The Library of Lost Things

by Laura Taylor Namey

  We laughed and I waved her key high. “Coming!”

  I unfolded my legs, but Marisol stopped me. “The penny tray, though.” She pouted. “Adorable.”

  * * *

  My heart thumped to the rhythm of my footsteps jaywalking across University Avenue the next afternoon. I waved to Hannah, then marched down the corridor at Mid-City Legal, clutching the acorn charm so hard the edges dug into my skin. A newly hung door led into the addition, propped half-open. I inched through. One brown-haired handyman in blue and denim worked alone, touching up baseboards.

  “Asher?”

  He turned and stood, his intake of breath so deep the wrinkled folds of his shirt swelled. “Hey.” One thumb to the propped rear door. “Can we?”

  “Yeah.” I followed. The alley again, familiar sharp smells and litter scraps tumbling around us. This time, there were no wigs and red leather to hide behind. I came as Darcy Jane Wells, bare and exposed—a hundred times more frightening than fairy-tale forests and sinister queens with magic mirrors.

  Asher stopped two feet from me, or maybe three. “Hi, again.”

  “Hi.” I opened my fist and let the silver acorn catch the light.

  Now his smile was brighter—too bright—like flinging up the shades to glaring sunrays, when I was so used to the dark. “Glad you found it before Mr. Winston, er, Winstoned it.”

  “What does this mean?”

  “What do you think it means, Darcy?”

  “It means you read Peter Pan.”

  “For a start.” When I couldn’t speak, burying my vision into alley cracks, he said, “I read it last week. Bought a copy on one of your days off.”

  I grabbed on to the book buoy inside my head. Any book, all the books. Paper and ink keeping me afloat again. “Probably took you twenty minutes,” I said through a teetering laugh.

  “I didn’t speed-read it. I went slowly.”

  My head snapped up. “Why?”

  “A few reasons.” He glanced at our shoes, then up again. “For one, I knew the story was important to you.”

  “The acorn, though,” I said.

  “Because you’re important.” One step forward. “I’m, uh...not with London anymore. Since right after the cast party.”

  After our time on the swing set. Well, that was progress, but... “That was—what, five days ago?”

  “I know it seems fast.” Another step, so close now. But he didn’t touch me. “I bought the charm after I finished the book, but I didn’t see London the whole week before closing night, because of all your extra rehearsals. Please, let me explain...all of it?”

  I nodded tentatively.

  “London and I should’ve ended months ago.” He raked one hand through his hair. “Really, we should never have gotten back together in the first place. After my accident, she showed up at the hospital and helped a lot when I was released. She really tried to be there for me this time, and she was so positive about my recovery.”

  “So she was just some obligation to fulfill? For her standing by you?”

  I noted a quick wince. “More like, last May, my world was upended, and I was in a ton of pain. I guess I just fell back into something comfortable. But no matter how hard either of us tried, London isn’t right for me, and I’m not right for her. Both of us knew the truth for too long and wouldn’t face it. I hate to admit a lot of it was me, trying not to be lonely. I already felt alone enough after losing flight.”

  “I get that.” Lonely. Alone. Still, images flashed of London Banks coiled around him like bonfire smoke. The pair sharing whispers and driving off in her white convertible. I didn’t want her here, the third person in this alley. “But it’s still less than a week.” I held up the acorn. “And you’d already bought this for me.”

  His eyelids closed for a beat. “You’re afraid that’s my typical flight plan with girls.”

  “You told me yourself you like fast things,” I said. “You fly through the air, you fly through books. And now you’re flying fast from Friday to Wednesday. London to me?”

  “Darcy.” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple slipping behind his neck. “I know how it looks. But listen, am I wrong, here? Can you tell me to my face that there’s nothing between us, and we’re just meant to be friends who chat over tea and books?”

  Never. A boy had never said anything like this to me. “I can’t tell you that. And this acorn means a lot. Especially since it was from you.” I turned the little charm over in my fingers.

  He smiled, but the tiny, lightweight acorn became an anvil. Truth was, it stood for a kiss, my first real kiss—not a costumed, scripted theater move—with the first boy I’d ever really wanted to kiss. I was suddenly too aware of my body in this space. I had to look like a fool, my knees trembling and fingers twitching and fiddling. God, why was I blinking so much?

  This time, though, I didn’t want another love interest’s how-to manual. But what did I have? I carried the legacy of a toxic love affair. And for years, the only real playbook I’d lived with was lost inside the strained walls of my house.

  Asher moved closer still. “You look panicked. Spooking you definitely wasn’t part of my plan.”

  “Any spooking is not from you, and it’s not about London, either.” I tapped my head. “That’s all manufactured right here. What’s going on at home, and then my father, and...”

  “I get it.” He offered one hand and I stared at the calloused palm curved between us before I reached out, too. Warm and solid and slightly damp with nerves—that’s how I’d remember it.

  “If you can stand not rolling your eyes at another pilot analogy, I’ve got one. Before takeoff, we have to complete a preflight check. One faulty charge or unresponsive system component could mean tragedy. So, no air until everything clears. It’s nothing less than Bible to us. But with you, I skipped the list and stormed the runway, rushing to get where I wanted to go.” He let out a soft sigh. “I didn’t stop to think enough about where I’d been or how that would look. My bad.”

  I wanted to believe him, even though his revelation was still rattling around inside me, trying to fit. “Okay,” I told him. “And if you can stand one from me, I remember sitting in your plane. How you can easily see what’s ahead from the cockpit, but not what’s in back of you without...”

  “Without those gadgets and gizmos?”

  “Yeah, those.”

  “Right. But you should know, I didn’t take off one day and fly at jet speed from London to you.” Asher pointed toward my feet. “I was already here.”

  A sound pushed up and out from my chest, maybe a whimper. Had I ever whimpered before? I felt my mouth widen before it closed again around all these new questions and feelings gathering into yet another chaotic space, this time my heart.

  I didn’t even let people inside my home. And here, accepting this little symbol meant letting Asher Fleet inside my life. What would he find there? What stung, what dulled the shiny silver in my palm: I didn’t even know. I simply did not know who I was, stripped from the clutter of my life and the books lining my walls.

  But Asher being Asher meant I wanted to try. “I’m here, too,” I said. “Despite all the stuff I told you at Jase’s, and what that means. I’m...here.”

  A ghost of a smile touched his face. “Good. More than good. How about this—let’s rewind a little and take some time before anything...more?” He nodded in the direction of Yellow Feather. “Get to know me, and let me get to know you, without your grumpy boss looking over our shoulders?”

  He really did get it. The top half of my body eased. “I’d like that.”

  “I’ve heard you can actually go places for coffee or tea and sit. In real chairs.” His brow rose. “If you’re lucky, you can get these nifty baked goods on actual plates, too.”

  “You don’t eat sugary baked goods.”

  “Only on birthdays, but they do have fruit cups.” When I laughed, he squeezed my hand. “I’m stuck here late, but how about tomorrow? We can check out that new
poke bowl place on Thirtieth, and just...”

  And just.

  I could just. I could do that.

  My eyes drifted fifteen feet away to the brick wall we’d leaned against weeks ago, folding into each other.

  Asher took the acorn from my fingers. “About this.” He gestured toward the same brick wall. “None of the times I’ve thought about kissing you included a replay in an alley surrounded by questionable substances. Or where we get to leave smelling like Cassie’s Chicken grease without even sampling Cassie’s Chicken.”

  My stomach dropped to my sneakers, and I had no clue how I found coherent language. “You mean the memory of outsmarting restraining-order candidates wasn’t in the...mix?” God, there was a mix. I was the other half of a mix.

  He chuckled. “Definitely not.” He met my eyes. “I mean, I’d be willing to overlook setting, but...no. Not yet.” He closed my palm over the acorn, words playing around his mouth. “You keep this. Hold on to it, and whenever you’re ready, you can make good on that trade.”

  Twenty-Five

  Heirloom

  “...she would wear his kiss on the chain around her neck.”

  —J. M. Barrie, Peter Pan

  I lived in a house containing seven toasters, but couldn’t find one simple chain for the charm tucked inside my pocket. My phone buzzed from the counter, and I set down my turkey sandwich, dinner edition.

  Marisol: I have decided

  I thumbed my response on the way to my bedroom. I couldn’t help it—my chest pulled tight every time I entered this space, ever since my mother had violated it. I half-expected more brown cardboard, but the floor was as clear as it had been this morning. I exhaled and pressed Send.

  Me: Do your worst

  Marisol: White jeans not the old ones the new ones

  Me: White? I have to remain grime and stain free through school and then my whole shift!

  Marisol: So remain grime and stain free and don’t argue

  Me: FINE. What else?

  Marisol: Red pointy flats and that black Swiss dot top we bought last summer

  I read her instructions three more times, scanning my closet. Total blank on what shirt she was talking about.

  Me: What the hell is Swiss dot?

  Marisol: Hold please

  Sooner than not, a photo came through my messages. Marisol had not only snapped a T.J. Maxx dressing room shot of me modeling the ruffled cotton blouse, she’d kept this picture and knew exactly where it was.

  Me: Awestruck and terrified

  Marisol: Grins

  With photo reference, I sifted through, finally locating the short-sleeve top wedged between a pink turtleneck I hated and a bad concert tee Marisol and I had scored for free from a worse indie show. I fluffed the airy cotton.

  Me: I’ll have to iron but done

  Marisol: Also, no hoodie. Wear a hoodie and I will find out

  Me: FINE but it’s just a casual thing. Poke café not princess castle. Not even exactly a date

  Marisol: It’s not NOT a date either

  Mom was beginning her own sandwich assembly when I returned to the kitchen nook. After greetings and basic pleasantries and yes, I’m fine, and you’re fine, too—fine, fine, everything was fine—I nibbled the rest of my dinner and tried to sound... Fine.

  “Do you have an extra chain necklace you’re not using?” My cheeks heated. “One I could borrow? Or keep?” I kept my head ducked and stared at whole wheat crusts and my ocean-themed charm bracelet.

  “Hmm.” Mom shuffled into her bedroom and reappeared after a few minutes. “This is perfect to layer with Marisol’s heart charm.” She held out a thin gold necklace, letting the delicate links fall from her fingers. “The jewelry counter at work is selling loads of these chains lately. For a while it was all about those big, bright statement necklaces. Now dainty layering is key.”

  I silently thanked Macy’s for this bit of mental diversion, then thanked my mom out loud. “It is perfect,” I added, accepting the necklace. Instantly, I knew it was real gold, not plated or filled, or something that would turn my neck green. “I’ve never seen you wear this.”

  Mom shrugged but kept her face even. “It’s been in my jewelry box for years.”

  I curled the gold into my palm, one single thought spiraling around me. It couldn’t be. This couldn’t be an old gift from my father. She’d gotten rid of a library full of books because of him. Would she keep a piece of jewelry—

  “It’s from Grandpa Wells,” Mom said quietly.

  My heart caught on to his sweet memory.

  “He gave it to me with a gold daisy when I was sixteen or seventeen. Stupid me lost the charm. Anyway, now you get to keep it. Seems right.”

  Rarely was anything right between us, but these few minutes of my mom sharing a tiny part of her past were the most right we’d been in days. I smiled from the necklace to her, and she smiled back.

  My phone dinged again. “That would be Marisol for the twentieth time.”

  Mom reached for the mayo and a knife. “Tell her hi from me.”

  I fled into my room, fishing out the phone and expelling a short gasp. Marisol’s name did not start with the letter A.

  Asher: Just getting home. I didn’t think to ask if you even like raw fish. Also, hi

  I fell into trancelike motion, backward, walking until my legs bumped the bed.

  Me: Hi, yourself. Sushi, poke, ceviche, all good

  We were now people who texted. I’d texted Marisol a thousand times. I could text a guy, too—sure.

  Asher: Cool. I need to know these things. Had a hunch after you and M mentioned Asian bowls

  Me: I generally like stuff in bowls

  Me: I eat most foods

  Me: You have a good memory

  Asher: For some things. But not genius level like yours

  Me: Thanks How’s the addition going?

  Asher: Should wrap up this week. We’ll need an official inspection but no biggie

  We volleyed back and forth. Topics ranged from his latest Netflix obsession, to my classes, to the pool at his YMCA being closed for two weeks and how he planned to crash Jase’s pool at six in the morning. Between texts, I took the time to learn every centimeter of the acorn charm, the dents and nicks and ridges. Then I fed it on to the gold chain and hooked it around my neck. I typed and erased and keyed again until:

  Asher: Hey, my mom just yelled my favorite word...pizza. She does a mean GF crust

  Me: Yum

  Me: Sounds awesome

  Asher: Wait...question

  Me: ?

  Asher: Do YOU have a favorite word?

  Asher: Wait, better. A favorite book?

  Me: Hmm...

  Asher: All those stories you’ve read and you don’t have a favorite?

  Did I have an all-time favorite story? No one had ever asked. I’d never even asked myself.

  Me: Have to ponder and get back to you

  Asher. Counting on it. So, tomorrow?

  Me: Can’t wait

  Me: Sure

  Me: Tomorrow

  Asher: Counting on it

  My phone battery dipped into the red zone. I stretched across my bed for my charger and gave it life. With the initial shock of Asher’s first text, I’d left my door open. I turned my view to the threshold, to the waiflike sight and muffled sounds of my mother padding from box to tub to box. I watched, hyperaware of the new chain around my neck. Mom had given me a bona fide heirloom—a ritual many moms did for their daughters.

  Here’s something of mine. Now it’s yours.

  I pulled Asher’s acorn from underneath my tee. Imagining a real kiss, not a make-believe one found in the Peter Pan book on my desk or the thousands of stories lining my walls. Beyond them, my mother moved in dusty light and shadows.

  Like I’d urged her countless times, I had to move forward, too, out from my own bookish hideouts. Out from shadows that kept me pale and made me slow in alleys with boys I really liked, second-guessing every move.
>
  Here’s something of mine. Now it’s yours.

  No matter what I wanted, this was the legacy I wore. My future kiss moment dangled from a thousand past-lived moments. My first real kiss and all the ridges, the dents, and the intricate details of it hung from an old heirloom chain my mother used to wear.

  Twenty-Six

  Everland

  “Of course the Neverland had been make-believe in those days, but it was real now, and there were no night-lights...”

  —J. M. Barrie, Peter Pan

  And just like that, red miso sauce dripped from the end of a cucumber chunk, outwitting my napkin and splattering into an oily blob on my white jeans.

  “Ooh, bull’s-eye,” Asher said, wincing.

  I attacked the stain with ice water. “Don’t tell Marisol.” My dabbing was only making things worse. “This is her top definition of tragedy. She’d call it Sartorial Murder at North Park Poke Shop.”

  He leaned over with another sympathetic cringe. “Right when I was about to compliment your stellar chopsticks skills.” I laughed, then he promised, “And not a word to Marisol.”

  “Thanks. She kind of manages my wardrobe.”

  “She knows what looks good on you,” Asher said, and when I looked up from checking my Swiss dot top for more stains, I found him definitely not eating and softly tapping his chopsticks against the rim of his spicy tuna bowl. And gazing, too—not staring, gazing—from my face to the silver acorn hanging from my neck. With his free hand, he reached out and gently tapped the little charm, smiling.

  I smiled, too, praying I didn’t have seaweed salad lodged between my teeth. “How was pizza night?”

  “Extra good because I didn’t have to fight off my dad for my second—or, um, third—helping.” He tipped his water glass at me. “Work trip.”

  I tripped on another word. Dad.

  “Hey.” Asher nudged my hand. “Sometimes I forget about the deal with your dad.” That my father was on an eighteen-year work trip.

  “It’s not that—you saying it. Talk about your dad whenever you want. I’m not usually this sensitive.” I attempted another bite, thankfully dribble-free. “A couple of days ago, Marisol challenged me to start letting in the idea of having a father. Not even worrying about meeting him yet, or anything.” I popped up one shoulder. “She’s right. Still, it’s different.”