“OH, balls.”
I stare at the email on my mobile—at the summons—from Mr. Haverstrom, my boss. And though the sunny afternoon air is crisp, sweat immediately prickles my forehead.
Annie’s blond ponytail snaps like a whip as she turns toward me. “Oh my God, tell me someone sent you a dick pic!” She holds out her hands. “Let me see, let me see! What kind of balls are we talking about? Big balls, odd balls . . .?”
“Schweddy balls?” Willard adds, unhelpfully, from his chair across the small, round patio table.
Annie claps her hands. SNL reruns are big in Wessco. “I love that bit.” She eats a mouthful of salad off her fork. “Did I ever tell you about Elliot’s balls?”
I meaningfully meet Willard’s brown eyes, then check the time. Three minutes, seventeen seconds.
That’s how long it’s been since Annie last mentioned Elliot Stapleworth, her giant douche-canoe ex-boyfriend. He broke it off with her two weeks ago, but she’s still hopelessly hung up on him. She deserves so much better. Especially since he’s not just any douche-canoe—he’s one who’s never heard of manscaping.
“They were the hairiest little monsters I’d ever seen. Like two baby hedgehogs curled between his legs, but not at all in a cute way. I used to get pubes caught in my throat all the time.”
There’s an image I don’t need in my head.
Willard frowns. “What a rude prick. Nothing kills a mood faster. I keep my boys smooth as a baby’s bottom.”
And that’s another one.
I look him straight in the face. “I could’ve gone my entire life without knowing that.”
He winks at me.
Annie leans forward. “But, since we’re on the subject, tell us, Willard, are your manly parts . . . proportional?”
Willard is just over four feet ten inches tall, only slightly above the height threshold for dwarfism. But his personality is seven feet high—bold and direct, with clever sarcastic wit to spare. He reminds me of Tyrion Lannister from Game of Thrones—only kinder and more handsome.
“Annie!” I gasp, blushing.
She pushes my shoulder. “You know you want to know.”
No, I don’t. But Willard wants to answer.
“I’m blessedly unproportioned. Just as a blind man’s other senses are more developed, God overcompensated me in that department.” He wiggles his eyebrows.
She nods. “I’ll be sure to tell Clarice when I’m convincing her to let you take her out this Saturday.”
Annie is a notoriously bad matchmaker. Though Willard’s gotten the business end of her attempts more than once, he keeps letting her try.
What’s the definition of insanity again?
Annie looks toward me. “Now, back to your mystery balls, Sarah.”
“Mr. Haverstrom—”
She gags. “Mr. Haverstrom? Gross! I bet his bits smell like overcooked green vegetables. You can just tell by that permanently unhappy face. Definitely broccoli balls.”
Damn. And I really liked broccoli.
“Sarah wasn’t referring to Mr. Haverstrom’s literal balls, Annie,” Willard explains.
Annie flaps her hands. “Then why’d she bring them up?”
I take off my glasses, cleaning them with the cloth from my pocket. “Mr. Haverstrom sent me an email. I’m to go directly to his office after lunch. It sounds serious.”
Saying the words makes my anxiety kick into overdrive. My heart pounds, my head goes light, adrenaline rushes through my veins, and I can feel my pulse in my throat. Even when I know it’s silly, even when my brain recognizes there’s nothing to be panicked about, in unpredictable situations or when I’m the center of attention, my body reacts like I’m the next victim in a slasher film. The one who’s stumbling through the woods with the mask-wearing, machete-wielding psycho just steps behind her. I hate it, but it’s unavoidable.
“Remember to breathe slow and steady, Sarah,” Willard says. “If anything, he’s probably going to offer you a promotion. You’re the best in the building; everyone knows that.”
Annie and Willard aren’t just my friends, they’re my coworkers here at Concordia Library. Willard works downstairs in Restoration and Preservation, Annie in the Children’s department, while I spend my days in Literature and Fiction. Everyone thinks library science is all about shelving books and sending out overdue notices—but it’s so much more.
It’s about fostering community and information technology, organization, helping others find the needle in whatever haystack they’re looking in. In the same way emergency-room physicians must have diagnoses and treatments at their fingertips, librarians, at least the good ones, need to be familiar with an array of topics.
“I’ve got the flask I stole from Elliot down in my locker,” Annie says.
Time: three minutes, forty-two seconds. And the record of nine minutes, seven seconds continues to hold strong.
“You want a nip before you head over?” Annie offers sweetly.
She’s a good friend—like Helen to Jane in Jane Eyre. As kind as she is pretty.
I shake my head. Then I pull my big-girl knickers up all the way to my neck. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”
Annie gives me a thumbs-up with both hands and Willard nods, his brown, wavy hair falling over his forehead like a romance-novel rogue. With a final wave to them both, I leave the small outdoor stone patio where we meet each day for lunch and head inside.
In the cool, shadowed atrium, I close my eyes and breathe in the familiar, comforting scent of books and leather, paper and ink. Before Wessco was its own country, this building was a Scottish cathedral, Concordia Cathedral. There have been updates through the centuries, but wonderfully, the original structure remains—three floors; thick, grand marble columns; arched entryways and high, intricately muraled ceilings. Working here sometimes makes me feel like a priestess—the strong and powerful kind. Especially when I track down a hard-to-find book for someone and the person’s face lights up. Or when I introduce a reader to a new series or author. There’s privilege and honor in this work—showing people a whole new world, filled with characters and places and emotions they wouldn’t have experienced without me. It’s magical.
Mark Twain said, “Find a job you enjoy doing, and you will never have to work a day in your life.”
At Concordia Library, I’ve yet to work a single day.
My heels click on the stone floor as I head toward the back spiral stairs. I pass the circulation desk, waving to old Maud, who’s been volunteering here twenty hours a week since her husband, Melvin, passed away two months ago. Then I spot George at his usual table—he’s a regular, a retiree, and lifelong bachelor. I grab two of the local papers off the stack, sliding them in front of him as I go.
“Good afternoon, George.”
“It is now, darling,” he calls after me.
Along the side wall are a row of computer desks, lined up like soldiers, and I see Timmy Frazier’s bright red head bent over a keyboard, where he’s typing furiously. Timmy’s thirteen years old and a good lad, in the way that good lads still do naughty things. He’s got five younger siblings, a longshoreman dad, and a mum who cleans part-time at the estate on top of the hill.
My mother’s estate.
Castlebrook is a tiny, beautiful town—one of the smallest in Wessco—an old fishing village that’s never thrived, but is just successful enough to keep the inhabitants from leaving in search of greener pastures. We’re about a five-hour drive from the capital, and while most of the folks here don’t venture too far, we often get visitors from the city looking for a quiet weekend at the seaside.
St. Aldwyn’s, where all the local children attend, is just a ten-minute walk away, but I bet Timmy could make it in five.
“Is there a reason you’re not in school, Timmy Frazier?”
He smiles crookedly, but doesn’t take his eyes off the screen or stop typing. “I’m goin’ back but had to ditch fourth and fifth periods to finish this paper due in sixth.”
“Have you ever considered completing your assignment the day—or, God forbid, a few days—before it was actually due?”
Timmy shrugs. “Better last moment than never, Sarah.”
I chuckle, give his fiery head a rub, and continue up the steps to the third floor.
I’m comfortable with people I know—I can be sociable, even funny with them. It’s the new ones and unpredictable situations that tie me up in knots. And I’m about to be bound in a big one.
Damn it to hell.
I stand outside Mr. Haverstrom’s door, staring at the black letters of his name stenciled on the frosted glass, listening to the murmur of voices inside. It’s not that Mr. Haverstrom is a mean boss—he’s a bit like Mr. Earnshaw from Wuthering Heights. Even though he doesn’t get much page time, his presence is strong and consequential.
I take a breath, straighten my spine, and knock on the door firmly and decisively—the way Elizabeth Bennet would. Because she didn’t give a single shit about anything. Then Mr. Haverstrom opens the door, his eyes narrow, his hair and skin pale, his face lined and grouchy—like a squished marshmallow.
On the outside, I nod and breeze into the office, but inside, I cringe and wilt.
Mr. Haverstrom closes the door behind me and I stop short when I see Patrick Nolan in the chair across from Mr. Haverstrom’s desk. Pat is the co-head of the Literature and Fiction department with me. He doesn’t look like the stereotypical librarian—he looks more like an Olympic triathlete, all taut muscles and broad shoulders and hungry competition in his eyes.
Pat isn’t as big of a douche-canoe as Elliot, but close.
I sit down in the unoccupied chair beside Pat while Mr. Haverstrom takes his place behind the desk. “Lady Sarah, I was just explaining to Pat the reason I’ve asked you both for this meeting.”
Don’t mistake the “Lady” before my name as a symbol of respect. It’s just tradition, the equivalent of “Miss” for the daughter of a countess. There’s no real power behind it.
Maybe I’m just being paranoid—that happens—but there’s that tight, heavy feeling in my stomach, as if at any moment the thread that’s holding it in place is going to snap, sending my vital organ to the floor.
I force myself to speak. “Yes?”
“We have been selected to host this year’s Northern District Library Symposium.”
This isn’t just not good—it’s bad. Very, very bad.
“As the host facility, each department is required to give a presentation, and given the size and scope of our Fiction and Literature department, I see no reason why you and Patrick can’t give separate but complementary presentations.”
And splat goes my stomach. And my spleen. I’m fairly certain the liver’s in there somewhere too.
“I’ll need your topic and outline by the end of the week to ensure there’s no overlap.”
My lips open and close, like the mouth of a fish, but there aren’t any words. Breathe! I need to breathe to talk. Idiot.
“Mr. Haverstrom, I’m not sure that I—”
“I’m aware you’re not comfortable with public speaking,” Mr. Haverstrom says, talking right over me.
That happens. A lot.
“But you’re going to have to overcome it. This is an honor and a requirement of your position. Barring an act of God, you will not be excused. If you’re unable to fulfill all of your duties, I will unfortunately be forced to replace you with someone who can.”
Shit. Damn, damn, shit, shit.
“Yes, sir. I understand.”
“Good.” He nods. “I’ll let you get to it, then.”
We all stand, and Pat and I head for the door.
“Lady Sarah,” Mr. Haverstrom says, “I’ll be happy to go over your presentation with you once it’s complete, if that will be helpful to you. I do want you to succeed.”
I smile tightly. “Thank you, sir.”
Then he shakes Patrick’s hand. “Pat, we’re still on for racquetball this Saturday?”
“Count on it, Douglas.”
Internally, I sigh. More disappointed with myself than anything else. Because I play racquetball—I’m actually quite good at it. And if I had a shred of Miranda Priestly in me, from The Devil Wears Prada, I’d tell them—invite myself along, throw in with the big boys.
But, I don’t.
Mr. Haverstrom closes the door, leaving Patrick and me alone in the hallway. Pat smiles slickly, leaning in toward me. I step back until I press against the wall. It’s uncomfortable—but not threatening. Mostly because in addition to racquetball I’ve practiced aikido for years. So if Patrick tries anything funny, he’s in for a very painful surprise.
“Let’s be honest, Sarah: you know and I know the last thing you want to do is give a presentation in front of hundreds of people—your colleagues.”
My heart tries to crawl into my throat.
“So, how about this? You do the research portion, slides and such that I don’t really have time for, and I’ll take care of the presentation, giving you half the credit of course.”
Of course. I’ve heard this song before—in school “group projects” where I, the quiet girl, did all the work, but the smoothest, loudest talker took all the glory.
“I’ll get Haverstrom to agree on Saturday—I’m like a son to him,” Pat explains before leaning close enough that I can smell the garlic on his breath. “Let Big Pat take care of it. What do you say?”
I say there’s a special place in hell for people who refer to themselves in the third person.
But before I can respond, Willard’s firm, sure voice travels down the hall.
“I think you should back off, Nolan. Sarah’s not just ‘up for it,’ she’ll be fantastic at it.”
Pat waves his hand. “Quiet, midge—the adults are talking.”
And the adrenaline comes rushing back, but this time it’s not anxiety-induced—it’s anger. Indignation.
I push off the wall. “Don’t call him that.”
“He doesn’t mind.”
“I mind.”
He stares at me with something akin to surprise. Then scoffs and turns to Willard. “You always let a woman fight your battles?”
I take another step forward, forcing him to move back. “You think I can’t fight a battle because I’m a woman?”
“No, I think you can’t fight a battle because you’re a woman who can barely string three words together if more than two people are in the room.”
I’m not hurt by the observation. For the most part, it’s true.
But not this time.
I smile slowly, devilishly. Suddenly, I’m Cathy Linton come to life—headstrong and proud.
“There are more than two people standing here right now. And I’ve got more than three words for you: fuck off, you arrogant, self-righteous swamp donkey.”
His expression is almost funny. Like he can’t decide if he’s more shocked that I know the word fuck or that I said it out loud to him—and not in the good way.
Then his face hardens and he points at me. “That’s what I get for trying to help your mute arse? Have fun making a fool of yourself.”
I don’t blink until he’s down the stairs and gone.
Willard slow-claps as he walks down the hall to me.
“Swamp donkey?”
I shrug. “It just came to me.”
“Impressive.” Then he bows and kisses the back of my hand. “You were magnificent.”
“Not half bad, right? It felt good.”
“And you didn’t blush once.”
I push my dark hair out of my face, laughing self-consciously. “Seems like I forget all about being nervous when I’m defending someone else.”
Willard nods. “Good. And though I hate to be the twat who points it out, there’s something else you should probably start thinking about straight away.”
“What’s that?”
“The presentation in front of hundreds of people.”
And just like that, the tight, sickly feeling washes back over me.
So this is what doomed feels like.
I lean against the wall. “Oh, broccoli balls.”