by Logan Belle
“How was your first day?” Carly asked, looking up from her copy of W magazine. She was sitting cross-legged on the couch, wearing a pair of perfectly faded bell-bottom jeans and a cropped cashmere sweater, her honey-blond hair in a messy knot. “Did the other library kids play nice?” The room smelled of her Chanel Allure perfume.
“It was fine, thanks,” Regina said, dropping her heavy bag onto the floor and walking into the kitchen to get a Coke. She could never tell if Carly was genuinely interested in talking to her or if it was just a reflex since she was the only other person in the room. Regina knew that Carly didn’t understand how “shelving books”—as she put it—could be the fulfillment of a lifelong dream. But that’s exactly what it was to her; from the time when she was six and her father had started taking her to the library every Saturday afternoon—not even the New York Public Library, just their small library in Gladwynne, Pennsylvania—Regina had known it was where she belonged. She never went through a phase of wanting to be a schoolteacher, or a veterinarian, or a ballerina; for Regina, it had always been about becoming a librarian. She wanted to be surrounded by the smell of books; she wanted to be responsible for the rows and rows of tidy shelves, for the meticulous cataloguing; she wanted to help people discover the next great novel they would read, or the book that would help them do the research that would earn them a degree or solve an intellectual riddle. She knew this from the time she was little, and she never lost focus.
And now her dream had come true, as small and ridiculous as it might seem to a woman like Carly Ronak, who had spent her girlhood dreaming of becoming the next Tory Burch.
“Good to hear,” Carly said. “Listen, I’m having a friend over tonight. I hope we won’t be in your way.” What she really meant was that she hoped Regina would have the decency to stay in her bedroom and not get in their way.
“Don’t worry about me. I have a lot of reading to do.”
“Oh, and your mother called—twice,” Carly said, handing Regina a purple Post-it note with the message scribbled illegibly in Sharpie ink.
In an attempt to cut her expenses for the move to New York, Regina had gotten rid of her cell phone. This had the welcome consequence of making it impossible for her mother to contact her twenty-four/seven. Unfortunately, anyone in Regina’s life who happened to have a landline was now paying the price.
Regina crumpled the note and stuffed it in her pocket.
•
Regina woke to the sound of someone breaking into the apartment. At least, that’s what it sounded like to her. And then she realized it was just Carly’s headboard banging into her wall.
This was accompanied by moaning, and Carly’s no doubt unnecessary cry of “Fuck me!”
More moaning, this time a man’s voice. The sound of the headboard hitting the wall got harder and faster, and the tenor of their voices seemed indicative of violence rather than pleasure. And then it was silent.
Regina found herself breathing heavily. She didn’t know whether it was from being startled awake, or from the nature of the sounds she’d been hearing. It was disturbing and arousing at the same time, and this bothered her more than the fact that she was literally losing sleep as a result of her roommate’s sex life.
She knew she was behind the curve as far as the whole sex thing went; to be a virgin at her age was unthinkable to most people. But it was her reality—a reality that hadn’t bothered her until she moved to New York and realized she was the last one to the party.
It wasn’t as if she planned never to have sex. She hadn’t taken a chastity pledge or anything. It was more that the opportunity hadn’t presented itself. Her friends back home told her that she walked around oblivious—that guys were always checking her out and would ask her out more often if she made an effort to get out and do things. “You’re so serious all the time,” her friends told her. It’s not that she didn’t want to have fun. It’s more that she was painfully aware that every party she went to was a night of missed studying, and every guy she had a crush on threatened to take her away from what was important: studying. Working hard. Preparing for her future.
Focus. It was her mother’s mantra. She was quick to tell Regina that boys were nothing but a distraction—“a surefire way to derail your future.” It had happened to her, Regina’s mother warned her solemnly. Regina had heard the story dozens of times: her mother spoke about how she had “given up her dreams” to support Regina’s father as he went through architecture school and during the early years of his career—and then she got pregnant with Regina. “And your father died and left me holding the bag. No one thinks about worst-case scenarios, Regina. The only one you can depend on is yourself.”
Regina looked at the clock. It was two in the morning. Five hours until her alarm went off.
Laughter, and then another moan.
Regina rolled over on her back, desperate to find her way back to sleep. Her nightgown, a gray cotton shift from Old Navy, was twisted around her waist. She loosened it but kept it above her hips. She stroked her stomach, trying to relax herself, to recapture sleep. And then her hand, as if moving of its own volition, drifted to the edge of her underwear.
She paused. From the next room, silence.
Regina moved her hand into her underwear, her fingers touching herself lightly between her legs. The thought of the man just a few feet away on the other side of the wall both excited and distracted her. It had been a long time since a guy had touched her, and her few experiences had been fumbling and unmemorable. Now it was almost impossible for her to imagine someone else’s hand in this exquisitely private and sensitive place, stroking her until she was wet, then pressing inside, moving in and out in just the right way to trigger that powerful release. She moved her hand quickly, the walls of her vagina pulsing against her own finger, her hips moving in tandem. She felt the familiar rush of pleasure, and then lay still against her rumpled comforter. Her heart was pounding.
What would it be like to have someone else next to her at that moment of climax?
She was beginning to wonder if she would ever know.
CHAPTER 3
A girl with dyed red hair and wearing a Columbia University T-shirt handed Regina a crumpled pile of requisition slips.
“So do I, like, just wait here?” The girl leaned on the desk.
“You can wait at one of the tables and just watch the board for your number. That will indicate your books are ready for pickup,” Regina said.
Regina was already addicted to the predictable rhythm of the Delivery Desk: the quiet early mornings, the afternoon hub of activity, and the slow drift in the early evening as people left for dinner—some returning, some gone for the day. She knew she was lucky to spend her days in arguably the most beautiful room in the entire city. And while her job was not intellectually challenging, she did get a certain sense of satisfaction in handing the books over to the eagerly waiting library patrons. She wondered, as she looked out at the rows and rows of people bent over books and laptops, what everyone was working on. Was the next great American novel being written in that room? Was something being invented? Was history being rediscovered?
And yet sometimes, when there was a lull, she felt fidgety.
“Why don’t you read something?” asked Alex, a wiry, slightly-awkward-but-cute-in-a-puppy-dog-sort-of-way NYU student who worked part-time running books from the various rooms to the Delivery Desk.
“Are we allowed to read behind here?” she asked.
“No one’s ever said anything to me,” he said. “And you and I both know Sloan doesn’t miss a chance to jump down our throats. So I’d say yeah, it’s cool.”
Regina thought maybe she and Alex could be friends, although she’d never had a real guy friend before. Her mother always warned her that guys were never real friends—that they “wanted only one thing.” But Alex did just seem genuinely friendly. Although, she felt she had somehow
offended him when he told her that he liked her haircut, that it was “very Bettie Page.” Regina had said, “What’s a Bettie Page?” And he’d looked at her kind of funny, as if not sure if she were serious or joking.
“You know—the legendary pinup model? With the black hair and the short bangs?”
Regina had nodded, although she had no idea who he was talking about. People sometimes told her she looked like “that girl on that show . . . with the bangs,” or they would snap their fingers and say, “Zooey Deschanel.” She had seen Zooey Deschanel’s sitcom, and while there might have been some resemblance in coloring and haircut and even facial features, the star’s zany effervescence made any further comparison ridiculous, in Regina’s opinion. Now she would have to Google this Bettie Page person.
“Is it truck time?” Alex asked.
Ever since her first day at work a few weeks ago, Regina and Alex had fallen into the habit of walking out for lunch together to grab a burger or hot dog from the food truck that parked around the corner on Forty-first Street. But today, Regina decided she would try to find Margaret to see if they might have lunch together.
•
She took the South Stairs up one flight, to the fourth floor, which was home to first editions, manuscripts, and letters, and also the Trustees Room. She passed a room that was gated off, and she took notice of it.
She found Margaret logging a pile of books into a ledger.
“You do this all by hand?”
“Yes. And we have an intern put it into the computer. I can’t be bothered with those machines.”
“I wondered if you wanted to have lunch together. I brought mine, and we could sit outside. . . .”
Margaret was already shaking her head. “I don’t eat lunch on Tuesdays,” she replied. Regina wasn’t sure what to say to that. Margaret added, “As you get older, you need to sleep less and eat less. You’ll see.”
“Okay, then. Well, I’ll see you later, I guess. Oh, by the way—what’s Room 402?”
“Barnes Collection—visited by special permission. First editions of Virginia Woolf and Charles Dickens.”
“I used to take the library tour once a year when I was a kid—I don’t remember it.”
“They built it about five years ago. The Barnes family donated twenty million dollars. They renovated the entire Main Reading Room. Remember when it was closed for over a year?”
Regina nodded.
“The Barnes Room used to be open. I spent some time in there, but not since I had to start bothering with permission.”
“Whom would I ask for permission?”
Margaret shrugged.
Regina was not one to ignore authority, but she couldn’t imagine that the works were meant to be hidden from library staff. It made sense that the public couldn’t go traipsing through the room at will, but surely it couldn’t hurt if she just took a peek.
The dark bronze doors were framed in marble, with the words JASPER T. BARNES ROOM in gold letters. Regina gingerly approached the door, and thought that if it were locked, that would solve her dilemma of whether or not to try to sneak a look inside.
She placed her hand on the gold handle, and, with only a few seconds of hesitation, pressed down. The door was unlocked, and she pushed it open.
The first thing she noticed was that the room was much simpler in style than most other places in the library. It was English classical, and the walls were floor-to-ceiling books in wooden and glass shelving. In the center of the room was a long, dark wood table—almost like a dining room table, surrounded by antique chairs finished in red leather.
And then she realized she was not alone.
A strange, almost keening sound emanated from one corner of the room, a space obscured from the view of the doorway. But as she stepped farther inside, the source of the noise became shockingly clear. A naked woman was bent over a marble bench, her arms supporting the weight of her upper body, her head down, her long hair sweeping almost to the floor. Behind her, a man—also naked—stood with his hands on the woman’s hips, pumping into her with a ferocity that made Regina question if what she was witnessing was a woman in the throes of pleasure or in pain. A part of her—the practical, rational part of her—knew that she should turn around and get the hell out of there. But another part of her—a part she didn’t quite understand—was riveted.
Regina, her heart pounding, quickly realized that what she was seeing was most definitely pleasure. The steady rhythm of the two bodies moving together, the uncontrolled moans of the woman, and the sheen of sweat on her long arms that Regina could see, even from her distance—it was raw ecstasy. Regina knew it was wrong for her to be there, and, as if punishing her for her trespass, her own body betrayed her with a hot flicker of excitement between her legs.
Ashamed of herself, Regina tried to avert her eyes, but instead ended up looking directly at the man’s face, and to her shock, she realized that she actually recognized him: the dark tumble of hair, the black eyes, the chiseled features. It was the man from the steps the day before.
And from the smile on his face as their eyes met and locked, it seemed he recognized her, too.
CHAPTER 4
Regina backed out of the room and had the sense to close the door behind her with shaking hands.
Her first thought was her shame at being drawn into that dirty little scene. She should never have watched—she should have run out immediately. Or, better yet, stopped them. Her embarrassment turned to anger.
This was a library. What was wrong with people?
She took a deep breath, fortified with her sense of outrage. Once she was in the safety of the hall corridor, she scurried down the South Stairs back to the rotunda outside of the Public Catalogue Room.
Safely back in the library’s more public sphere, she was able to compose herself and returned to the Delivery Desk, where Alex was leaning against her chair, playing Temple Run on his iPhone.
“Slow day,” he said. “Even the book nerds don’t want to be inside when it’s seventy-five degrees and sunny.”
Regina nodded, and placed her lunch bag back on her desk. The top of the brown paper bag was wet from the perspiration of her hands.
Alex eyed the bag suspiciously. “I thought you were going to eat lunch?”
“I’m not hungry.”
He looked at her suspiciously. “What’s up with you?”
“Nothing,” she said. She felt as dirty and ashamed as if she had been the one bent over the marble bench. And she knew she felt this way because, as much as she hated to admit it, despite the outrageous sacrilege, for one fleeting moment she wished it had been her.
What was wrong with her? It had to be Carly’s influence—all the crazy nocturnal goings-on in that apartment were getting to her. She was sleep deprived. And she was living with someone who had no sense of decency. Her mother had been right: nothing good could come out of her move to New York.
“If you say so. But I’m starving, so it’s off to the truck. Want me to bring you something?” He jumped up and fished his earbuds out of his jacket pocket.
Regina didn’t want him to go. She was grappling with her disturbing discovery. She had walked away, but she couldn’t just forget about it. She wondered if she should report the incident to Sloan, but the idea of doing so made her feel queasy.
“Wait—can I tell you something?” she asked.
“Sure,” he said. “Burger or hot dog?”
Her mind formed the words, but her mouth wouldn’t play along.
“I don’t like the food truck,” she finally said.
He shook his head. “Okay, Finch. Thanks for the news flash.”
•
She was on the third-floor landing of the brownstone where she lived when she heard the rap music thumping from her apartment. With a sigh, she continued climbing. By the time she put her key in the door, sh
e knew she wouldn’t be able to hear herself think even with her bedroom door closed.
“Hey—what’s up?” asked the guy sitting on the couch and sucking from a large bong.
“Um, just getting back from work,” Regina said. At least she recognized the guy—he was one of Carly’s more regulars. Under other circumstances, Regina would probably call him Carly’s boyfriend. But considering it had been a different guy responsible for last night’s two a.m. headboard banging, “boyfriend” probably wasn’t the most accurate moniker. “Do you mind turning down the music?” she yelled.
“You don’t like J?”
She’s got an ass that’ll swallow up a g-string
And up top, uh, two bee stings
Regina went into her room and closed the door. It looked like another night of self-imposed exile until Carly went out—if she went out. Regina hoped she would make some friends at the library so she had someone to go out with once in a while.
The music suddenly dropped about twenty decibels. And then she heard a knock on her door. Reluctantly, Regina cracked her door open.
“That better?” Derek asked.
“What? Oh—the music? Yeah, thanks.”
“Why don’t you ever go out?” he asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Carly said she’s never seen you leave the apartment at night.”
Regina felt herself turn red. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”
“Dude—no offense. I’m just saying—you can come out with us tonight. We’re hitting a show on Rivington. I promise you’ll be home before you turn into a pumpkin.”
Regina shook her head. “No, thanks.”
CHAPTER 5
Rivington Street was the strangest place she’d ever seen.
The shadowy corners, the beautiful and achingly hip women drifting along the sidewalks with their cigarettes, the bizarre storefronts that left you wondering if they were bars or shops. They all made her wish she’d stayed under the covers when Derek—this time, with Carly—came knocking once again to insist she “go out for once.”
