Between the Stacks

Chapter 43

A week passed before I had any real interaction with Wesley. My maturity level was the same as a five-year-old, I admit. (And speaking as someone who had seen a five-year-old use markers as lipstick, I knew what I was saying.)

He hadn't responded to my text message. And unlike Lakshmi, Wesley preferred to work from her old office. I didn't begrudge him this - it was the only office with a door. In fact, I was thankful for it. That way, I didn't have to see him every waking minute. Years ago I heard the story of a man in Paris who absolutely hated the Eiffel Tower when it was built. Ironically, he ended up enjoying his meals in the restaurant in the Eiffel Tower, because it was the only place in the city where he could enjoy the view without the so-called metal monstrosity.

I was no Eiffel Tower hater, but I certainly understood the feeling of safety by being close to the source of the problem. When I was at my desk, Wesley couldn't talk to me, because there were so many people listening nearby.

Working at the reference desk was harder. I would see him out of the corner of my eye, watching me, and a few times - when it was quiet, when no one was around - he seemed to start towards me before thinking better of it.

I knew the situation couldn't last.

That day I had a rare Sunday shift. The library was only open for a handful of hours, and the weather was so nice that the day was unusually quiet. Of course, I had a client come in five minutes before closing, and he had a long request. ("How many James Patterson books are there?" he asked, and my response was, "Oh boy.")

Everyone else had left by the time I escorted out the man with his stack of twenty books (i.e. the tip of the James Patterson iceberg). The tell-tale sound of wheels against the linoleum floor meant that the afternoon janitor had started his rounds.

The staff area was deserted. I never liked being there alone - it was a space that needed sound and laughter, the smell of Matteo's lunch mingling with whatever takeout the cataloguers ordered that day. My plan was to quickly check my email before heading home and finding something mindless on Netflix-

There was something green on my chair.

Something frog-shaped.

Kermit.

A pink sticky note leaned against his belly. Can we talk?

"I can never seem to get you alone these days," Wesley said from behind me.

I jumped and yelped, the pen in my hand flying into the wall.

"Oh, God," I said, clutching my chest. "I didn't know you were there."

"Sorry," Wesley said, and I could tell he was trying not to laugh. "I was trying to be romantic, and I almost gave you a heart attack instead."

Romantic. The word was strung between us like a live wire.

"I'm the one who needs to apologize," I admitted. I looked everywhere: at the ceiling, at the floor, at the landscape paintings on the wall. Anywhere but at him. "I've been avoiding you, as you could probably tell."

He nodded. "Do you want to talk about it?" He gestured towards his office.

It wasn't as if anyone could overhear, but I knew the janitor was still in the building, and there was always the possibility that a staff member could have forgotten something, only to stumble in on a rather delicate conversation.

"Sure," I said, wondering if it would be professional for me to sprint from the room.

Wesley closed the door behind me as I sat in the chair across from his desk. Lakshmi's decorations were gone, although he hadn't added any personal touches other than a mug. He saw me eyeing the empty desk. "Like I said, I'm just keeping her seat warm until she gets back."

"Is she okay?" I asked. This was a safe topic.

He sat down in his own chair and scooted closer to his desk; I automatically leaned back. "I don't know."

"That's too bad," I said.

"Yeah."

The awkward silence was unbearable. I had to say something. Anything, really, to break the weird tension between us. "I'm sorry-" I started, before Wesley abruptly stood up from his chair.

"Screw this," he said. He stalked to the other side of his desk, bent down, and kissed me so hard that my chair started to tilt over. He braced one hand against the door to catch us, and his other hand snaked up to my jaw. My thumb traced a line down my jaw.

"Oops," he said.

"Oops," I repeated. The angle was uncomfortable, so I managed to stand and wrap my arms around him. He picked me up, placed me on his desk, and stood between my knees. His fingers skimmed the waistband of my pants.

"Is this how you treat your other colleagues?" I managed to whisper.

"What other colleagues?" he said, trailing kisses down my neck. "You're the only person I think about."

I lost the ability to form words. Vowels drifted away, consonants dissipated with my breath. I was vaguely aware that both our shirts had been discarded on the floor, next to the trash can. My bra had been flung onto his keyboard. Never in my life had I been so thankful for a closed door.

"Sometimes I wish you were a book," he said, punctuating each word with a flick of his tongue. "I would know your story. Your supporting characters, your dreams, your favorite songs on the radio. I want to flip to the end and know the ending so that I can change it."

"Hmm?" I managed to say.

"Then I would add myself. The romantic interest, if I may be so bold."

I couldn't respond, but let myself sink into the feeling of his hands on my body. This was it. This would be the man who ruined me. And I wanted it - that was the problem.

Just as he unbuttoned my pants, a crash came from the staff area.

We froze.

The janitor.

Reality crashed in like a tidal wave.

We sprang apart and desperately tried to make ourselves presentable. I broke a personal record for the least amount of time to put on my bra, and I was thankful that I could pull on my shirt - unlike poor Wesley, who was struggling with his buttons.

A knock on the door. We froze.

"Are you in there, Wesley?" Yes, it was Steve, the janitor. "I see the light is on."

"Yeah," Wesley said, and his voice miraculously didn't crack. "Just on a call."

"Oh, sorry. I'll catch you later."

I realized the problem immediately: we wouldn't know when Steve would leave. If I left Wesley's office too soon, he'd see me, and it would be like a giant red neon arrow pointing at me with a sign that said UP TO NO GOOD.

We couldn't even whisper; it was too risky with Steve nearby. Instead, Wesley pulled up a Word document on his computer and started typing.

I know it's against the rules, he typed. But I want to try. I don't want to "pause."

He moved his laptop so that I could type my response.

My fingers hesitated over the keys. My job was my priority - but I also didn't want to throw this all away. Whatever this was.

I wrote my response. Only outside of the office. Does that make sense?

His grin could have lit up the entire city. He leaned forward and kissed me softly, then grimaced.

I'm already breaking the rules, he typed.

Well, we're stuck here for a while, I wrote.

This situation wouldn't last forever. Lakshmi would return, Wesley would no longer be my boss, and everything would work out. For the first time that week I let myself relax as I leaned into Wesley's side hug. We could work through this.