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The thought of spending tomorrow evening hanging out at Grayson’s place makes it easy to deal with anything weird that might happen here tonight. All the way to closing time.
Who am I kidding? The thought of Grayson, full stop.
I picture his professional face, the one that’s intelligent and understanding. He has this nod he does when a patient (okay, me—I’m the patient) asks intense questions. He makes totally appropriate eye contact, putting this patient totally at ease to ask what otherwise might be uncomfortable questions about side effects of medicine I’ve never taken (and will never take) but saw an ad for when I was binge-watchingX Files.
Then there’s the good-news smile, when he tells the patient there’s no cancer, no meningitis, no arthritis. Just a back ache from falling asleep on the floor studying. I love the good-news smile.
And now I’m learning a new one. The you’re-interesting smile. He thinks I’m interesting. He’s interested.
After a pretty prolonged crush (I mean, for me—I’ve sighed over Dr. Grayson Mercer since my senior year), I’m finally getting a return on my emotional investment. And I know I’m being completely shameless about my interest, but why should I pretend to be cool about it? I’m so uncool about it. I have a thing for the doctor, and the doctor is IN. He doesn’t need to guess if I’m interested. He has to know. I’m definitely not playing shy.
“What are you grinning at?”
I turn and see Tessie, leaning her cheek on a fist and watching me at my computer.
I stand up and step close to her. Lean in, like she’s going to get to hear a big secret. I whisper, “Library business is so entertaining.”
She swats at my arm. “You’re strange,” she says. I hear the adoration in her voice. It’s fun to have her around. When we were younger, the five years between us seemed like a lot. It’s not a lot now. She’s almost seventeen and not at all a little kid anymore.
“Can I grab your keys? Hayes and I need a study room.”
I shake my head. “You really don’t.”
Pulling herself up on the counter on her stomach, she grins at me. “Don’t be weird about it. We do. It’s a music assignment. He’s practicing a song. On the guitar,” she says. “Do you know how amazing he is on the guitar?”
I nod, but I’m thinking,yeah. I’ve heard him play. Three chords. Amazing. But I don’t say that. She doesn’t care if his casual playing is any good. She only cares how he gazes into her eyes while he plays cheesy nineties ballads and looks at her from under his carefully overgrown bangs.
I hand over my keys. “Bring them back once you’ve opened it up. Room three.”
Room three has a big window in the door. I can keep an eye on the practice session.
She slides off the counter and waves over her shoulder. “That’s my lucky study room.”
“Do not get lucky in there,” I say, probably too loud. A few kids snicker.
Oops.
Oh, well. I’ll take it.
Anything it takes to make the library the place to be.
17
GRAYSON
Lana’s package is at my door when I get back from the dairy. The box isn’t very big, and I wonder how something this size is going to make my apartment feel less clinical, more home-like. Then I open the box.
She must have sucked out all the air or something, because it practically explodes when I take the tape off. Three square pillows pop out of the cardboard, and I immediately think of pumpkin pie. One is that dark orange color, and one is striped in shades of tan and brown. The last one is the whipped cream, I guess, because it’s got some kind of frothy, soft white fabric cover.
I throw the pillows onto my couch, and I’m going to have to send Lana a picture. They already improved the feel of the room.
There’s a blanket that’s not the same color as the pumpkin-pie pillow, but it feels like it belongs with it, a lighter shade. I spread it out over the couch cushions. The box also contains a candle in a glass jar, two fake succulent plants in cool pots, and a handful of pictures colored by one or both of the twins. Lana has stuck a post-it note to one. “If you want to know what this picture means, you should call. This art is way too nuanced for a simple explanation.”
I dial her number.
When she answers, there’s a lot of noise. “Sorry,” she says. “Soccer.”
“No problem. I got your package. And I’m ready for the artist’s explanation.”
