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Unable to sit still,I grab a cart of books that need to be re-shelved and head into the stacks, trying to keep from muttering all my crazy thoughts out loud.
I never want to see Jeremy again. And I want him here so I can give him a piece of my mind. I’m burning with self-righteous indignation… and I’m overcome with guilt because damn it, I knew I should have said something about those interviews! In my head, I’m imagining all the furious self-righteous things I’ll say to him tonight when I get home and I’m imagining pleading for forgiveness and offering to cook him dinner.
Or maybe it’s him who should cook me dinner.
Like I said, crazy.
I glance at the pile of books on the cart. The fact that patrons have taken out and returned this many books is a sign that people rely on the library. Why can’t I get the people who control my purse strings to understand that?
When I run out of adult books to re-shelve, I head for the elevator. Someday, I’d like to rearrange the library so that the children’s section is downstairs and parents won’t have to fuss with stairs or the cranky, noisy old elevator, but that’s way down on the list of renovations that need to happen around here.
I stab at the elevator button several times. I know from experience that there’s nothing I can do to make it open up faster, but I’m impatient and aggravated, and taking it out on the button is better than losing my shit and kicking the door.
There’s an ominous creaking of gears somewhere behind the walls and the elevator doors open with begrudging slowness. I shove the book cart in and hit the button for the second floor.
The elevator was serviced about a year ago but the inspector warned me that there’s a good chance it won’t pass next time. I’ve been trying to find the money to repair or better yet replace it, but so far, I’m only to about half of what I need.
The doors shut even more slowly than they opened. I swear the elevator gives a weary sigh as it starts to rise. I know how it feels. I don’t have much energy left for anything either.
I cross my arms and lean against the back wall. What the hell, Jeremy? See, this is what comes of not letting a one-night stand be a one-night stand. Complications. Drama. Hurt feelings.
My hurt feelings.
Was Joyce right? I leave before I can get hurt?
Well, I’m a smart cookie then, because whatever I’m feeling right now, I don’t like it one little bit.
Lost in my grouchy thoughts, it takes me a while to realize that the elevator has reached the second floor but hasn’t opened. I lean over the cart and press the open button several times.
Yes, I know it won’t make a difference.
Sort of a metaphor, these buttons. I keep trying the same things over and over and nothing seems to change.
There’s a sudden, horrible grinding sound and the elevator slips downward then stops with a nasty lurch. I let out a little scream and grab the rail. A couple of books fall to the floor.
Okay, that was not the kind of change I had in mind.
I stab the open button a few more times, mildly panicked now, and the elevator lurches again.
I stop stabbing the button and instead hold very, very still. Would a fall to the basement level kill me? I’d really rather not find out. Moving slowly, as if a sudden movement could plunge me to my death—which for all I know it could—I pull out my phone and call Gigi at the front desk.
“I’m stuck in the elevator,” I whisper.
“Blaze? Speak up, sweetheart. I can’t hear you.”
I realize I’m using the avalanche playbook. Loud voices probably aren’t what cause elevators to crash, so I switch my voice to normal volume. “The elevator is stuck, and I’m in it. And it just sort of slipped or something, and I’m getting nervous.”
“Oh, no, Blaze! Hold on, honey. I’ll call for help.”
The moment she hangs up, I realize who she’s going to call.
Sure enough, less than five minutes later, I hear Jeremy’s voice. “Blaze! You okay in there?”
It surprises me not at all that it’s him because that’s just the way my life seems to be going. An entire fire department and he’s the one who has to come out on this call.
Got to hand it to their response time, though.
“Fine. Just stuck!” I yell back. Another metaphor. “And the elevator just sort of lurched, and it felt like it fell?”
