I dragged myself from the chair, went upstairs, and stopped in the doorway of the kitchenette. Miles was making sandwiches at the counter.
He looked over his shoulder. “It didn’t go well,” he stated.
I shook my head. “I need three thousand dollars for inventory software, a bar code system, and a website. I only get the bar code system. But that’s not enough. The Board wants me to provide real data to prove how much the library is utilized, and I can’t do that without all of the tools.”
“Come sit.” Miles put the sandwiches on the table.
I walked across the room and collapsed in the closest chair. “If I hadn’t spent all of my money moving up here, I’d just buy it myself.”
Miles sat across from me. “Eat.”
“I’m too upset.”
“Being upset on an empty stomach will only make it worse.”
I sighed, maybe a little dramatically, and picked up the sandwich. Miles had chosen the chicken slices, added some lettuce, tomato, mayonnaise, and with his bread, it was an award-winning combination. “It’s really good,” I mumbled.
Miles tore at his crust. “May I ask, why are you so invested?”
I looked up. Miles was staring intently, waiting for an answer. “It’s silly, right?”
“No.”
“I feel like I’ve always been looking for a place to belong. And I feel that here. I know it’s sudden—I’ve been working all of two days—but I love Lancaster so far, and I love the history within these walls. And there’s nothing sadder than losing books. Don’t you think?”
Miles looked thoughtful. “My father went on a lot of business trips, back and forth to Japan. My mother and I were never very close, so I was lonely when he was gone. And… I’ve always been shy. That hasn’t changed much. But I spent a lot of time here when my father was away. The smell of the books is nostalgic—reminds me of summer vacations or cold winter days sitting in the alcoves, reading.”
“There must be others who feel like you do, right?”
“Yes.”
I took another bite of food. “I won’t give up until they fire me, but I feel like the blow I got from Mr. Fields all but confirmed it’s a lost cause.”
“Don’t say that.” Miles didn’t smile, but he reached out and touched my arm briefly. “I’ll do whatever I can to help.”
I thanked Miles. He nodded and busied himself with lunch and the morning newspaper he’d brought with him. I ate my own sandwich while trying to read the headlines upside down.
“There’s a fair?” I finally asked.
Miles glanced up. “Hmm? Oh. Yes, the annual holiday food fair is this weekend.”
“That sounds fun! What sort of things do they have?”
Miles waved a hand. “There’s live music, restaurants and businesses in town set up booths to sell food, there’s a cooking contest….”
“Are you going?” I asked next.
Miles looked down at the newspaper. “I was thinking about entering the cooking competition,” he said by way of answer, scratching the side of his nose absently. “Maybe.”
“Oh my God,” I said, feeling much happier with this discussion versus the doom and gloom of the library’s sad fate. “Do it! What will you enter?”
Miles shrugged. “Bread.”
“Well, duh. I’ve no doubt you’ll win.”
He laughed nervously and was definitely blushing. “That’s nice of you to say, but I’m not—”
“No, no, don’t say some little old lady has a secret blueberry pie recipe that’s greater than your orgasmic bread.”
