This time of year is also a crossroad for me. The locals celebrate through the annual Halloween party at the community center, but I refuse to attend organized functions at the former school, especially on the night of such a commercial holiday. The lore of vampires, werewolves, and witches isn’t really my thing, being that I’m rumored to be one.
Samhain is my holiday. It marks the beginning of a new year—celebrating harvest and happiness. The night is bittersweet with both a reflection of my accomplishments throughout the past three hundred and sixty-five days and a remembrance of long-gone ancestors.
Seeing Nathan Ryder has been a painful reminder of a night which brought both celebration and devastation to my life. Since running into him at the Piggly Wiggly, I’ve been thinking of him too often over the last few days. It’s been a struggle to face my history when all I’ve done for eighteen years is repress the memories. Yet seeing Nathan stirs up old yearnings; yearnings that I haven’t allowed myself to explore with anyone else.
I’m a follower of the social media sexpert Vilma Louise who has helped me work through my desires, turning urges inward to please myself, not seek pleasure from others. You do not need another person to complete you. As a social media sensation advocating women’s individual sexual awareness, Vilma’s motto is your self is the center of your personal universe. Diane Donner-Sylvester, a former library patron, introduced me to Vilma’s videos, encouraging me to develop my inner sexuality and the wonders of my own womanhood. Diane had similar issues after years without sex with her husband. She thought I was too uptight and might need a little sex education to loosen me up. She wasn’t wrong, but I hadn’t found a man to experiment with. I didn’t want to be with just anybody.
You are your own circle of sensuality. The mantra repeats in my head as I round the check-out counter at the library for the children’s section. I pass Sabrina Logan as I near the reading rug and my thoughts of Nathan and sex dissipate.
Sabrina replaced Bethany Winston six years ago when she—eternally rest in peace, my sister booklover—passed. Sabrina could never replace Bethany in my heart, though, which is still full from the goodness Bethany offered me. I was twenty-one when I came to the library. As the mother of seven children, Bethany took me under her proverbial wing, a fairy godmother of sorts, and the rest is my history. When Sabrina started, she had been the same age as me when I became a librarian. I want to be her friend like Bethany was for me.
At first, I misunderstood Sabrina’s awkward silence, considering her standoffish, almost aloof, but eventually, I realized she was just painfully shy. The characteristic was foreign to me. Shy was not a word many would have used to describe me at twenty-one. At thirty-nine, my persona is a different story.
With the addition of Sabrina came her now nine-year-old nephew Harry who beams up at me from his spot on a comfy purple beanbag big enough for two people. We have three others in various sizes scattered through the section. Blue. Orange. Green. They look like planets, he said to me when we first met. He wouldn’t look at me then and I thought his timidness equal to his aunt. Eventually, I realized his lack of eye contact was something he couldn’t control without some practice. Harry has autism.
Spending time with children is one of my favorite things about the library. Harry and I have a routine. He tells me about the planets, or we skim through a Harry Potter picture book together, which is what we are doing when Sabrina enters the children’s area.
“I …” Her lips clamp shut. “He …”
My brows pinch. Not one to stutter, it’s evident she doesn’t know how to explain what she needs.
“There’s a man.” The words stumble out, awkward and incomplete. I tilt my head trying to see through the stacks in the general direction where she points.
“Excuse me, Harry,” I say to him, struggling to remove myself from the beanbag. One can never gracefully stand from a lumpy sack of beans. When I stand, I crane my neck and Sabrina and I both gawk over the shorter shelves in the children’s department at the sliver of a large man.
“What does he want?”
Sabrina’s face heats a deep shade of red as her eyes lower to her feet. Oh my. What could that mean? I nod as if I understand, smooth my hands down my skirt—today I’m wearing a full denim skirt with a long sleeve, black T-shirt—and walk toward the waiting patron.
Turning down the aisle, I have a better visual of him. Brownish jacket, sturdy and stiff, and typical of men who work outdoors. Construction boots both scuffed and covered in dirt. Jeans which hug the curve of his … two firm planets. I blink and force my eyes away, but the attraction is too strong and my focus returns. This man knows how to wear denim. With that unsettling thought in mind, he turns, and I’m met with sterling laser beams.
“Naomi?” He says in a voice rough and smoky, as if he just woke from a nap. I’d sleep with him. Oh wait, I already did.
The thought catches me off guard and I audibly gasp. Nathan’s head tips to the side at my reaction and I try to calm my racing heart by smoothing over the denim at my hips one more time. It’s a nervous habit. My hand lifts for my chest instead, cupping the black tourmaline crystal hanging from my neck. The anxiety-ridding stone in my palm soothes me.
“Nathan.” My voice squeaks like a mouse under the scrutiny of a lion. His size reminds me of one, the color of his coat matching the skin of the jungle king. My eyes flit to his hair like they did the night at the Piggly Wiggly. Almost all silver, his chin holds a patch still mixed with light brown. He has black dots on each ear, like flat earrings. His sudden movement draws my attention to his arms, which stretch behind his back holding something hidden behind the broad mass.
My eyes squint as if I can see through him.
“May I help you?”
His eyes roam down my body and up again. I blush although there’s nothing exposed on me. My standard lace-up black boots cover my ankles to the edge of my skirt and my T-shirt comes to my neck. I slide the crystal on the leather strap—another anxious motion—as he scrutinizes my appearance.
“A book, perhaps.” I interrupt whatever he’s thinking, and he ducks his head to peer through the shelves. He won’t find the other librarian, Julianne MacIntyre, here today. She has the day off. He’s already frightened poor Sabrina. I’m his only hope.
His eyes flit to the shelf at his right and then back to me. I step forward for a closer examination.
Health. Female health. Young female health.
My eyes leap to his for an explanation.
“I need a book about …” He pauses, leaning toward me. His breath holds a hint of cinnamon. “You know, your cycle.”
I stare at him a moment, unclear of his meaning but also dazed by the intensity of his silver eyes. In the dull light of the library, they gleam with an outer rim of granite.
“My cycle?” Bicycle? A tricycle. The cyclical rotation of the seasons.
He clears his throat before he speaks. “Menstruation.”
My fingers come to my lips as if he’s muttered a dirty word. For some reason, a part of me thrums. He closes his eyes a second and exhales. His thick knuckles rub under his chin and the scruff makes a scratchy sound, causing tingles to erupt over my skin.
“My daughter is eleven and I think she’s going through the change.”
“The change …” I mumble.
“I thought a book to explain everything might help. I don’t want her getting random sh … stuff … off the internet.”
I gape at him as if he’s speaking a foreign language, although I fully understand his meaning. I’m female. Of course, I know what he’s talking about.
“She doesn’t have a mother,” he clarifies.
The statement stops my heart and forces me to blink in sympathy.
“I mean, Margie … her mother … she doesn’t live here. With us. With Dandelion.” His rambling becomes rather sweet. He’s flustered sharing this information.
“Dandelion? That’s an interesting name,” I offer, lightening my voice
to ease his discomfort.
His expression relaxes, his face filling with a growing smile. He’s proud of his little girl. “It’s a nickname.”
“The Dandelion Seed is one of my favorite children’s books,” I say but he stares at me like I’m the one suddenly speaking a different language. I wait for more explanation about the nickname, but Nathan’s eyes flick to the bookshelf.
“So the … um … change. Her mother didn’t explain it.” It’s rude to ask, and I stop myself before I start fishing for answers to questions that I have no right to ask like: is he married? Nathan’s large shoulders fall, and the curve of his lips drop a little.
“Let’s just say I’m both parents.”
I smile softly as if I understand and Nathan’s eyes lower to the floor. I take a deep breath, ignoring the pinch in my chest, and go into superpower mode. I’m a librarian. I can help him find answers.
“Okay, we have several books about the young body and … the changes … it goes through. Eleven seems a little late to discuss these things, though.” I glance up at him, not wanting to judge his parenting, but a young girl should know these things a little earlier in life.
My fingers troll the spines of books like a pianist expertly skimming the keys of a piano.
“I think this is one of the better books for a young woman.” I hold out the book with an illustration of a light pink bloom on the cover. “I Have a Vagina is an excellent read.”
Nathan sputter-coughs, choking on his gum. He bangs at his chest with a fist, and for a moment, I’m worried I’ll have to administer the Heimlich. I’d rather administer mouth-to-mouth.
Nathan rereads the title for himself and his eyes fly upward to mine, then quickly divert. Stay in super librarian mode, I warn myself.
“It includes visuals with age-appropriate vocabulary and an explanation of how to use tamp—I mean, feminine hygiene products.”
Nathan’s eyes roll upward as his head tips back. His cheeks pinken. Is he embarrassed? If he thinks this is awkward for him, what about me? He’s the one who has experience with the fact I do have a vagina. Experience doing wonderful things to my vagina. Which happens to pulse more rapidly than the life-sustaining organ in my chest at the moment.
This cannot be good. I don’t want my vagina to beat to the rhythm of Nathan. I don’t want any body part to hammer at the thought of him. Too late, though. My heart races as my mind fills with memories.
Are you sure about this?
I’ve never wanted anything more.
I was so naïve.
“There’s a companion book as well.” I swallow as I offer Nathan the second book in the collection. At some point, I’ve stepped closer to him and I smell him. Sandalwood and musk. Manly and sharp. And something else. Sawdust. Is he a construction worker? My eyes drift down his broad body.
Only the length of the book separates us. A distance I want to shorten.
“I Have a Penis,” he reads. Instantly, I’m inflamed by his statement. I am a sacrifice to my goddess and I gladly give of myself, if he’ll be the horny god to take me. Horned God, I mean. God with a horn on him. A horn for plundering and …
“Yes, I do,” he adds, his voice low as his twinkling, teasing eyes find mine.
Deep exhale.
Here’s the thing, I’m aware of the appendage on Nathan like he’s familiar with the special spot on me. Unfortunately, the experience was a long time ago, and I’m quite certain he’s forgotten all about my womanly parts especially if he has a daughter.
His eyes widen as he reads the title again and then the corner of his lip curls. I don’t see it at first, but I know it’s under the fuzz on his cheeks. A dimple lurks beneath the silver and Sweet Goddess if it isn’t the sexiest thing I’ve seen in years.
“Naomi?” His questioning tone forces me to realize I’m practically pressed into his chest. Taking a step back, my necklace catches on the zipper of his jacket. The leather tugs at the back of my neck.
Not again. “I’m stuck on you.”
His breath hitches before he speaks. “Is this becoming our thing?” His brows rise, and he chuckles, a rich mixture of rumbles. Then he shakes his head as I struggle to pull myself free, drawing back and jiggling the crystal-zipper combination. Nathan’s hand wraps behind my neck, pausing my jostling. A thick finger swipes up my nape, curling under the leather string, and I shiver at the intimate touch.
“Let’s just take this off,” he whispers with smoke and ash in his voice, as he lifts my hair with his other hand and removes the strap over my head. More shivers slither down my spine, and in another moment, I’m going to be a puddle on the floor. He’s said these words once before to me.
Yes, take it off. Take it all off.
My face heats. It’s suddenly very hot in the library.
I think I’m having another hot flash like the one in the Piggly Wiggly.
Is there a pattern to hot flashes I should be aware of? Hot man. Hot flash. Maybe I should check out a book about things at the other end of the … you know … change cycle.
After he slips the leather from my neck, he unhooks it from his zipper. Dangling it from two thick digits, he holds it up.
“This is cool.”
“Thank you,” I mumble, reaching out my hand for my pendant but he curls his fingers into the leather strap and lifts the accessory over my head. Lowering it to my shoulders, he swipes my hair upward, cupping the massive curls in one hand. His curved fingers stroke down the string, narrowly missing my breast as he straightens the elongated crystal to hang between them. I should consider it forward. Women press charges for this kind of behavior, but all I want to do is press against him. My nipples respond instantly, standing erect and visible through my thin shirt.
“Thank you for the books, Naomi.”
The way he says my name sends another river of shivers washing over my skin, and I decide to risk a question plaguing me. “So you remember me?”
His finger taps on something solid just over my heart and I look down to see my name tag.
Naomi.
“This is your name, right?”
Without answering his question, it’s clear he’s answered mine. Nathan Ryder has no recollection of me. Even though he teased me at the Piggly Wiggly and called me by name, he doesn’t remember me. I must have been wearing my name tag that night, too. My nose prickles and my eyes burn. The hurt of my twenty-one-year-old self returns to my almost forty-year-old heart.
“Will this be all you need?” Suddenly, I want Nathan out of the library, away from me, and out of my memories. I don’t need a reminder of the things we did, the pleasure lingering in my fantasies coupled with the pain of my actions.
I don’t want to think about his backside firm and snug in his jeans.
I don’t want to notice the dimple peeking through his silver scruff.
I don’t want to see his eyes sparkling at me with a questioning look.
It’s been eighteen years and all that time Nathan Ryder hasn’t remembered me, so why should it sting that he doesn’t recognize me now? I don’t need his recognition, but strangely, I want it. I want the acknowledgment of this man who changed the course of my life, and yet, I won’t give into him. I’ve already done that. I’ve learned my lesson. Nathan Ryder plus me equals catastrophe.
Chapter Three
Dewey Decimal Classification: 302 Social Interaction
[Nathan]
Naomi.
So you remember me?
Could I ever forget her?
Her name tag tells me her name, but is it really her? Naomi isn’t common, and I’ve never met anyone else named the same. Can it really be that after all this time, she’s still here? What are the chances I’ve seen her twice in one week when I haven’t seen her once since I returned to Green Valley?
When I saw her a few nights ago in the Piggly Wiggly, I dismissed the sneaky suspicion of familiarity curling inside me when her eyes met mine. The longing in them. The history. I didn’t want to believe
it could be her even when I called her by name. But I couldn’t shake the hint of something suppressed passing through my memory. I didn’t want to allow myself to believe it was really her. It’d been such a long time.
Still.
I’m stuck on you.
The words whisper like a door in a dark room slowly opening to allow light. There was a girl with curly raven hair and eyes the color of chrome, deep pockets of granite gray, peering up at me. The crinkles in the corners of this woman’s eyes throw me off. Still, when she looks at me, there’s something I can’t ignore. An undeniable sense she knows me, and I know her.
This woman with silver and white streaked hair, dressed in clothes covering every inch of her, seems nothing like the girl I once met. The girl who danced and whooped and begged me. But there’s something unforgettable about her hair—the weight of it—as I wound it upward and righted her necklace. The out-of-control curl hints at tresses once a different shade—midnight and wild—spilling over a motel pillow.
I’m stuck on you.
My memory pulls up the Fugitive—a bar off a treacherous mountain road. A typical night of rambunctious bikers and reckless drinking. An unusual girl celebrating on the dark side. It would be hard to recall one in twenty of the women I’d slept with over nearly the same number of years, but Naomi always stood out. That one girl your mind refuses to forget.
I watch her turn away from me and suddenly there’s too much here reminding me of all I want to forget but never could quite let go.
Perhaps it was the timing. At least I’ve told myself that over the years, but that’s not the whole truth. That night changed everything for me, and a shiver ripples down my spine with the memory.
So you remember me?
I never forgot her, but I don’t want to admit to the sharp ping of hope and the deep jolt of pain at seeing her again in Green Valley. She hasn’t exactly acknowledged me, either. Sure she said my name, but it isn’t the deep recognition of what we shared. Then again, how do you bring up something like that night?
Love in Due Time Page 2
