The Little Library

by Kim Fielding

  Elliott did get a lot of assignment grading accomplished, and he commented on the online discussion boards for all three of his classes. Which was a good thing, because a considerable subset of his ancient civ students were engaged in a discussion about whether King Tut’s curse was real and whether mummies—the horror-movie type—were actually a subspecies of zombies. Elliott set them back on course. Then he answered emails, most of which were straightforward. One young woman, however, was apparently in the midst of an identity crisis and had sent him a string of emails, each asking confusing questions about which classes she should take for her major. If Elliott counted correctly, she had changed her major four times within two days.

  There was an email from the chair of one of the departments Elliott taught for, asking whether he was interested in three online classes in the spring: another two sections of California history, plus one on twentieth-century Europe. Elliott responded with an enthusiastic yes. He’d even get a chance to talk about the Balkans in the European class.

  Just as he clicked Send, movement caught his attention. A thin lady with curly gray hair and a purple tracksuit was approaching his property, two paperbacks in hand. He watched as she surveyed the library for a minute or two before pulling out a volume; he couldn’t tell which one. She put her own two inside and closed the plexiglass. Then she looked over at the house—straight at Elliott.

  He froze, a look of guilty terror no doubt clear on his face. But the lady smiled at him and waved. After a brief hesitation, he waved back. She pointed at him, pointed at the library, and gave a theatrical thumbs-up. After another wave, she was off toward the greenbelt, Elliott’s book clutched under one arm.

  Elliott waited fifteen minutes—sheer torture—and finally decided the coast was clear. He walked outside, wondering whether he looked as sneaky as he felt. He was trying for casual while he checked the library.

  Ah. So that had been his romance fan. The lady had left one book about a farm girl in love with a shirtless, buff lycanthrope and one about a nurse who fell for a shirtless, buff, tattooed fallen angel. She’d taken a biography of a KGB undercover agent. Interesting, but not what Elliott was looking for. Still, even if his mystery wasn’t yet solved, he was pleased to learn that he’d made someone happy with his library. What with all his assignments, testing, and grading, he didn’t often do things that delighted other people.

  Dusk was falling, the temperatures beginning to drop and the moon becoming bright above his head. It was unlikely his library would have more visitors until tomorrow. Parts of the greenbelt were poorly lit, so few people used it at night.

  Elliott returned to his table by the window. He’d have a light late dinner of the leftover soup, and then he’d turn in early and watch a movie—maybe two—while tucked in bed. Tomorrow he would wake up early and look for new job postings.

  He shut down the laptop and started closing the drapes. But before his view was entirely obscured, someone approached from the direction of the greenbelt. The romance lady? No. As the figure came closer, Elliott saw that this person was larger, moving slower—and carrying a cane.

  While Elliott watched furtively, Simon Odisho hobbled to the library and stopped. Simon spent several minutes removing books, examining them, and returning them. He finally settled on one, which he replaced with a paperback he took from his hoodie pocket. He continued on his way without ever glancing toward Elliott.

  This time, Elliott waited so long that full darkness arrived. The only street light was at the end of the block, so he used the flashlight app on his phone to investigate the library’s contents. The new book made him smile—it was Neil Gaiman’s most recent, and Elliott hadn’t read it yet. Before he could decide whether it was kosher to borrow from his own library, he realized which book was gone. It was one of the nonfiction choices, a history of gay activists before Stonewall.

  It seemed Elliott’s gay-themed book fan was Simon Odisho.

  Chapter Six

  It didn’t mean Simon Odisho was gay. He might simply be interested in LGBT issues, which was cool. Or maybe he had a friend or relative who was gay, and Simon was bringing them the books. That was perfectly great too.

  Even if Simon was gay, what difference did that make to Elliott? The question ran through Elliott’s head as he lay in bed that night, and it finally forced him to give up on the movie. No matter how many times he asked it, his speculation would inevitably turn to related matters. Was Simon single? Was he out of Elliott’s league? What exactly was Elliott’s league? Would Simon be fun to hang out with? Would he think Elliott was fun to hang out with? What did he look like naked? Did he want to know what Elliott looked like naked?

  Jesus Christ.

  Elliott gave up on sleep and tried to read, but his mind was too far away from the printed page.

  He ended up jerking off again. It had been years since he’d indulged more than once in a single day, yet here he was with his hand down his underwear. This time, though, he didn’t imagine that the hand belonged to somebody else. This time he did watch porn, because otherwise he kept picturing Simon, and that was all kinds of creepy. If he happened to pick a video in which one of the guys had a dark beard and a generous build? Coincidence.

  The next morning he woke up later than intended, and he felt groggy and out of sorts. But he forced himself to go for a run—no sign of Simon along the route—then showered and set out to accomplish things. He found a new job listing and sent off an application immediately, despite the position being in Alaska. He could buy a parka, learn to snowshoe, and take up salmon fishing or whatever Alaskans did for fun. With those long winter nights, Alaska was probably a great place to get a lot of reading in.

  He scuttled—at least for now—his plans to propose friendship with benefits to Kyle.

  He considered moving the table back into the dining room, but then it occurred to him he liked looking outside while he worked. The view wasn’t much, but it was diverting to watch the birds hop and flutter around. One mockingbird in particular seemed fond of the tall evergreen across the street. He’d sit at the top and sing away, undeterred even when jays scolded him.

  “Bachelor life, huh?” Elliott commented. “I feel you, bud.”

  The day went by more or less as usual. Two people used the library—a teenage girl and a middle-aged woman. Neither of them noticed Elliott in the window, and he didn’t bother to see which books they took and what they deposited.

  Then Simon showed up.

  He came from the greenbelt. Today his hair was down, the locks glossy in the sun, and he wore jeans and a rust-colored long-sleeved T-shirt. Although Elliott knew better, he sat by the window, watching as Simon browsed the library. Until the inevitable happened—Simon glanced over and saw him.

  To Elliott’s credit, he didn’t freeze this time. Instead he waved, fervently hoping he looked casual and friendly. Simon waved back. Good. But then instead of choosing a book, Simon walked toward the front door, and Elliott’s stomach did its best to tie itself into a knot.

  “I am an idiot,” Elliott growled. Despite his nerves, he forced his feet to walk him to the door, forced his hand to undo the lock, forced his mouth into what he prayed was more a smile than a grimace.

  “Hi,” Simon said.

  “Hey.”

  Wow. An entire word.

  Simon squinted and rubbed his ear. “I, um, just wanted to thank you. For the . . .” He waved at the library.

  Miraculously not swallowing his tongue, Elliott nodded. “Have you been using it?”

  “Yeah. Quite a bit. I might be one of your most frequent borrowers, actually. It’s a really cool idea.”

  “Well, I didn’t invent it myself.”

  “Still.” Now Simon rubbed his beard. “Um, I wanted to ask you . . . Are you the one who picks out the books to include? Or does your boyfriend?”

  Confused, Elliott blurted, “My boyfriend’s in prison.”

  Simon actually moved back a step. “Prison? Shit! I mean, I’m sorry. He s
eemed like a good guy. Not that I really knew him or anything, but I’m usually a pretty good judge of people’s character.”

  “He’s a complete asshole.” Elliott’s sluggish brain struggled to keep up. “But . . . wait. When did you meet him?”

  “When you guys were digging the hole?” Simon pointed at the library.

  Comprehension dawned, and a slightly hysterical laugh escaped Elliott’s throat. “That was my brother.”

  “Oh! Jesus, I’m sorry. I just assumed . . .”

  Simon looked mortified, an emotion Elliott could empathize with. Somehow that calmed him down and cleared his head. “It’s fine,” he said. “I can understand. We don’t look much alike, and I am literally flying the rainbow flag.”

  “And your brother’s not in prison, right?”

  “No, that would be my boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend, more accurately.”

  His embarrassment apparently receding, Simon grinned. “And he’s a complete asshole.”

  “He truly is.”

  Simon nodded and moved his gaze to the side. “Look, I didn’t actually come here to be nosy about your personal life, believe it or not. I really just wanted to say thanks for the books.”

  Maybe it was something in Simon’s expression, which was hesitant—perhaps even shy. Or maybe it was that Elliott was lonely and Simon was, well, incredibly hot. Maybe it was just gratifying to have a neighbor who wasn’t a jerk like Mike Burgess. Whatever the cause, Elliott deviated from his usual careful script. “Want to come in? I’ve got beer in the fridge.”

  Simon replied without hesitation. “Thanks! Sounds great.”

  Inside Elliott’s house, Simon somehow seemed more real, as if stepping over the threshold had worked an enchantment on him. Elliott fought desperately to keep his nerves calm. Just a neighbor stopping by for a friendly chat. For God’s sake, chill. His internal pep talk was not as successful as he’d have liked.

  He led the way to the living room, where, thankfully, Simon didn’t seem to think a table in front of the window was weird. “Have a seat,” Elliott said. “Kona IPA okay?”

  “Sure. Whatever.” Simon collapsed onto the couch ungracefully, grunting a bit in the process. He leaned his cane against the end of the couch and, wincing, massaged his thigh above the knee brace.

  Naturally Elliott wanted to ask him about the knee. It might not even be a terribly intrusive question, considering Simon had—accidentally—gotten Elliott to blab about John. But maybe it was best to wait a bit. So Elliott grabbed a couple of bottles from the fridge, popped the caps, and brought them to the living room, handing one to Simon before taking a seat in the armchair.

  Simon tried a swallow. “Hmm. Good stuff. Never had this brand before. It’s from Hawaii?”

  “I guess. I buy it at Raley’s.”

  “Well, Hawaii’s kinda far to travel for a cold one. Unless you’re really into it.”

  Simon looked especially handsome when he laughed. His eyes squinted almost closed, and his teeth flashed white amid his dark beard. His laughter was warm and rumbly, wrapping around Elliott like a soft blanket.

  “So you must live nearby.” Elliott hoped it didn’t sound like a feeble pickup line.

  “Yeah. Two blocks. You’re on my walking route. I’m up to a whopping two miles. Whoopee.”

  “Do you, uh, mind my asking?” Elliott waved his bottle in the general direction of Simon’s knee.

  “Nah. It’s not exactly a state secret. My doctor likes to rattle off all kinds of fancy names for what I did to myself, but basically I got in a fight with the wrong guy and fucked my knee up royally.”

  “A fight?” The last time Elliott had been in a physical confrontation with anyone was eleventh grade, when Richie Pyle called him a faggot one too many times. Of course, Elliott had been scrawny and uncoordinated, so while Richie had gotten a bloody nose, Elliott had ended up with two black eyes, a loose tooth, and a three-day school suspension. But the fight also meant Ladd found out Richie had been tormenting Elliott—a problem Elliott hadn’t previously mentioned to anyone. Ladd and a couple of his football team buddies cornered Richie and described what they’d do to him if he didn’t back off. Elliott’s dignity might not have survived entirely intact, but at least he never heard a peep from Richie again.

  But Simon was nodding, bringing Elliott back to the here and now. “Yeah. It was my own fault. I was talking to this dude, and he was pretty worked up, but I thought he was calming down. Then all of a sudden, bam! He pulls out a gun.” He mimicked a shooting motion.

  “Do you do that kind of thing often?” Elliott asked worriedly. He really had let a virtual stranger into his house.

  “Used to.” Simon snorted. “I was a cop.”

  “Oh! Um, was?”

  Asking and receiving permission, Simon propped his foot on the coffee table and sighed. “Yeah. I’ve been out on temporary disability. I could go back once I’m healed up, but I don’t know . . . I guess my heart’s not really in it. I only ever did it because it paid okay and I couldn’t think of anything else I wanted to be when I grew up.”

  Elliott was trying very hard not to fall into a porn fantasy of Simon in a police uniform. “Time for a career change, then?”

  “I guess so, but I haven’t decided what. My parents want me to work at the family restaurant when I can stay on my feet for a full shift, but I did enough of that when I was a kid.” He shrugged. “I’m still considering my options.”

  “I can understand that.” And somehow, with Simon’s friendly, nonjudgmental attention, Elliott ended up spilling the whole ugly John story, complete with admissions of his own idiocy and current lack of career-related promise. By the time he was done, he and Simon had polished off their second beers, and Elliott was feeling somewhat aghast.

  “Shit. I’m sorry. You didn’t ask for my life story, and I didn’t mean to dump on you.”

  “No, it’s totally cool. It’s too bad your ex is in prison in another state—otherwise we could have introduced him to the guy who screwed up my leg. They could have been buddies.”

  “Is he in prison too?”

  “Jail for now. The DA’s piled a shitload of charges on him. He’ll plead it out, but since he’s a frequent flyer, he’ll still get a good five years of vacation with the Department of Corrections.”

  “That’s good.”

  Simon didn’t look especially pleased. “I guess. It won’t help him any—he’ll be an even bigger mess when he gets out. Won’t help my knee either.” Then he brightened. “But you and I are sort of in the same boat, right? Life fucked us over and we’re not sure where to go next.”

  Elliott hadn’t thought about it that way, but now that Simon had mentioned it, the similarity was somehow encouraging. Misery loves company, perhaps.

  “Do you want another beer?” Elliott asked.

  Although Simon shook his head, he didn’t seem in any hurry to get up from the couch. Instead he looked around, as if noticing his surroundings for the first time. “You have a lot of books.”

  “Um, yeah. I sort of have a problem, I guess.”

  “I’ve seen problems, and believe me, this ain’t one.”

  “Well, I’m running out of room for them. I’ve got shelves everywhere, and they’re all full. My brother says one day I’ll be buried alive under toppled stacks of them.”

  Simon grinned. “That would be an interesting way to go. Is that why you built the mini library?”

  “Mostly.”

  “Well, then I’m glad you’re an addict.” Simon’s expression grew suddenly serious. “I’ve been reading some of your books.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  “The, uh, ones about gay people.” He leaned forward to set the empty bottle on the table near his foot. Then he chewed on his lip briefly. “Can I ask you something really personal?”

  “I just told you the sob story that’s my life. Go right ahead.” Despite his glib answer, Elliott braced himself for what was to come.

  “Does your family
know you’re gay?”

  Elliott wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it hadn’t been that. “Yep. I told Ladd when I was fourteen. I came out to my parents later, in college.”

  “And they’re cool with it?”

  “Sure.” Well, that required a bit of explanation. “Ladd was always fine with it. My parents, they took some time to get used to the idea. They were uncomfortable with it at first. I think Mom kept hoping I’d change my mind, and Dad didn’t want to talk about it at all. But they came around eventually.”

  “That’s nice.” Simon looked thoughtful as he rolled his shirt hem between two thick fingers. Then, in a voice so soft Elliott could barely hear it, he added, “My parents don’t know.”

  Shit. “You don’t think they’d handle it well?”

  Simon barked a laugh. “No. My parents are immigrants. Assyrian. They’ve been here for decades, and in a lot of ways they’ve assimilated, but at heart they’re still old country. Conservative. Religious. And I’m their only kid too.”

  “I’m sorry,” Elliott said with sincerity. “It sucks not to have family support. Were you out at work?”

  “No. No way. I know it’s 2017, but we’re in the Central Valley and they’re cops and . . . Just no. Hell, I didn’t really admit it to myself until a couple of years ago. I sure as hell haven’t talked about it with anyone. Until you.” He glanced at Elliott, then looked away.

  The knot returned to Elliott’s stomach, and he wasn’t even sure why. Maybe because he rarely discussed anything this important with anyone, let alone with a sexy man he barely knew. It was like entering into an emotional minefield where one false step might not only destroy this budding friendship, but also—more importantly—damage Simon. Simon had been damaged enough already.

  “Is that why you’ve been borrowing my books?” Elliott asked after a brief pause.