swung easily off the bus, and headed to the library door.
Kent was at the front desk, not behind it but talking to Emmy, and he grinned and straightened up when he saw her. “Hey there, pretty lady.” He was tall and broad, and although he wore a plain blue dress shirt, he looked like a biker with his dark hair pulled into a ponytail, his thick beard, and the tattoos poking out of his sleeves and down the backs of his hands.
“I’m not here for you,” Nell informed him sweetly as he bent down for a kiss.
“Dammit,” he whispered, in case any patrons were close enough to overhear. Not that many people tended to approach the guy who, despite wearing an official name badge, was over six feet tall and clearly regularly hit the gym. When Kent walked, the ear added in the jingle of chains and the squeak of leather no matter what he was currently wearing. “Who are you leaving me for?”
“I’m not sure, actually.” Nell pulled out the book and turned it so Emmy could see. “Art said it’s like … literary romance or something?”
“Oh my God, girl, is that an advance copy of Since You Went Away?” Brandon demanded in a very un-librarian voice as he all but vaulted out of the back office and swooped in to snatch it before Emmy could properly focus on the cover.
Emmy and Kent shared a look and a shrug, but Nell nodded. “Art said the agent or someone sent it to him because the author wants to do one of his readings at Pending.”
“Okay, and Art immediately wrote back and said hell yeah, right?” Brandon demanded, running his long fingers down the spine of the book like it was the basis for his new religion. Next to Kent he looked very short and very skinny indeed, but Nell thought he was far more intimidating. Kent was a teddy bear, but Brandon was a honey badger.
Nell shrugged. “He just got it. He gave it to me so I can read him and warn him if there’s any … I don’t know. If there’s anything he should know about before he says yes.”
Brandon held it up in both hands, not so much a minister now as a cult leader. “Art says yes to this. My God, C. J. O’Connell coming here on his debut tour? Shut up!”
Kent tilted his head. “Looks like you’re here for Brandon.”
“Oh, come on,” the man in question sassed back, pushing his wire-rimmed glasses up on his nose. “Don’t act like you’ve never heard of it. This book’s everywhere and it’s not even out yet.”
“Well I hadn’t heard of it,” Nell cut in before this could turn into some sort of literary pissing contest. “And neither had Art.”
Brandon set it down on the circulation desk, still reverent. He was over-the-top most days, which made him an odd choice for library director, but now he looked like he was on the verge of a heart attack. “It’s a beautifully tender story of a man who happily exists in the friend zone and supports a woman who may or may not be worthy of his complete love and devotion.”
Emmy put a hand to her lips to either stifle a giggle or cover up how she’d just puked a little in her mouth.
“Beautifully tender,” Brandon repeated. “It makes you think that maybe some of the straights are okay, after all.”
“Ouch,” Kent muttered.
“Look, we all know you, and you’re not okay, so …”
“Ouch,” Nell agreed. “I’m not sure I want to take your book recommendations.”
Brandon sighed and folded his hands professionally on the edge of the countertop. “Having C. J. O’Connell come to Colchester and read at Pending would do nothing but good for Art and this town. You’ll get publicity, people will stop thinking we mean Colchester Lake … I’m talking national, if not international, coverage for the work you all do there, okay? I haven’t heard anything bad or ‘out there’ about the book, so read it, if that’s what Art wants, and tell him yes, and then loan it to me, okay?”
“It’s technically Art’s book, so I’ll have to ask if I can loan it to you.”
He shrugged. “I can be charming to Art.”
“I think Art’s immune to your charms,” Emmy cautioned, then frowned a little. “I think Art’s immune to all charms.”
Brandon waved that away. “I’ve got my ways.”
Ways, Nell mused, that apparently weren’t charming. “Okay. I’ll pass on your recommendation. And your request.”
Kent slipped an arm around her shoulders because even he wasn’t going to grab her ass in front of his boss. “Are you going to wait for me?”
“I would, but I don’t have anything to read.” Nell went up on her tiptoes, but he still had to duck his head so her kiss could land somewhere near his cheek. “Is there someone in my favorite chair?”
“Not last I saw.”
“Okay. You know where to look for me.” Nell picked up the book and accepted the bookmark Brandon pulled out of their display and pointedly handed to her, in case she dared to dog-ear one of the pages.
Kent tried to tamp down a smirk. “I’ll walk you up.”
“No making out in the stacks!” Brandon ordered. “Remember the cameras!”
“Look, just because you’re overwhelmed by the desire to make out with Nell in public doesn’t mean the rest of us can’t control ourselves,” Kent countered, leading her away from the desk and toward the stairs and dropping his voice. “You okay?”
She grimaced, because come on, it wasn’t actually obvious, was it? “I read the first couple pages. It takes place in Kalamazoo. He says she went to K College.”
Kent looked down at her for so long it was good no one was descending the stairs. “Nell.”
“It’s okay. It’s just a book. A novel.” Except clearly it wasn’t okay, because he’d seen something, and gotten her alone so he could mention it. “Art’s paying me two bucks a page to read it and report back.”
He made a grumbling noise that expressed any number of sentiments, including A good therapist costs more than that.
“I’ll tell you if it’s too much, okay?” The top of the stairs was enough for her to see her favorite chair, and it was empty. That entire grouping was empty. “You can be on me about it, but you have to trust me to be truthful.”
That almost made Kent smile. “I trust that you’re telling me the same thing you tell yourself, but that doesn’t mean I trust you’re telling yourself the truth.”
Forget therapy—she had him. “And we can talk about that too, then, later, if you think we need to. But right now you’re supposed to be at work.”
He sighed and leaned down to kiss her gently on the lips. “Okay. But grab a different book if that one gets to be too …” He flapped a hand to show that too could be followed by any number of adjectives.
“Excuse me, do you work here?” someone asked in the sort of voice that clearly meant Stop making out with that girl when you’re on the clock. Nell and Kent each wore a wedding band, plain gold, so even though they looked young it wasn’t like they were teenagers or something.
Kent smiled, though, and turned to the stranger—severe gray haircut, pantsuit, cat’s-eye glasses—and answered, “I do. How can I be of service?”
The woman sniffed and adjusted those glasses with a look at Nell that meant she gamely retreated to her favorite chair, far enough away that the patron could make her request in full privacy, like she was consulting a priest instead of a librarian.
Okay some days Nell forgot she’d leaned hard into the manic pixie dream girl thing and the hair pulled back from her face—aside from the required bangs, of course—was bubblegum pink, so maybe that was part of the reaction. Plus Kent, with his beard and breadth, looked older than his age, so when she looked younger …
Nell sat down in the chair and plunked her messenger bag by her feet, crossing her legs primly even though she had capri-length leggings underneath the sundress just in case anyone tried to take a peek, and opened the book in her lap to wait for Kent to be done.
from Since You Went Away by C. J. O’Connell (Penguin, 2024)
Describing people in books always seems like an exercise in futility. Each of us always ends up with our own personal idea of what famous characters look like, which is never like the actor who plays them on screen, and often has nothing to do with what the author describes, anyway. By the time we’re told the hunky hero has a single lock of black hair that falls across his forehead, he’s already stuck in our minds as a redhead or blond.
The first time I saw Rosie, my eyes caught on her, but any description seems trite. Blonde, yes, but her hair is thick, and long, and not quite honey but not entirely golden, either. Initially it was down, the ends curling slightly below her shoulder blades, but as she went back and forth to carry more things in, she pulled it up into a messy bun. The kind of effortless messy bun blonde women in Uggs do all the time, but Rosie was in Converse today, and jeans, and a band t-shirt that was honestly washed and worn instead of bought to just look that way.
She’s the new renter in 12, sharing with that pale, chubby, doughy girl with the straight black hair and heavy bangs. Hailey doesn’t have an indoor voice, so I’m not the only one who knows her previous choice for a roommate fell through—left her for some brain-dead hunk, she says, but “escaped” is more like it—and Rosie all but took pity on her. I don’t know what Rosie’s plans were before this, because Hailey’s never complained about those, but my God.
She moves smoothly, but without the arrogance of a ballet dancer. She’s solid, but strong—I saw her carry in any number of boxes while Hailey trailed after her, a single tote bag hung indifferently over one arm. And, despite Hailey’s drone of a monologue, she offered me a smile every time I saw her.
Rosie’s eyes are gray and she has a dimple on her right cheek. Not the left—just the right.
12 is on the first floor, so I didn’t get a chance to see if she’d struggle with those suitcases on the stairs, and it’s also one of our semi-furnished units, so nobody had to help her carry in a bed frame or a sofa. I’m not supposed to—that’s not part of my job description—but I would’ve offered, for her. Especially because she wouldn’t have ordered, and maybe wouldn’t even have asked. There’s independence in that no-nonsense lift of her chin, and combine that with the quick intelligence in her eyes …
She was alone in the parking lot, conscientiously locking the doors on her silver Saturn when I was leaving, and those eyes caught mine, and she smiled again.
I stopped. When a woman like that smiles at you, you stop, even if you know she’s leagues above you and climbing.
“Hi. I’m Rosie.” She held out her hand, and we shook, my calluses against her silken palm.
“Calvin.” I cleared my throat. “Cal. Facilities management.”
The smile played around the corners of her mouth again. “Well. I guess I hope I won’t be seeing that much of you, then.”
That’s what her mouth said. Her eyes told me another story.
Chapter Three- coming January 3
Rebecca Frost 