The Little Library

by Kim Fielding

  “Yeah. It’s like . . . there’s this whole culture and history that I don’t know anything about, but maybe I’m supposed to be a part of it.”

  Elliott was peeling the label from his empty bottle, a bad habit that used to make John yell. “I think it’s good to learn those things,” Elliott said carefully. “Obviously, since I’m a historian. But also I think everyone should feel free to make his own space. To create his life in a way that feels comfortable to him instead of trying to fit a mold. Crap. I’m lecturing. Sorry.”

  Simon grinned. “I don’t mind. It’s an occupational hazard, huh?”

  “I guess I miss having an actual classroom full of students who have to pay attention to me if they want a decent grade.”

  “I like paying attention to you. You don’t even need to give me a grade.”

  Was Simon flirting? Elliott had always been bad at judging that sort of thing, which was probably one reason he had such a poor relationship scorecard. If the other guy was in a gay bar or using an app, well, at least then Elliott could be pretty certain what the agenda was. Or if the guy was a professor who closed his office door one day while Elliott was inside, crouched next to Elliott’s chair, and said, “We work well together. I bet we’d fuck well together too.” But otherwise? Elliott was at a loss.

  “I’m glad you came over,” he said, playing it safe.

  “Me too.”

  They looked at each other and smiled slightly, neither saying anything.

  Grow a pair, Professor Thompson.

  Elliott took a deep breath. “This, um . . . Shit. I’m probably getting this all wrong. I’m probably embarrassing myself and being an idiot. But would you be interested in going out with me sometime? On a date?” He braced himself for rejection.

  Simon’s answering smile spread ear to ear—and it wasn’t mocking. “Seriously? Me?”

  “If you’re interested.”

  Simon waggled his thick eyebrows. “I’m interested.”

  Jesus. Relief washed over Elliott, and his lungs started functioning properly again. He gave a warm smile as he got up.

  “Let me get us another beer. To celebrate.”

  Chapter Seven

  Over the following several days, Elliott had to keep reminding himself he was thirty-six, not fifteen. Grown men were supposed to be more confident in their relationship-building skills. They were supposed to go forth and conquer with charm and wit. They were not supposed to dither around the house, wishing someone could pass Simon a note reading Do you like like Elliott? With yes and no checkboxes.

  But in high school, Elliott hadn’t attempted to date anyone. There had been a few out gay kids, but they were way cooler than Elliott, who was still hesitating at the threshold of his closet. He might have daydreamed about Cesar Guzman, who wore a fauxhawk and had the world’s dreamiest eyes, but Cesar had never looked twice at Elliott.

  Elliott had dated in college, but rarely, and mostly guys from the campus LGBT club or, on a couple of occasions, friends of a friend. Then in grad school he’d met John.

  So he’d never really gotten the hang of this whole relationship business, which explained why he spent the week mired in self-doubt.

  Okay, yes, Simon clearly liked him well enough to hang out and have a few beers, exposing a bit of his soul in the process. Simon had agreed to a date readily enough. But given what he’d said about his history, he probably didn’t have many gay friends. So maybe he was simply viewing this as a chance for friendly social interaction—possibly with some sex thrown in.

  Wait. Wasn’t that exactly what Elliott had just told himself he wanted with Kyle? He’d been satisfied with that idea, pleased with himself for coming up with it, even. But friends with benefits didn’t sound so satisfying now that Simon was in the picture, however tentatively . . . Shit. Elliott needed to grow up and get his head straight.

  He needed to get some sleep too. But instead he’d spent every night tossing and turning in bed, mummy-wrapping himself in the bedding while he agonized over Simon. Over what Simon thought of him and what would happen on their date and oh God would they have sex and then what would happen the morning after . . .

  Elliott agonized during the days too. He ran a lot and was both disappointed and relieved he didn’t see Simon. He tried to do his work, but the students’ answers seemed more nonsensical than ever, the misspellings and twisted grammar spinning around on his screen until nothing made sense at all.

  Somehow he and Simon had agreed that Saturday would be their date night. Elliott wasn’t sure why—he didn’t work a traditional schedule and Simon wasn’t working at all, so they could have gone out any night. Yet on Saturday night, there Elliott was, parking in front of Simon’s address. The house was in the same subdivision as Elliott’s, but Simon had a two-story model. It was too dark to see much of his front yard, but elaborate landscaping didn’t appear to be his priority. Of course, his knee injury likely meant he couldn’t do much in the way of gardening even if he wanted to.

  Simon must have been watching through a window, because he came out his front door before Elliott had a chance to turn off the engine. Hurrying as fast as his bum leg and cane likely allowed, Simon grinned as he approached Elliott’s car.

  “Hi,” he said when he dropped into the passenger’s seat. He balanced the cane over his lap. “The inside of my house looks like an EPA Superfund site. I don’t want you to see it.”

  “A little mess wouldn’t traumatize me.”

  “Big mess. Superfund, Elliott. I saw your place, remember?”

  Elliott snorted. “Books everywhere.”

  “Yeah, but they’re neat. Orderly. My house . . . Nope. And that’s just the downstairs. I haven’t been going upstairs hardly at all since I fucked up my knee. For all I know, it’s become a wildlife habitat.”

  “Pigeons? Mice?” Elliott grinned.

  “Elk. Bears. Mountain lions. Could be anything.”

  Simon was belted in by then, so Elliott backed out of the driveway. “Housecleaning isn’t your favorite chore?”

  “No. When I lived with my parents, my mom wouldn’t let me do any of it. She has these old-fashioned ideas about gender roles, and I wasn’t about to argue with her. I mean, what kind of kid demands to be allowed to vacuum and dust? I did make a stab at learning basic skills when I got my own place, but with the knee, I’ve let things slide big-time.” He sighed. “Now it’s like I don’t even know where to start.”

  “You could hire a housecleaning service. Not permanently, necessarily, but they could come in and get your place back in shape.” Elliott was glad they were having this conversation. In part because it reminded him that Simon was as human as he was. And in part because it provided a welcome distraction from Simon’s close physical presence: his tidy beard, his nicely tamed hair, and the light scent of a woodsy cologne. He was dressed simply—in jeans, a white button-down, and a brown leather jacket. And God, he looked good.

  “You don’t think housecleaners would run screaming from my mess?” Simon asked.

  “Well, I haven’t seen it, so I can’t judge. But I bet the experienced ones have seen a lot.”

  “Yeah, probably. I once had a call where this guy had been squatting in an empty house. He’d OD’d but nobody was around to notice, and it was summer. No electricity in the house, so no AC, and by the time we got there, he’d just kind of melted into the couch. It was—” Simon stopped abruptly. “Shit. Sorry. This isn’t really a good first-date discussion, is it?”

  Elliott laughed. “I think it’s a little unorthodox, but that’s okay.”

  “My point is that some poor souls had to clean that house. I should find out who and hire them. At least I don’t have any corpses in my place.”

  “Just wildlife.”

  “Yeah. Just that.”

  Elliott and Simon lived in the northeast corner of town, which meant there was no particularly great way to get downtown. Elliott took Standiford to McHenry before heading south, which was direct but heavy wi
th traffic. “I bet this is a lot easier to do with lights and sirens,” he commented.

  “Yeah, except you have no idea how fucking oblivious a lot of drivers are, even with sirens blaring. Sometimes I needed to get somewhere fast, right? I used to wish I had one of those monster trucks and could just run right over the roofs of the assholes who didn’t get out of my way. Like this one time— Crap. I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “Shop talk. You probably don’t want to hear it.”

  They were stopped at a light, so Elliott glanced at Simon. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  Simon didn’t answer right away. “I don’t know. You’re a college professor. Cop stuff must seem . . . stupid. All I have is an associate degree.”

  Genuinely puzzled, Elliott shook his head. “Cop stuff’s interesting. Think of how many TV shows and movies are made about police. A lot more than they make about history professors, that’s for sure. Even when I had a tenure-track job, well, it wasn’t Hollywood material. My big excitement was when I got an article published or caught a student plagiarizing.”

  “Cops spend a lot more time doing paperwork than doing high-speed chases or slapping cuffs on bad guys.”

  “Professors do almost nothing but paperwork. But we rarely get shot at.”

  They’d reached downtown by then, and they were silent as they neared the restaurant. One of the nice things about living in Modesto was that parking was easy, even on a Saturday night. Elliott found a spot only a block from their destination.

  The specific restaurant had been Elliott’s suggestion. It was only a few months old, and he’d never been there before, but Anna had recently raved about it. Simon had been agreeable. “As long as we don’t go to my parents’ kebab place, anywhere is fine,” he’d said with a smile.

  As they walked into Il Piatto, Elliott hoped it wasn’t too pretentious for a first date. The restaurant was small, the décor elegant but very simple. No trace remained of the antique store that had been the previous resident of this storefront. Now there were brick walls, unadorned wood floors, and slightly artsy light fixtures, including the colored glass pendant lampshades above each table. Wine bottles in wood-and-steel racks lined most of the back wall.

  A cute young guy with sleeve tattoos greeted Elliott and Simon when they walked in, then led them to the only empty table, which was near the front window. He handed them menus—typewritten, with the day’s date at the top—and a wine list.

  “Nice,” Simon said after the host left.

  “Is it okay?”

  “Yeah, it’s great. I wonder what the kitchen looks like. My parents’ place was a dump when they bought it. I was just a little kid, but I remember. They’ve sunk a lot of money into it over the years, and now the kitchen is . . .” He smoothed his beard. “You don’t care.”

  “Sure I do.”

  “Why? Are you planning a culinary career now?” Simon looked stricken and added quickly, “Not that you should. You’re a great prof, and I’m sure you’ll find a good job soon, somewhere they won’t give a shit about your asshole ex.” He looked at the table and, when no drink mysteriously appeared, searched for a waiter.

  Elliott wished he had a drink too.

  Fortunately, the waiter appeared within seconds. He was a blonder version of the host, with surfer-dude hair, a shell necklace, and more tattoos. “Hey,” he said. “I’m Zach and I’m gonna take care of you tonight. Something to drink? We’ve got a couple of killer brews on tap if you’re more into that than the vino.”

  Elliott and Simon glanced at each other. “Just water for me,” Elliott said, feeling unbearably prim. Simon ordered a beer. Then Zach gave a five-minute speech about the menu, including the provenance of all the meats and most of the veggies. Apparently, Il Piatto’s theme was small plates, which meant customers were expected to order several items apiece. Simon asked a few questions, but Elliott mostly just nodded.

  “Do you know what you’re going to have?” asked Simon after Zach went away.

  “Not a clue.” Honestly, Elliott hadn’t made much sense of what Zach had been saying, not because it’d been complicated but because it’d been a whole lot of words. And Simon was sitting right there across the table, his tongue sometimes darting out as he’d listened to the details.

  They both stared at the menus for what felt like a century, but Elliott was too distracted to read his. “Everything sounds good,” he finally said to excuse his indecision.

  “Yeah. I can order for us both if you want. Not that you can’t do it yourself, and I’m not such a huge expert or anything—just an ex-cop who used to make kebabs and stuff—but I have some ideas. Or we can go with whatever you want. Or just order separately.” He mashed his lips together and looked away, but his fingers tapped on the table.

  “You can order. That’d be great.”

  Simon stared at the menu with a degree of concentration usually reserved for students taking final exams, while Elliott played with his napkin and wondered whether Simon could tell how much he was sweating. Simon probably could; he was a police officer, after all, trained to notice things. What else was he noticing? Did he think Elliott was a crappy driver? Was he pleased Elliott was abstaining from alcohol since he was driving? Or did Simon think it was just a ruse to fool him into believing Elliott was a good guy?

  Elliott was relieved when Zach arrived with their drinks. Simon rattled off several dishes, glancing at Elliott as if for confirmation. Elliott nodded, although none of those food words were making any sense to him tonight. For all he knew, Simon had ordered pickled sheep eyeballs with sriracha sauce.

  “Was that too much?” Simon asked as soon as Zach was gone. “I kind of ordered a lot.”

  Elliott smiled at him. “No, it was fine.”

  “Good. I get hungry when I’m—” Simon patted his belly. “I get hungry a lot, actually. As you can tell.”

  Elliott had no idea how to respond to that. He liked Simon’s substantial body—liked it a lot—but he wasn’t about to blurt that out. So instead he nodded like an idiot and reached for his water. Which he promptly knocked over, sending a flood of icy liquid over the paper tablecloth and onto his lap.

  “Shit!” Elliott jumped up, sending his chair scooting back against the one behind him. The woman sitting there made a startled noise, but Elliott was too busy dabbing a napkin frantically and ineffectually over his crotch to deal with her.

  Simon jumped up too and managed not to ram his chair into anyone. But he must have put too much weight on his bad leg, because he yelped, swore, and staggered back into his seat.

  As everyone in the restaurant watched, Zach, the host, and a pretty waitress rushed over with handfuls of towels. While the waitress and host dealt with the puddle on the floor and the disaster on the table, Zach tried to wipe some of the water off Elliott, who grabbed the towel and did it himself. The worst part was that Zach kept apologizing, as if the spill was somehow his fault.

  Eventually the flood was absorbed, the tableware replaced, and Elliott seated on his newly dried chair. Zach brought him a fresh glass of water.

  “Maybe I should have a lid,” Elliott said. “Or a sippy cup.” His lap was still wet and cold, but there wasn’t anything he could do except spread a napkin over it.

  “Hey, it’s no biggie, man. People do it all the time.”

  Elliott doubted that. But he smiled, first at Zach and then, when Zach was gone, at Simon. “Are you okay? Your leg’s all right?”

  Simon grimaced. “Yeah. I forget about the fucker sometimes. Sorry I wasn’t much help during your emergency.”

  “I don’t think it was quite 911-worthy.” Although judging from the glares of the lady he’d played bumper chairs with, he’d come close to being assaulted.

  “Not quite,” Simon agreed, then took a long drink of his beer, which had survived all the upset. Elliott drank his water—using two hands to hold the glass—and they stared at each other.

  Simon began to tap on the table again. The rhythm se
emed as if it might be a tune, but Elliott couldn’t identify it. “I’m not good with music,” he blurted.

  Simon blinked. “What?”

  “Music. I can’t sing or play any instruments, and I never really pay much attention to it. And John said I had bad taste.”

  “Me and two of my cousins had a band when I was in high school. We sucked. I played, like, three chords.”

  Elliott wondered what Simon had been like in high school. A lot cooler than Elliott, that was a given. “I was on the debate team,” Elliott admitted.

  “Did you win?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “I couldn’t do that. Speaking in front of people freaks me out. In college, I had to do an oral presentation for one of my classes, and I got so nervous I had to go barf in the bathroom first. But then I was still nervous. I was afraid I was going to piss myself in front of the entire class.”

  “I’d think—you know, policeman—you’d kind of have to be good at public speaking.”

  Simon shrugged. “Not really. If I’m in uniform? With a badge and a gun? People sort of have to listen to me, so it’s not as bad. Jesus, I don’t know how you do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Teach. You have to talk in front of people all the time. When you’re teaching in person, I mean, and not online. Not that there’s anything wrong with teaching online but . . . Christ.” He wiped his forehead and took another drink.

  “When I’m teaching a class, people sort of have to listen to me,” Elliott pointed out with a grin. “If they want to pass, anyway.”

  Zach brought them bread and butter—placing the dishes closer to Simon, which was probably safer—and told them their first plates would be arriving soon. But the loaf wasn’t sliced the whole way through, and when Elliott went to tear off a piece, he wrenched a little too hard and sent a chunk of crust flying. At least he didn’t hit the lady behind him.

  He managed to butter his bread without incident.

  “See?” He held up the slice. “I’m capable of eating and drinking without mayhem.”

  Simon laughed. Unfortunately, he’d just taken a big bite of bread, and now he started to choke. Elliott looked on, alarmed, and wondered if he should try the Heimlich maneuver. But then Simon swigged his beer and washed the bread down.