Three hundred and sixty-four days.

That’s my first thought when I wake up. I haven’t even opened my eyes.

There are three hundred and sixty-four days before doom and destruction come for me in the form of my thirtieth birthday.

Three hundred and sixty-four measly days.

It’s not nearly long enough. I’m practically already on my deathbed. I can feel my skin drying out and wrinkling as I lie here. My bones are getting brittle. If I slipped and fell, I’d likely snap a femur. Gone are the days of being carded at nightclubs and bars. Everyone can see I’m a stone’s throw away from the grave.

I moan and pull the covers over my head.

I’m twenty-nine, and I’ve accomplished nothing in my life. The end is looming. I’m almost thirty.

I might as well keep my eyes closed.

Before I can give in to slumber, my phone rings. Curiosity drives me to pick it up. There are only two people who ever call me—my mom and my brother—and neither would ever dare to call so early in the day.

I look at the name on the screen and sigh. If I ignore it, Megan will just call back.

After pushing accept, I put the phone to my ear. “Really? A phone call? Is your keyboard broken or something?” Because seriously. Who calls instead of texts?

“What?” she asks, confused by my greeting.

Perhaps she hasn’t known me long enough to find my fussiness endearing. “Nothing. What’s up?”

“Not much. I’m not working with you today, and I wanted to check up on you.” It’s only been two months since I transferred to Corinth Library, and yet it’s been long enough for the extremely nurturing (and extremely extroverted) children’s information specialist, Megan Carter, to have taken me under her wing. Though at times she teeters on overbearing, I find I’m quite fond of her. “You seemed a bit down when you left the bar last night. Everything okay?”

“Except for the quickly approaching occasion of my death, I’m great!”

“Oh brother. Drama queen much?”

I throw the covers off and climb out of bed. “Am I, though? Or am I a realist? Facing my inevitable annihilation head on?”

“It doesn’t sound like you’re facing anything. You’re lamenting. Dramatically lamenting. Everyone gets older. Everyone turns thirty. You still have a year before you do. Welcome to life, sister.”

I shuffle toward my kitchen as she talks, heading for the Keurig I bought myself as a birthday present. It’s been one day, and I’m already in love forever.

“Don’t you mean ‘welcome to death’?” I put in a pod of southern pecan, push start, and wait for happiness to pour into my I Am Figuratively Dying for a Cuppa mug. Seemed to go with the topic of my mortality.

Megan doesn’t think the joke is funny. “This is really bothering you, isn’t it? Why do you think that is?”

Oh God. I didn’t really want to talk about my feelings.

I sigh, a favorite pastime of mine. “I don’t know. I’m just missing something. There has to be more than this.” From the kitchen, I look around at the two-bedroom condo. I was able to afford the down payment by using the last of my inheritance from Grams, the rest of it having gone to pay for my Humanities and Western Civilization degree at The University of Kansas. My personal book collection is already close to outgrowing the space, but it’s been all I’ve ever needed. Exactly what I’ve always wanted.

Why does it feel so empty?

“You need a man,” Megan says decidedly.

“I don’t. That is not what I need.” I mean it, too. But I do need something.

I run my finger down the edge of the pamphlet that’s been hanging on my fridge behind the Rainbow China delivery menu since I visited the fertility clinic last month.

Is this what I need?

The cost for artificial insemination isn’t as much as I’d expected. I could swing it if I really tried, even on a librarian’s salary. But a nameless father… My mother would go ballistic.

Still. I’m mulling it over.

Now that death is fast approaching, I should probably mull faster.

“You don’t even miss sex?” It seems like an innocent question, but from Megan, I’m certain this line of questioning is the kind that will lead to a blind date if I’m not careful.

“My vibrator works just fine,” I tell her. “And isn’t cocky or conceited and doesn’t leave.”

“No, it just runs out of batteries.”

“I have the rechargeable kind.”

“That’s not the same. Listen, Livia, I’m going to give you some hard words.” But I don’t hear what she has to say because a series of beeps covers her speech, indicating I’ve received a text. Several texts.

I pull the phone away from my face to read the messages.

So I think I’m in trouble.

Like big trouble.

Like really really big trouble & now the cops R here and U might need 2 bring bail cuz my mom’s doing a surgery and dad’s delivering a baby & they can’t come help me but I did something.

LIVIA.

REMEMBER ME WHEN I WASTE AWAY IN JAIL.

WHAT IF I MISS THE NEXT SEASON OF SKAM?

They’re from Ryan, a teen I work with a lot at the library. Now she’s a legit drama queen.

I put the phone back to my ear. “Hang on a sec, Megan.” Then I type Ryan a quick message.

What’s going on? BE BRIEF.

She responds with a panoramic picture of what looks to be the parking lot of her high school. I can’t make out much of what’s going on except there are lots of cars lined up behind her, there’s a policeman, and it appears Ryan has chained herself between two trees and has therefore created a barricade across the school driveway.

Today the drama seems to be warranted.

After quickly saying goodbye to Megan, I shoot another text to Ryan.

Be right there.

I throw on some leggings and an oversized T-shirt that maybe should have been in the laundry instead of on the chair in my bedroom. Then I throw my hair into a messy bun and check Ryan’s response.

U R the best! Pick up an iced caramel macchiato on your way? Kthnx.

* * *

I don’t stop for the iced caramel macchiato.

Traffic seems to be flowing okay when I arrive at Shawnee Mission East, Ryan’s high school. I pull my car up to the parking space closest to the commotion and survey the situation before getting out.

As the picture suggested, Ryan’s blockade must have been preventing cars from rounding the circle drive for morning drop off. The chains are gone, but traffic has been diverted to another entrance because she’s still standing in the middle of the driveway. She’s wearing a gold and purple cheerleading uniform and holding a sign with letters so bold I can read them from here: Your Impure Thoughts are Not My Problem.

I’m starting to understand.

Ryan’s only fourteen, but she’s already a social activist. She rarely misses an opportunity to protest when she feels a person or a group has been wronged. One day she marched outside the library fighting for mothers’ rights to breastfeed in public. Another day she joined her church youth group at Civic Hall to protest the taxation of groceries. Once she handed out pamphlets at Crown Center about the plight of the sperm whales. Maybe it’s because Kansas City is landlocked, but it turns out people in the Midwest don’t care so much about the emotions of large sea creatures.

Maybe that’s just me.

But I do care a lot about the emotions of this fiercely passionate girl. She’s well-meaning and big-hearted. Whatever trouble she’s gotten herself into, I hope I can help her out of it.

I chug the last of my southern pecan coffee—I’m so glad I thought to bring it with me (I’m going to need the caffeine)—and step out of my car. Immediately I hear Ryan.

“Do I give you impure thoughts?” she shouts to a group of tardy students as they hurry toward the school. “Do I?”

Oh dear.

Though class has surely started, there is a small crowd gathered near her. Several adult women are there—probably administrators—a couple of teenage girls, and a police officer.

I head toward them.

The cop is talking with one of the adults as I approach, his back to me.

“You’re strong enough to pick her up,” the woman tells him. “I can tell you work out.” She’s flirting so hard I can hear it from yards away.

“CrossFit,” the cop says with a shrug. “Five days a week.”

God, he’s one of those. Cocky. Conceited. Cop-like. I know the type. I brace myself for our upcoming interaction.

“It’s completely obvious,” the flirter continues. “Why don’t you just move her yourself? Carry her fireman style.” She’s good at this. She has black hair, pasty white skin that is so unnatural it had to have been applied, and red, red lips. I have a feeling seduction is her primary hobby, if not a part-time job.

“I can’t touch a female minor—it’s against department policy. We’ll have to wait for the woman officer dispatch is sending over. But I appreciate the use of the bolt cutters.”

Bolt cutters. So that’s how they dealt with the chains. Now that I look, I can actually see a pool of silver links by the tree on this side of the road.

Ryan, Ryan, Ryan. What did you do?

Patiently, I stand behind the cop waiting for a good time to interrupt.

“I’m not a minor,” one of the teenagers says, twirling a long piece of dirty blond hair between her fingers. “I’m eighteen. You could touch me, Officer Kelly.”

…and this seems to be the moment.

“Pardon me,” I say in my librarian (aka friendly but assertive) voice. “What’s going on?”

When she hears me, Ryan spins in my direction. “Livia!” She almost runs to me then seems to remember she’s not budging on purpose. “Hey, where’s my Starbucks?”

I throw a stern glance at her then shift my eyes back just as the cop turns around.

And then I understand what all the fuss is about.

He’s hot.

Like, I-forgot-what-I-was-going-to-say hot.

I-should-have-shaved-my-legs hot.

Here’s-my-panties-sorry-they’re-so-wet hot.

I’m not even sure exactly what it is about him. His body? His closely trimmed beard? His sober expression?

The oversexed Snow White wasn’t exaggerating when she said he obviously works out. His thick arms fill out his sleeves, and even with all his gear on, I can tell his shoulders are broad and his waist is trim. He’s not just fit—he’s mega fit. He’s, like, can-I-touch-your-guns fit, and I’ve never thought in my life I’d use the word guns to refer to a guy’s muscles, but it’s appropriate.

And yet, as hot as his bod is, it’s his face that has my heart stuttering. His cheeks and jaw are chiseled, the jut of his chin almost hidden by his beard. His nose is straight and strong, and, then, damn. The pièce de résistance are his aviator sunglasses, which make him look like sex in a blue uniform.

It’s possible I need to go lie down.

“And you are?” Officer Too-Hot-To-Remember-The-Name-I-Just-Heard-Him-Called asks.

“I’m…here,” I say because I can’t seem to find the answer to his question when he’s staring at me, and I can feel that he is, even behind those metallic lenses.

“Yes. You are.” He almost smiles, and I have a feeling that isn’t something he does on the job all too often. He’s much too solemn. Too professional. Too all about the facts and nothing but the facts, and holy Jesus I’m happy to provide him with whatever facts he wants.

Just as soon as I remember what facts are.

“That’s Livia,” Ryan chirps behind us, reminding me of that specific fact. “She’s here for me!”

Bolstered by this bit of information that I can give with confidence, I proudly say, “That’s right. I’m Livia. Livia Ward.”

With both hands on his duty belt, the cop looks from me to Ryan and back to me again. “Are you her…mother?”

“No!” I gasp, completely horrified. “Oh my God, do I look old enough to be her mother?” I knew I should have started using wrinkle cream at twenty-five. “She’s fourteen! I’m not old enough to have a fourteen-year-old daughter.”

“Her mother’s been called,” one of the women says from behind him. “And her father. Both were unavailable.”

I purse my lips as though I’ve proved some kind of point.  

The cop, who hasn’t taken his focus off of me, simply says, “It’s my job to ask, ma’am.”

I cringe. “Don’t call me ma’am.” As an afterthought, I add, “Please.”

There’s no response from Officer Solemn.

Silently, I continue to fume.

The one fortunate side effect of the humiliating reminder that I’m aging (and apparently not so gracefully) is that it’s knocked me out of the this-cop’s-too-hot-to-think stupor. “I’m her friend,” I tell him. “I work with her at the library. She texted me when she thought she might be in trouble.”

The cop—Officer Kelly I remember now—looks at me sternly, his expression giving nothing away. “Do you have some identification on you?”

“Does it look like I have identification on me?” I don’t have any pockets, and I’m not carrying a purse. In fact, I think I might have left so fast that I didn’t even throw it in the car. Shit. Just what I need. A ticket for driving without a license. “Do I need my ID?”

He looks me over from head to toe. I wish I could see his eyes so I could have an idea of what he’s thinking. “No, I suppose not.”

“Good.” I relax enough to get in a decent breath. “Then we can deal with the matter at hand. What exactly is happening?”

“Well, as you can see, the minor—”

“Ryan Alley. She has a name.” I can already tell Ryan’s going to be in trouble. Officer Kelly doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to let something slide. Maybe if he sees her as a person instead of just “the minor,” he’ll give her a break.

“The minor,” he continues as if I didn’t say a word, “chained herself in between these two trees on either side of the school’s driveway, thereby causing a traffic jam at this morning’s drop off. We’ve cut the chains with bolt cutters procured from the school office by the attendance secretary—”

“That’s me! I found them!”

Great. Oversexed Snow White’s a hero.

He turns toward the woman and nods appreciatively with just enough smile to send a blush crawling up her face.

His smile is actually killer. I almost wish I’d brought bolt cutters just so he’d give it to me.

Officer Kelly returns his attention to me. “But the minor has refused to move. We’re waiting for backup to proceed.”

I shoot another look at Ryan. Refused to move? Are you kidding me?

Of course she can’t read my mind, but she gets the gist and she shrugs.

“How much trouble is she going to be in?” I ask the cop, softer now that I realize I have nothing to bargain with.

“We can talk about that once we resolve our situation here.”

I rock my weight to one hip, talking as I think. “If I can talk her out of this...get her back into the school before anyone else gets here...would that make a difference?”

“It’s not just up to me.” He turns to look at the group behind him.

As if he’s beckoned her, one of the women walks over to us—not the flirty attendance secretary, but the one who called Ryan’s parents. “Hi, I’m Sharie Holden, the principal here. Thank you for coming. We’d love to be able to work this out with as little excitement as possible.” She whispers the last part of her sentence, as though that will automatically minimize the drama of the situation.

At least she seems like an easier pushover than Officer No Nonsense. “Will there be any consequences if I make that happen?” I ask.

“I can’t let her actions go completely unpunished. Half of the school saw what she did here today. I can’t let that slide.”

“You’re right,” I say with a tone that says I clearly disagree. “In fact, how about I call Channel Nine and have them cover the protest so far? Make sure no one misses it when they drag her away in handcuffs later too? Ryan can even make a statement. Sound good, Ryan?”

“Yes! Statement!” She bounces on the balls of her feet. “I already have one prepared!”

The color drains from Sharie Holden’s face. “On second thought, I think we could probably get away with just a warning. If you can get her back in class without any press finding out, that is.”

“Okay, okay.” I feel good about this. Ryan and I have a bond. She might not listen to reason, but she’ll listen to me. “What is she protesting?”

Ryan pipes up in answer. “This stupid school has banned cheer uniforms on game days. Cheer uniforms! Because some boy complained it made him think impure thoughts. As if women are to blame for what men think. It’s ridiculously unfair. I cry rape culture! I cry injustice!”

“Why does she even care?” the blond teen says.

“Right?” her friend replies. “She’s not even a cheerleader.”

“I’m a cheerleader, Officer Kelly,” the first one calls to him.

“Of course you are,” he mutters under his breath, and I almost feel sorry for him.

Almost.

“It’s only during the school day, Ryan,” Principal Holden says. “They can still wear their uniforms at the games.”

“That’s not even the point!” Ryan groans.

I have to stop myself from groaning with her. “You really banned the cheerleaders from wearing their uniforms because a boy complained of impure thoughts?” I ask incredulously. “I hate to tell you this, but teenage boys are going to have impure thoughts no matter what girls are wearing.”

“She’s not wrong there,” Officer Kelly admits.

“Certainly.” Her smile is tight. Fake. The kind of smile that accompanies a lecture. “But we believe in respectful behavior at our school, Ms. Ward. We surely aren’t going to encourage objectification of women.”

Irritation starts to bubble in my chest.

Don’t do it, Liv. Don’t do it.

But I do it anyway. I argue. “Objectification is a whole other topic. Right now you are putting the blame of what men think—and by extension, what men do—on what women wear. This is old rhetoric, Ms. Holden. Aren’t we past this?”

The fake smile is gone. She’s barely even pretending to be nice now. “I appreciate your opinion, but since you don’t have children enrolled in our school, it doesn’t really count for anything.”

That does it. I’m past irritation. Now I’m outraged.

“Actually, since I’m a taxpayer and this is a public school, my opinion does count. And because this is America where there’s still freedom of speech—” And since actions speak louder than words, I end my rant abruptly and march over to Ryan.

Taking her sign, I hold it up proudly.

Ryan breaks into a grin and resumes her protest. “Do I give you impure thoughts?” she shouts to someone walking his dog along the school grounds.

“Oh, come on,” Principal Holden complains loudly.

Officer Kelly sighs and saunters toward us.

“Do I give you impure thoughts?” Ryan yells in his direction.

He ignores her, unfazed.

When he’s near me, really near me, so close I can feel the heat radiating off his body, he stops and says in a low voice that I’m sure only I can hear, “Now if you were wearing that outfit, the answer would be a definite yes.”

My head twists toward him. “What did you say?”

“You aren’t helping things,” he says louder.

“That’s not what you said,” I say, quieter. Because I want to hear the other thing he said again. Want to feel the shiver down my spine at the thought of him thinking those things—impure things—about me.

He doesn’t repeat it. Doesn’t acknowledge it. He holds his palm out toward me instead. “Hand me the sign.”

My grip tightens on the handle. “I’m helping her.”

“Are you? It’s my impression that you want this whole thing resolved with the least amount of damage to her record. Am I right?”

Oh, God. His smirk is incredible. I can’t look directly at it.

“Keep talking,” I say, but he’s already said enough. I know what I need to do. I just like the way his voice sounds, the way it rumbles in his chest when he lowers it so that Ryan won’t hear what we’re saying.

“Get her to class, and I’ll make sure there aren’t any consequences for obstructing traffic.”

This isn’t like him. I know it’s not. He’s not the type to let charges go. He’s about order. He’s about the law. So why’s he doing it? I’m wary.

But I can’t take my eyes off him. I’m transfixed, under his spell.

I hand him the sign.

He gives another hint of a real smile, this time it’s all for me, and my knees practically buckle beneath me.

If I look at him a moment longer I might actually, literally faint.

I spin and grab Ryan’s arm for support, pretending I meant to simply get her attention.

“Ryan—” I say.

“You’re going to tell me to stop this, aren’t you?” She pulls away, and I just manage to catch my balance. “Well, I won’t. I won’t stop fighting for women. I won’t stop fighting against injustice.”

I cross around to face her. “Of course I’m not going to tell you to stop fighting. I’d never tell you that. Haven’t I always encouraged you to speak your mind whether it be through words or action?”

She narrows her eyes, unsure whether or not to trust me. “Maybe.”

“I’m encouraging the same thing now. Just, there are sometimes better ways to be heard. Look.” I gesture to the few people standing around her. “This is a very small crowd. You’d have much better reach if you took the matter to the next school board meeting where you could actually effect change. Don’t you think?”

She twists her lips as she considers.

“Those aren’t even our uniforms,” the cheerleader shouts randomly from the side of the driveway.

I lean in toward Ryan and whisper, “Also, it doesn’t seem like the women you’re fighting for are very appreciative of your efforts.”

She puts an arm around my shoulder. “They just haven’t been woken yet, Liv.”

“I don’t think this is what’s going to wake them.”

She throws her head back in frustration and groans. Then, suddenly, as if she hadn’t been completely ready to march to Washington on behalf of the cause, she shrugs and says, “Okay. I should get to second hour anyway. American history. We’re watching a documentary about suffragettes.”

She removes the remains of the chains that I notice now are still on each of her arms and hands them to me. Then she strolls toward the school building.

“Where’s she going?” Principal Holden asks me anxiously.

“To class!” I announce smugly.

“Not dressed like that! There’re no cheerleading uniforms in school!” She marches after Ryan, urging the rest of the administration to follow as well.

“She has a change of clothes,” I tell no one in particular. “I hope.” Man, being someone’s mentor is a tough job. It might require more caffeine than one K-cup pod.

“Officer Kelly, I’m only sixteen,” the cheerleader’s friend calls over to him, “but that’s the age of consent in Kansas.”

“I’m frightened that you know that,” I say.

“Go to class before I fine you both for truancy,” Officer Kelly says, but not before I hear him let out a soft chuckle at my comment.

“What’s truancy?” the two girls ask in unison.

“Oh my God,” I roar, “you need to go to school.”

They scurry off, and though I’d like to take credit, it’s probably more likely because the bell has just rung.

And now everyone’s gone but me. And the cop.

The very hot cop.

It suddenly feels harder to get air in my lungs than it did just a second before.

“Nice job with her,” the cop says, nodding his head in praise. “Maybe you can help keep her out of trouble in the future.”

I bristle. “Just because she’s passionate doesn’t mean she’s going to get in trouble in the future.” It’s really his compliment that’s bothering me. I’m bothered by how it made me feel. How it made me feel good.

“Right,” he says, and I swear he’s thinking things about me that would make me die a thousand deaths if I were to find them out.

I frown, feeling awkward. “Well. Anyway.”

I should thank him, but he speaks first. “Have dinner with me.”

“What? Dinner? Why?” That wasn’t at all the kind of thoughts I hoped he was thinking about me. Not at all the kind of thoughts I want him to be thinking about me, yet my stomach flutters anyway, like it’s a good thing. Stupid stomach.

“Because in the evening I get hungry, and I find that eating a meal tends to make that hunger go away.” He’s completely straight-faced, and it’s so sexy I’m not sure I can stand it.

I look down, away from his fuck-hot jaw and his fuck-hot lips. “You don’t need me for that.”

“Eating alone is lonely.”

But I can’t escape that fuck-hot voice. My skin is on fire even in the cool spring wind. “I’m sure what’s-her-name from attendance would be glad to join you for dinner.”

“I’m not asking her. I’m asking you.”

I look up at him, and my heart trips. Even behind those glasses, I can tell he can’t take his gaze off me. Goose bumps skim down my arms.

Dinner. I eat dinner. I could eat dinner with him. What would be wrong with that?

If I could see his eyes, I’m sure I’d have said yes by now.

I might say yes anyway.

“Heya, Officer Kelly.” Apparently the attendance secretary didn’t go inside after all. He turns toward the vampire—I swear, she hasn’t seen the sun in a decade. “I left a sticky with my number on your motorcycle. Call me sometime.”

Officer Kelly makes a non-committal noise.  But then adds, “Thank you again for the bolt cutters.”

Vampire secretary simpers at him.  “It was no trouble, really.”

I don’t listen closely to the rest of their exchange because without his attention on me, I can think again, and I suddenly remember what would be wrong with dinner and why I absolutely do not want to go out with Officer-I’ve-already-stolen-your-panties-Kelly.

Because he’s a man.

And men leave.

Especially this type of man—the type with the confident smile and the tight-fitting uniform. (Seriously, the way his ass fills out those pants…)

There’s always a woman waiting in the wings for a hot cop like him. A flock of them, even. In a place like Kansas, he’s the closest thing we have to a rock star. He could have anyone he wants. He doesn’t need to try to bang the hippy librarian driving the Prius with a Black Lives Matter bumper sticker and NPR playing on her radio. We’re oil and water. He’s the type who has a reputation. I’m the type who’d show up with a sign and protest it.

Without giving him a response or even a goodbye, I take off. I bet I’m already at my car before he even notices I slipped away.