Night Shift

The library is quiet.

Then again, it’s always quiet on Friday nights.

Moonlight floods the atrium. The fake ferns rustle softly in the heat spilling from the air vents. Somewhere on the other side of the nearly empty first floor, the wheels of Margie’s book cart are squeaking sporadically as she weaves up and down the stacks. It’s all very routine, except for one minor detail: for the first time since I started working at the library, I’m not holed up behind the circulation desk with a romance novel in my hands.

Instead, I have my laptop propped open, a draft of the first chapter of my first novel staring back at me in full-screen mode to help fight the siren call of “just checking” Twitter.

Nobody warned me how hard writing would be.

It’s brutal, and it’s frustrating, and it’s entirely worth the pain every time I manage to string the right words together to capture the image in my head or the feeling in my bones. There’s something satisfying about creative endeavors. I think I finally understand why Shakespeare wrote all those love sonnets and Taylor Swift writes all those songs. I get it now—the inexplicable and inescapable need to untangle the garden of feelings growing inside you, leaf by leaf and vine by vine, to put them into words.

“Are you writing erotica about me again?”

My head snaps up.

Vincent stands above me, a teasing smile on his face and a cup of coffee in his hand. He sets it on the circulation desk. His name is printed on the side along with a tiny permanent marker doodle of a sunflower that I recognize as Vincent’s handiwork.

“I thought you promised not to distract me during my shift,” I say, snatching the cup up to take a sip.

Our arrangement is simple: every other Friday, I swap my night shift out for an afternoon shift so I can hang out with Vincent in the evenings. It’s actually kind of fun now that I’ve gotten to know most of the guys on the team. We hang out at Vincent’s place, or mine. We go on double dates with Jabari and Harper. We even go to the occasional party, where I’ll let Vincent make me the weakest mixed drink known to man if he promises to dance with me, because I like when he’s tipsy and loose and belts out glaringly incorrect lyrics to popular songs just to make me laugh.

In return for this small modification of my schedule, Vincent has agreed to give me my Friday-night shifts as a devoted time for peace, quiet, and my works in progress.

So, I tell him, “You’re not allowed to be here.”

“Oh, I’m not here for you,” Vincent says.

I arch an eyebrow. “Really?”

“I can’t believe you’d think that. For your information, I’m here as a tuition-paying student, not your boyfriend. The coffee was just a nice gesture.”

I clutch the warm cup to my chest and watch him through narrowed eyes.

“You’re not going to distract me?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

I purse my lips. “You didn’t bring a backpack.”

Without breaking eye contact, Vincent reaches over to grab the latest issue of Clement University’s student-run newspaper off the wire rack beside the circulation desk. He holds it up so I can read the front-page headline (sex, drugs, and rock and roll: national collegiate improv festival busted by local law enforcement), tucks it under one arm, and turns to stride across the atrium. He takes a seat at the closest table and makes himself comfortable.

Nobody should look this good reading the newspaper.

His hair is fluffy and disheveled in that way it gets when he sleeps on it wet, and his long-sleeved Clement basketball shirt is stretched tight across his chest. His face is a work of art, each sharp line and wicked curve of his profile enough for me to write entire essays on. Cast in the moonlight, he’s magnificent. I could almost imagine he’s a Mafia hit man on the job, a cutthroat billionaire in the boardroom, or a brooding duke poring over important letters from Parliament.

I can’t decide if I want to write fiction about him or march across the library, drag him to the floor, and ravish him.

Then Vincent props his elbows on the table, biceps straining and bunching against the sleeves of his shirt, and I know without a doubt that he knows I’m watching and that he’s flexing on purpose. To test me.

Well, joke’s on him.

Two can play at that game.

I peel off the sweatshirt I’m wearing—a Clement basketball crew neck I stole from him the night we located my missing underwear where it’d landed on top of his wardrobe (turns out I’d chucked it pretty hard on his birthday, so my softball career may still have hope). I’m only wearing a thin cotton shirt underneath, and the library is chilly tonight, but freezing my nips off is a small price to pay for the win.

A covert sideways glance tells me I’ve pulled ahead.

Vincent is watching me, eyes on fire and a muscle in his clenched jaw ticking.

I go for the kill. Smoothing away a smug smile, I stretch my arms high up above my head, back arching off my chair and lips parting with a soft groan when the stiff muscles in my shoulders pull taut.

My phone vibrates in the back pocket of my jeans.

I half expect it to be a text from Vincent telling me to stop playing dirty, but instead it’s a notification from the roommate group chat. Nina, who was both overjoyed and deeply moved when I informed her the birthday condoms she’d given me last year as a joke had actually saved the day (“Oh my God, Kendall, I can’t believe I was there with you in spirit!”), has sent another picture of herself. This time, she’s modeling her favorite light-wash jeans and a delicate pink sweater that I’m pretty sure she found in Harper’s closet.

Her follow-up text reads: Thoughts???

She has a date tonight. And although Nina will never admit it, the steadily growing collection of mirror selfies in our chat tells me she’s a little nervous for this one.

I text back: Boo. Not hot enough. Wear the green dress with the spaghetti straps.

I can’t wear that one, Nina replies immediately. It’s fucking freezing out. She’ll think I’m weird.

Harper chimes in with: Trench. Coat.

Um??? I’ll look like a hooker??? Nina shoots back.

I send: And?

It’s radio silence for about thirty seconds, and then Nina sends another photo. Green dress. Camel trench coat. A crossbody bag she didn’t have to ask to borrow from me because she already knows I’ll let her use it anytime she needs to. She looks like the femme fatale in a 1950s French noir film. Harper and I immediately send lines upon lines of emojis—heart eyes, flamenco dancers, fireballs, shooting stars—that Nina responds to with a single middle finger emoji, followed reluctantly by a final message: Thank you.

I smile at my screen before I tuck my phone away.

It’s fun to take over the role of whore best friend for the night.

As if summoned, a shadow falls over me.

The guy standing on the other side of the circulation desk is tall—really, really tall—and beautiful but not at all menacing. Not now that I know him so well. He’s the star of Clement’s basketball team. The one all the sports broadcasters and NBA fanatics predict is going to be a first-round draft pick. The one who got ejected from last year’s big game for breaking the nose of a guy who totally deserved it. The one who recites poetry to me just to make me laugh and blush.

“Can I help you?” I ask, looking up at him through my eyelashes.

Vincent’s frown is begrudgingly defeated.

“I’m looking for a book,” he grumbles.

“Do you know the title and author name?” I ask, dragging the keyboard closer like I’m actually prepared to look up the ISBN for him.

“The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein.”

I just barely swallow my startled laugh.

“Right,” I say, all business. “That’s a tricky one. Very hard to find.”

Vincent nods. “You’d better lead the way, then.”

I shut my laptop, stow it safely under the desk, and prop up the little paper sign that tells people I’ll be back in fifteen minutes (a blatant lie). Vincent doesn’t step aside as I circle around the desk and slip past him. He lets our arms brush. But I’m nothing if not professional. I keep my chin high, pace brisk but casual as I glide across the atrium, weaving through the tables so quietly that none of the handful of yawning students scattered across the floor even look up.

Vincent follows so close behind me that I’m half expecting him to reach out, haul me back against him, and make me pay for teasing him. But he keeps his hands to himself. He’s a perfect gentleman.

It makes me fucking feral.

I stop at the elevators and smack the call button.

“You don’t want to take the stairs?” Vincent asks, jabbing his thumb in the direction of the staircase that’s literally five steps to our left.

“Stairs are out of commission.”

Vincent hums. I can’t look him in the eyes.

The elevator arrives with a cheery ding. I dart through the open doors. Vincent follows me inside, smacking the button for the second floor and then advancing toward me in a slow prowl. He crowds me into the corner with eyes so dark I can see myself reflected in them.

“You,” he says, lowered voice echoing off the walls, “are a shitty actress.”

“Stop talking.”

He smiles wickedly. “Make me.”

I wait until the doors slide shut before I grab his face and haul him down so I can kiss him. He meets me halfway, like he always does. We’ve kissed hundreds of times now, but somehow, we still come together with the primal force of two waves crashing against each other. I’ll never get sick of it.

Distantly, I’m aware of the elevator stopping. The doors slide open, I guess, because Vincent’s walking me backward and I hear carpet under our feet. Our movements are clumsy and slow, since we’re grabbing at each other’s shirts and giggling breathlessly as we try to keep our mouths locked. It’s not until Vincent sets his hands on my shoulders and holds me at arm’s length that I realize what section he’s led me to.

British literature.

“You sentimental little shit,” I accuse. And then, softer, I tell him, “I’m really glad you took that shitty poetry class.”

“I’m glad I didn’t drop that shitty poetry class.”

“Is that shots fired at Professor Richard Wilson? I thought you were besties.”

Vincent groans at his name.

“I still hate that fucker,” he mutters. “He was such a dick about that first essay. I tried to tell him my wrist was fucked up and I needed an extension, but he shot me down. I was fucking miserable. All I wanted to do was sleep, but the team was throwing a party, so I had nowhere to go, and I figured I’d just power through. That was almost the worst week of my life.”

“Almost?”

“Well, yeah. It sucked. But it was worth it, because I met you.”

I reach up—without thought, just pure muscle memory—to thrust my fingers into his soft hair. Vincent’s shoulders sag the way they always do when I play with his hair, and then he ducks down to kiss me.

“Pick me up,” I demand.

Vincent nips at my bottom lip. “Ask nicely.”

“I’m jumping. One, two, three—”

He catches me with a sigh that’s both exasperated and affectionate. His wide, strong hands slide under my thighs, supporting my weight and pressing me close to him, so I can feel the hard wall of his abdominals in the cradle of my hips. I briefly forget where we are and let a content moan slip out.

Vincent gives my ass a tight squeeze. Not enough to hurt, but enough that I yelp.

“Greedy girl,” he scolds, voice low and rough.

“Says the man with his hands on my ass.”

“I need you to keep quiet,” Vincent whispers against my parted lips, “because if we get caught, I’m not sure how the hell I’m supposed to stop kissing you.”

The opening to be a smart-ass is just too appealing.

“You don’t want me to recite any poetry?”

“Kendall, I swear to God—”

“If thou must love me, let it be for nought—”

Vincent growls but supplies the next line: “Except for love’s sake only. Please don’t quote Elizabeth Barrett Browning right now. You know what that does to me.”

I bury my face in the crook of his neck to muffle my laugh. When I lean back again, eyes a little wet and cheeks sore from smiling, Vincent is watching me with a soft expression.

“I do, by the way,” he says. “Just in case that wasn’t obvious.”

“You do what?” I ask, even though my heart gives a knowing kick.

Vincent smiles. “Love you.”

It’s the first time he’s said it out loud, but it’s not the first time I’ve heard it. It’s in the way he holds my hand. The way he texts me when he’s read a book he thinks I’ll like. The way he comes with me to Harper’s swim meets and Nina’s improv shows, but insists on staying away on Thursdays so we can keep up our sacred roommate ritual of movie nights. The way he gifted me one of his old basketball jerseys to wear to his games. The way he introduced me to his very tall and very lovely parents approximately two weeks after we first had sex (I was a trembling, babbling mess when his angel of a mother invited me to visit her ceramics studio over the next school break). The way he leaves me notes covered in doodles of little sunflowers.

“I love you too,” I tell him.

Vincent’s smile isn’t surprised. I haven’t exactly been subtle either.

But it’s still nice to say it out loud.

So much about our little love declarations would never make it into a romance novel. The rattle of air-conditioning. The stained carpets. The faint dampness between my thighs that reminds me I’m about to have one hell of a time composing myself in the women’s bathroom, followed by a very long and torturous shift before I can drag myself home and finally, finally climb into bed with Vincent to enjoy those gloriously lazy hours after I’m done with work and he’s done with his Saturday-morning practice.

The thing is, I don’t read romance novels for the realism. I read them because they make me feel seen and heard as a woman. They let me explore my desires—both the ones I’m proud of and the ones I clear from my search history—and they’ve taught me who I am and what I want.

I’m always going to be a reader. And I’m always going to be a romantic.

While Vincent and I might not have a high-stakes and cinematic love story (we’re just two college kids getting handsy in the twenty-four-hour library), I choose to see the fantastical in us.

For one perfect, wondrous moment, the world stops spinning and the stars wink at us through the window. Vincent’s heartbeat matches mine. His arms are solid and warm around me, and there’s laughter on our lips as we kiss. The books around us are quiet, in the way inanimate objects are, but I can feel them around us—full of magic; full of possibility.

I’ve always loved libraries after dark.