CHAPTER ONE
I had already made one catastrophic decision earlier that week. But I didn’t know that it was catastrophic yet, just like I didn’t know that—by the end of the day—I would make another. As I opened the double doors and breathed in the cold outside air, my chest swelled with hope. Everything smelled clean and sharp. Delicate and heavy.
“Soon,” I said. “It’s going to start coming down any minute now.”
“That’s what you said an hour ago.”
I looked back over my shoulder and flashed my coworker a dazzling smile.
“Shut the doors,” Macon grumbled. “You’re letting out all the heat.” But as his eyes returned to his computer, they sparked with telltale amusement.
The doors were old and required a good shove to close. Woodsmoke replaced the scent of the forthcoming snow. A fire crackled inside the stone fireplace in the back room. Flames were forbidden on county property, but the North Ridgetop Branch Library was a registered historical building, so the beloved fireplace had been grandfathered in.
I plopped into my chair behind the circulation desk, pleased as ever to have cracked through Macon’s curmudgeonly exterior. I was one of the few people who could do it. Our stalwart desk contained two stations. I had occupied one for the past four years, and he had occupied the other for eleven. Both literally and figuratively, he was my closest work friend.
An oversize book slid across the desk to me. “Lunch?” It was open to a photograph of a rambling cottage garden with a cast-iron table and charmingly mismatched chairs.
“No way,” I said. “Not today.”
“No?” He sounded surprised.
“Are you kidding? Today is one of the good days.”
This was a favorite game of ours: picking out a place where we’d rather be than at work. But today was a good day. Snow had been predicted for the high mountains of North Carolina, and our small city of Ridgetop thrummed and jittered with excitement. The library was empty apart from a handful of patrons using the computers. Everybody else was at the grocery store, purchasing milk and bread before the inevitable early closings, and hurrying home. It only snowed a few times a year here, and the reaction was always deliciously overwrought.
“Fair enough,” Macon said as I slid the book back to him. He placed it onto the returns shelves and then resumed reading an exhaustive online article about the statistical probability of an imminent global food crisis. Macon enjoyed nonfiction about topics that were terrifying, as well as lengthy classic novels that took weeks to read. I read and liked almost everything.
“I’ll meet you in that garden for lunch,” I said, referring to the picture, “as soon as the snow melts.”
“Supposed to be a big one.”
“It’d be nice to have another day off tomorrow.”
“To go home early tonight.”
We spoke as if we hadn’t been engaged in this same speculative conversation for hours, just like we spoke as if everything between us was normal … because only I was aware that it was not. My stomach flipped and tumbled. For all our talk of lunch, I’d been too anxious to eat during my break.
I wasn’t sure how to tell him. The subject had consumed me for days, but now that the time had finally arrived, the task seemed insurmountable. Because how could I tell the person I wanted to kiss—that I wanted to more than kiss—that I was suddenly single, but only for one month? Any which way I framed it, it sounded ludicrous.
This should have been my first hint that it was ludicrous.
The doors burst open, and a diminutive elderly man bellowed, “Should auld acquaintance be forgot—”
“Happy New Year, Mr. Garland,” I said as he pushed a mystery novel vigorously through the returns slot in my side of the desk. I sat there because it was where most patrons went first, and I was friendlier than Macon. The better greeter. Although I was introverted like many librarians, I wasn’t shy. I was a good listener, I was curious about others, and I loved to laugh. Ingrid Effervescent, Macon sometimes called me. It was a dig, but I secretly liked it because I suspected that he did, too.
“Ingrid Dahl! Macon Nowakowski!” Mr. Garland beamed at us both. “Did you have a nice holiday?”
I smiled back at him. “I did, thank you.” It was the third day of the year, a Tuesday. We were always closed on Sundays and Mondays, but I’d been away for even longer, on vacation since before Christmas. “How was yours? How did that Yule log cake turn out?”
He was already power walking away toward the new releases. “Can’t complain, can’t complain! Gotta get another book before the storm hits.”
Macon had become stone-faced at the intrusion of high energy. Although he had the exhausted spirit of a man approaching retirement, he was only thirty-nine. Ten years older than me. Quiet and grouchy, Macon had a carefully modulated voice and an unnervingly intense stare. His wardrobe was limited, and from autumn through winter he wore the same coat every day, often inside—a large duffel coat with toggles. The grumpiest Paddington, I liked to tease him. He was frequently late, prone to rants, and his dark brown hair was always in desperate need of a professional trim. There was purposefully, handsomely messy … and then there was Macon.
I found him delightful.
He gestured to his brass nameplate, knocking it over with his coat sleeve. “I’ll never forgive the county for forcing us to use these.” The public library was funded by the county government, whose rules tended to fluctuate. The mandatory nameplates had shown up on our desk the previous spring, and he was still irritated whenever somebody used his full name.
“It’s not so bad.” My smile shifted into a grin. “And at least Mr. Garland always pronounces your name correctly. Mason.”
“How dare you.” But Macon was enjoying his indignation.
My surname was mispronounced everywhere except the library, where most patrons were familiar with Roald Dahl’s splendid books even if they were unfamiliar with his untoward bigotry. (“No relation,” I was always quick to say, although we both had Norwegian roots. A relation was possible.) It was Daal, but the lazier Doll was close enough that I didn’t mind. But Nov-a-kov-ski was too difficult for nearly everybody, especially those who didn’t know to replace the Polish w’s with v’s. And to Macon’s everlasting irritation, the butchery didn’t stop there. Most people misread his first name, too. “I’m not a canning jar or a fraternal organization,” he often groused. Instead, it signified that his family was also Southern, as it was often used in this part of the country as a name for a city or county or street.
Mr. Garland hustled back into the room.
“That was fast,” I said.
He dropped a hardcover onto the desk, tossed his stylish scarf over his shoulder, and whipped out his library card. “I’m a man who knows what he wants.”
Mr. Garland was in his eighties, and his spiky hair, short stature, and tailored clothing reminded me of a sprite. He only ever checked out new mysteries, and only one at a time because he liked having an excuse to visit regularly. Back when his husband was still alive, Mr. Garland had checked out teetering stacks, and we only ever saw him when they were due. Because of this, I always tried to give him my full attention. Today, however, my mind was elsewhere.
“Tough crowd,” he said in a theatrically lowered voice. He was talking to Macon, but his nod was at me. I was already handing the book back to him with the due-date receipt tucked inside. He’d been spinning a tale, and I’d missed the punch line. And the tale.
“Sorry.” I winced. “I’m a million miles away. Have been all day.”
Mr. Garland pretended to look affronted. “As long as it’s you, not me.”
I gave him the laugh he wanted. “Stay warm out there, okay?”
In response, he popped his coat collar with a flourish and made his grand exit. “Until next time!”
“Next time,” Macon said, standing up to close the doors, which Mr. Garland had left ajar, as always, “I’m going to lock these when I see him coming.”
“He just wants a little attention.”
Macon shut the doors with more force than necessary.
“He’s lonely,” I said. A lot of our regulars were lonely. Libraries were safe spaces for people who led solitary lives, including some of the librarians. Including Macon.
“He sings every time he enters the building.”
“You love the singing.”
He dropped back into his chair and rotated toward me in accusation. “A million miles away.”
“What?”
“You just said it, and you are. You’re past the moon. Headed toward Mars.” I tried to brush him off, but he pressed on. “And you’re fiddling.”
Copyright © 2025 by Stephanie Perkins
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