"Tell me again what happened," Wesley said, drawing circles with his finger on my thigh. "None of this makes any sense."
"It's not going to make any sense at all unless you stop doing that thing with your finger," I said. Words were hard when a man like Wesley Takahashi was doing his best to distract me. "We were all at the bar, and we were playing beer pong, which was super weird, and then- oh."
Wesley dragged his hand up the side of my waist.
"You're not playing fair," I complained, and he responded by licking my neck.
The two of us were sprawled across his bed, the sheets having long been discarded. Even though Wesley was a Real Adult - he did have his own house, after all - he still only had one pair of sheets, which made things difficult.
Several days had passed since Lakshmi's grand announcement. I hadn't seen Wesley until now - he'd been so busy since his interview that we hadn't had time to see each other. All of Friday I could barely concentrate since I was so excited to see him, like a high schooler going on their first unchaperoned date. I put my phone into the fridge instead of my lunch (RIP battery life) and spilled a box of sequins, which was on par for a nuclear disaster in terms of long-term damage. I was still finding glittery bits on the bottom of my shoes.
My plan was to fill in Wesley on the drama that night - and that plan was quickly erased when we somehow found ourselves trapped in his bed. Only after waking up was I able to fill him in.
"She announced that she was quitting, and then just left?" Wesley asked.
"Yeah. Totally crushed us in beer pong, and was like, see you later, losers. It was a vibe."
Not that she actually said that. She walked straight out of the bar without saying anything else, hopped in her car, and drove off. Matteo, Melissa and I had tried calling her over the past few days. All our calls went to voicemail. A temporary manager from the Main branch had been brought in to deal with her workload in the meanwhile. He told us that Lakshmi was doing fine and would respond to our messages when she was up to it.
"Not to make this about me," Wesley said, "but is this not proving the point I made in my presentation? Everyone is so burned out in this field."
"Tell me about it." I hoped Lakshmi would give us a call soon. In my head I was already crafting the perfect care package: there would be lots of cookies and tea involved.
On a selfish level, I wondered if Lakshmi's decision had anything to do with the upcoming budget cuts. Was she so afraid of losing her job that she decided to preemptively leave? Or would her departure cast our branch in an even worse light? And what would this mean about the performance plan that had been dangling over my head?
"I can see you thinking." Wesley kissed me on the forehead. "Stop thinking. Thinking is dumb."
"Mm." I wanted nothing more than to be kissed senseless. Perhaps I could quit my job and live the rest of my life from this spot, in Wesley's sunny bedroom with his photos on the wall and an overstuffed bookshelf. Then again, eventually I would start to miss the comforts of real life - clean sheets, for example. "I need to get to work."
"Work. Ew." Wesley dramatically threw his arm over his eyes. I knew he had a shift today as well. It was a downside of librarianship: our days off didn't always align with weekends. "Tell me more about this 'work' thing. Is it mandatory?"
"Unfortunately." Although, knowing the size of Wesley's house, I wondered if he had to work at all. How could he possibly have purchased this place?
That was a question for later. For now I slipped out of bed and into the bathroom. During my way-too-hot shower, I mulled over the plan I was beginning to form.
---
The morning passed quickly enough, and I was grateful to only have a short shift. My summer reading program had kicked off, and adults were thrilled to get the little pieces of paper where they could track their progress. I wished Lakshmi could see my success.
Throughout my shift I would sneak back to my desk and make sure Kermit was still safely tucked away in my bag. A girl could never be too careful, even if there was a low probability of anyone frog-napping him.
Wesley and his note had inspired me, despite his use of the word hawt.
I knew that Wesley was missing a few hours in the middle of his shift to go to a dentist appointment. This gave me the perfect window of time to sneak in, even though previous events had confirmed my general lack of sneaking ability. No matter. This time I would be taking a different approach. Instead of surreptitiously creeping into the staff area at Riverside, I would let the staff know I was just dropping something off for Wesley, and I would be able to leave Kermit on his desk without getting the cops called on me. Wesley would read my cute note, he would take Kermit, and the cycle would begin again as we used a stuffed frog to pass silly notes.
At least, that was the plan.
As soon as I got off the bus I realized that I had miscalculated somehow. The parking lot was completely full, with some desperate drivers parking on the grass. Kids sprinted towards the sliding glass doors that led to the shared atrium between the community center and library.
It wasn't until I walked into the lobby that I saw the life-sized poster.
MR. OODLES OF NOODLES, LIVE AT THE LIBRARY!
Oh, God.
It was June 28th. The day of Jack's performance at the Riverside branch. Jack's Photoshopped face grinned at me from the poster. The image somehow didn't capture his dumbassery.
"No, thanks," I whispered to myself. Kermit would have to wait for another day. There was no way in hell I wanted to be seen by-
"Oh, hi, Emma."
Jack, Mr. Noodles himself, walked out of the library doors with a trail of kids coming after him.
I actively wished for a bizarre geological phenomenon to open a sinkhole under my exact spot, so that I could sink into the earth and never be seen again. No such luck. Jack continued to stride towards me, his guitar slung over the same pasta-themed sweater I had once admired.
He didn't deserve such a cool sweater.
"I saw you out here and wanted to invite you in." Jack looked back at the library, which seemed like a portal to chaos: kids were shrieking and yelling and chasing each other, and the concert hadn't even started yet. In two decades those kids would absolutely love Coachella.
"Great," I said through gritted teeth.
Our time at the board game café came back in a flash. He'd been rude, dismissive, and a sore loser. This certainly didn't make him The Worst Man in The World, although I certainly didn't want to hang out with him like an adoring groupie. He already had dozens of those, if you counted anyone under the age of nine.
"Mr. Oodles of Noodles, can we get started?" A parent stood in the doorway of the library, looking at her watch. "After this we're taking Stephanie to piano lessons, and then she has dance class."
"Of course," Jack said, then winked at me. "We're on our way."
I could still escape. I could pretend like I was receiving an urgent call, or I could pretend I was having a medical episode (exact cause to be decided as I sprinted away) and needed to be anywhere else.
But I didn't. I morosely followed Jack into the children's section of the library, where the tables and chairs had been cleared away so that the children could sit on the rug. Rows of chairs for the exhausted adults lined the back wall.
I scanned the crowd, wondering if I would recognize the parents of the usual Northern Ridge clients. Nobody's face jumped out at me, until I saw the familiar-looking woman in the first row-
I paused. Blinked.
Why was she so familiar? The tight gray curls, the glasses, her brightly-painted toenails...
It hit me with the force of a train. Katherine Jaworski, the CEO of the Cherryhill Library system, was having a great time. She had a cup of juice in one hand and a nut-free cookie in the other. She was engaged in a boisterous conversation with the women on each side of her.
Why would the CEO be here, of all places?
I didn't have time to think about it. Jack hit the opening chord on his guitar, and I was submerged in the opening chords of a spaghetti-related song.