|CHAPTER TWO|

It was a few days later that I went to return The Lost City. I hopped on my bike shortly after my mother left for work and disappeared from the neighborhood for the second time that summer. I even made sure to be a bit more presentable this time, and also remembered my library card.

When I entered the cool building, I quietly slipped the book into the return slot and moved on, eyes flicking in all directions to make sure that the strange librarian from the other day hadn’t seen. It’s silly, but I felt a little at war with him, and taking that book meant he was winning.

I was still holding his pompousness against him—well, not that it was even pompousness, he just plain annoyed me, and it made it worse that I almost hoped I’d see him again, today.

I climbed the steps to the second floor and surveyed the area quickly before moving past the assortment of tables and chairs to the bookshelves. I didn’t plan to mindlessly wander this time, I prepared myself.

In the little bit of time my mother allowed me to use her laptop, I scoured the library’s website in search of an adventure—well, a literary adventure, because at this point in my life, I wasn’t searching for a real one.

I liked comfort and security. It was nice having a plan compete with bullet points and well-organized notes. So, naturally, I was the kind of person whose adventures came from documentaries on the History Channel. I would sit all day admiring the tragedy of the World Wars with my cat, Luis, snuggled in my lap.

However, since I discovered the “real” story of Atlantis in The Lost City, I realized I was in a greater state of wanderlust than I thought, and the only way to cure it was to take my mind somewhere else. I thought maybe I’d search for Pompeii before the wanderlust grew too strong and I did the unwise thing of choosing want before need.

I rounded a row of books and stepped down a new aisle, eyes searching for something of interest. I was just plucking a compact book from the top shelf when a face came level with mine from one aisle over, eyes smiling at me from between a gap in the bookshelf.

“Was it mesmeric?” Asked the face.

I jumped a little, nearly dropping the book I’d just picked out. The word choice and high nose were telltale signs of the strange librarian from the other day. A strange mix of dread and excitement brewed in my gut when I recognized him.  

He laughed quietly and whispered an apology. Then, suddenly, he was wheeling the book cart into my aisle.

“You’re Jovie, right?”

I was startled to hear my name from him since we hadn’t exchanged names before. My brows furrowed in confusion and his expectant expression turned bashful.

“Oh, I searched the registry to see if you ended up checking it out. Wasn’t hard. I was the last person to check it out before you—it was you, wasn’t it?”

My eyes narrowed while my lips twitched in disbelief. “You checked the registry...”

He put his hands up in defense, and quickly began a chorus of “no’s”.  “I wasn’t being creepy,” he claimed, hands waving frantically, “I just didn’t want to embarrass myself by asking about the book if you didn’t read it...”He paused and pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers.. “Not that I haven’t just embarrassed myself now...” His face turned blotchy and he lifted a book from the cart to hide his face behind. “I am so sorry.”

I pressed my lips together, trying hard not to laugh, but failing when I couldn’t hold back the grin that threatened to appear. There was nothing eloquent about his blundering—and the image he had tried so hard to create the other day just crumbled before him in a string of garbled stutters.

I decided to mock him a little.

“It truly was mesmeric,” I told him past a light chuckle. “In fact, I found the storyline to be quite prodigious.”

His eyes slowly appeared over the top of the book in his hands. “You liked it?” The stutter seemed to disappear and light inquisition returned to his voice. My lips pursed at the shift in confidence.  He had a funny way of carrying himself.

“I guess.”

He lowered the book completely and tucked a piece of hair behind his ear. I decided I didn’t much care for his shoulder length locks. The longer I looked at him, the more alien-like he appeared.

Suddenly, he knelt down beside the cart and ran an index finger over the spines of the books stashed there.

I glanced down the aisle, unsure of what to do. I decided to scan the book I picked out, but realized shortly that I didn’t want it and put it back on the shelf. All the while the strange librarian hummed to himself, searching for who-knows-what. I questioned whether or not to walk away.

“Drat,” he muttered after what felt like forever. “It’s not here. Figures. If you thought The Lost City was enthralling, you’d love Meryl Island.”

I grimaced. “A story about an island? Those are always creepy.”

“It’s completely disturbing. You have to read it.”

There was an excited gleam in his eye and I felt my insides warm. The interest he seemed to take in me came out of nowhere, and it made me nervous because I didn’t know what to expect. I didn’t make friends easily. Besides, I wasn’t one to take suggestions from people—he got lucky the first time.

I began to shake my head, but he nodded in response. “I have incredible taste in literature.”

He had fierce light blue eyes that dared me to take him up on his offer and prove him wrong.

I looked over at the bookshelf beside us, thinking about the kind of adventure I really came searching for, and when my eyes met his again, I knew I was going to give in.

With a sigh, I answered, “Okay.”

The corners of his lips turned up and then he turned the cart around.  I took a step toward him and his hand shot out. “I’m Bash, by the way.”

Cautiously, I put my hand in his and he gave it a firm squeeze.

“Bash?” I questioned.

“Sebastian Daley the Third, actually,” he quipped. “Just imagine Christmas at my parent’s humble abode. Three Sebastians’.” He shook his head at the sheer ridiculousness. “So, I started calling myself Bash. Things got far less confusing after that.”

He lead me across the library in silence for a few strides before talking, again. “Jovie, then?”

I nodded.

“A form of jovial. It means happy, cheerful, jubilant.” His elbow nudged my arm lightly. “Your parents must have been excited to have you.”

I snorted, lips contorting into goofy excuse for a frown, mostly because I just wanted to laugh. “My mom is the mayor,” I said.

Nearly everyone in town knew about the relationship between my mother and her secretary. It was the closest thing Ashwood Creek ever got to a scandal.  Sure, Mayor Sinclair seemed practically perfect in every way, but could anyone ever let her live down her one mistake? Guess again.

“That doesn’t mean anything to me. I’m not from here,” Bash told me.

I lifted my eyebrows and clasped my hands together. “Oh,” I said. “Well, it’s just a little ironic.”

“I won’t ask.”

“Thanks,” I said, quietly.

We came to a shelf on the opposite side of the library. Nobody else was near us and it was the one place in the library that didn’t have windows. The genre on the plaque above the books read “Nonfiction: Horror.”

My eyes grew. Bash noticed and chuckled. “Ominous but fascinating. Trust me on this.”

The wheels of the cart squeaked as he slowed it to a stop. Without even having to examine the shelf, Bash pulled out the second book from the top right. It was thin and black with bold white lettering.

“Tell me how you like it,” he offered with a smile.

●════════●♥●════════●

That weekend, as always, I went to Henry’s.

I loved my father, admired him, really, but the weekends were always somewhat uncomfortable. He had a tiny little shoebox of an apartment with one bedroom—so, I slept on the pull out couch. Another thing, they didn’t allow pets, so I couldn’t bring Luis with.

Now, it’s not like I didn’t enjoy spending time with my father because of the living arrangements, because I did, it’s just that, in my eyes, he was a strange man.

Henry was excitable and witty. More times than not, he insisted we treat each other as friends instead of family.

 In the mornings we made breakfast together. At night, we’d watch the History Channel until one of us began to snore. He had weird things all over his house—art things from when he was in high school. A painting of an eye greeted guests at the door, a failed life-size dog sculpture stood next to the couch, and he had a collection of ceramic bowls placed around the house even though they served no purpose.

If my mother introduced me to this man for the first time that day and told me he was my father, I wouldn’t believe her. He was too “out there”, not something my mother would ever consider procreating with. But, she did, and I’m living proof of it.

At my mother’s house, everything had a place. We didn’t have useless things lying about the house—not like Henry’s sculptures. We had family pictures, area rugs, plants—but that’s as crazy as we got. My mother liked blue, so everything in the house had a color scheme of blues, greys, and whites.

Henry’s home on the other hand? There probably wasn’t a single matching furniture item in his entire apartment.

So, after spending all week with my put-together mother, it’s no wonder I thought my own father was bizarre.

My mother walked me up to Henry’s floor, carrying my suitcase for me even though she was still wearing her work heels. When I tried to take it from her, she swatted my hand away and told me “I’ve got it.” As we walked, she did what she always does: place her hand on the small of my back as if she were guiding me.

Henry had a red door, and when we reached it, I knocked. My mother let out a sigh beside me and set my suitcase down. Henry opened up a moment later.

Behind the frame of his glasses, he observed me first with a smile, “Hey, Jo-Jo.”

“Hey,” I said. I was, admittedly, a little winded from the walk up the stairs, and the heat got worse every day in Ashwood Creek. I started to fan myself with my hand.

He turned to my mother. "Hello, Mer."

My mother blinked a couple of times and smoothed down the front of her blouse. "Henry, we are professionals, I am your boss. To you, I am Ms. Sinclair or Meredith."

Henry rolled his eyes. "It's been nearly eighteen years--"

My mother waved a hand at him and then turned to me.

"Have fun, I'll see you Monday."

She pressed a short kiss into my hair and then hurried back down the hall.  

I sighed and turned toward Henry, used to how uncomfortable their interactions were, but also a little tired with their awkwardness.

Henry stuffed his hands in his pockets and kept his eyes steady on her even after she disappeared down the stairwell.

In an effort to lighten the mood, he smiled mischievously and muttered to me, "She had no objections to 'Mer' the night you were conceived."

My eyes widened in alarm while my cheeks flushed. I grabbed my suitcase and lifted it into the apartment, pushing past him. "Oh my god, Henry. I did not need to know that."

“It’s true,” he sang after me while I heaved my suitcase toward the couch.

I had Meryl Island, which I planned to finish over the weekend, in my other hand. Only a chapter in and I was already questioning the reality of my entire life. Bash was right. It was so disturbing it was fascinating.

I heard the front door close and Henry popped up beside me a second later. “Put in a good word for me,” he advised while ruffling his greying curls.  

I lifted an eyebrow and dropped down onto the couch. “She pretty much avoids any kind of relationship.”

Henry shrugged. “I know,” he said. Then, he sat down next to me with a little groan. “She’s got to be real lonely.”

I opened Meryl’s Island and lifted my feet, crossing them under me on the cushions. “I don’t know. I think being alone is just who she is.”

I never thought my mom was unhappy, or rather, I knew she wasn’t. I knew because I was just like her and I wasn't unhappy living my life the way I did.

My mom wasn’t a relationship person, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t like people. She liked people. Of course she did, she was the mayor. She prided herself in making things a little better for everyone. That’s all she ever felt she needed to do. That's the kind of love she believed in. Romantic love was a want, and it’s something she just deemed unnecessary.

I got that, but I also got Henry.

Henry didn’t understand how someone couldn’t want that kind of love, romantic love. To him, finding romantic love was part of life. Just like people have to go through puberty, they have to feel romantic love.  

I got that, but I didn’t think it was true. You don’t have to fall in love. Really, you don’t. It’s a choice, and a beautiful one at that.

You know what it all comes down to? It comes down to a couple of questions: Do I want to be with this person? Do I trust them? Do they make me happy?

If you ever say “I need them," you’re never going to be happy.

I think that’s what’s wrong with Henry’s perspective. He convinced himself he needed my mother’s love, and because of that he’s stuck. If he just told himself he didn’t need it, he’d be free.

“Well,” Henry says, “don’t let that dictate who you are.” I glanced up from my book and he wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “You’ve got one life. Every couple miles, go down a path you wouldn’t normally take. You’re a smart girl, navigation should be easy.”

 And so, here Henry helped me make a future decision. He was right, I already knew the difference between need and want—but applying them both to my life at the same time? That’s something I hadn’t done yet.