Page 20 of The Lonely Hearts Book Club

“Of course I did. Do you think I was born yesterday? I knew you were going to stop by that dratted old man’s house before you did.” She heaved a sigh that felt as weary as my soul. “I’d rather you adopted some common sense for once in your life, but you can’t change a leopard’s spots.”

“This feels like a personal attack.”

“That’s because it is.” She jerked her head toward her office, which was part of a row of one-room cubicles along the far wall. “Come on. I had some free time, so I figured I’d get a head start on the suspension paperwork.”

“This feelsa lotlike a personal attack.”

Octavia looked at me in a way that was decidedly maternal. At least, it was what I always assumed maternal looks were supposed to be—a sort of exasperated affection that neither time nor poor decision-making could mar. My own mom had lost every expression except annoyance a long time ago. “We’re looking at two weeks unpaid leave, but you can use your vacation days if you have any left. It’s not ideal, and we’ll have to get in some temp help to cover your shifts while you’re off, but I don’t have to fire you.Thistime.”

“Two weeks?” I cried. “But that’s—”

“Nothing compared to what’ll happen if I catch you at this kind of thing again.”

My shoulders slumped as I followed her toward the wall of offices, my feet moving like leaden weights. Prisoners heading toward death row had more dignity, but I couldn’t help myself. This job was the one thing I was good at.

“Take this time to relax,” Octavia said as though offering me a treat of no mean order. “Catch up on your reading. Plan your wedding. I don’t care what you do, as long as you leave poor Mr. McLachlan out of it.”

I paused on the threshold to her office, my hand clutching the doorframe. “Wait. What?”

She fell to her chair with a whoosh and a rustle before slipping her readers onto the end of her nose. “You heard me. If and when he starts coming back to the library, I want you to steer clear of him. Got it? Mateo can handle all his inquiries from here on out. Or one of the gals from processing. I don’t care, as long as you minimize contact.”

“Octavia, I can’t justabandonhim.”

She peered up at me over the top of her glasses. Her look was a lot less maternal this time around. “You can, and you will. It’s nonnegotiable, Sloane.”

I shook my head, even though it pained me to see the inflexible tightening of Octavia’s jaw. One of my favorite things about her was how soft a person she was—of shape and of sentiment—and I hated to be the undoing of that.

Still. I did it.

“I promised him I’d be back as soon as my shift’s over,” I said, fixating on a patch of exposed brickwork a few inches above Octavia’s head. It was a trick I’d learned a few years ago at a confidence-boosting seminar. The guy who’d run it said the most important thing when confronting someone was to look them straight in the eyes and say what was in your heart.

After six grueling hours of practice and more discomfort than I cared to remember, he’d decided I was better off picking a point at random and confronting that instead.

“He’s all alone in that house, and he refuses to let any of the nurses back in,” I continued, addressing the brick. “There’s a pushy woman across the street whomightbe able to get a foot and a sausage biscuit through the door, but I wouldn’t put any money on it. I promised him takeout from Sichuan Palace for dinner.”

Octavia didn’t speak for a full sixty seconds.

“I know it sounds as if I’m overstepping his personal boundaries, but it’s not like that. He hasnobody, Octavia. Not a single living soul who cares whether he lives or dies. If I don’t help him, who will?”

I thought about that other car Maisey claimed to have seen parked outside Arthur’s house. There was a chance that whoever was in it cared enough about Arthur to extend an offer of help, but there was no guarantee. Not in this world, and not with that man.

“You have people who care about you, Sloane,” she said, so quietly that I had to risk getting closer to make sure I heard correctly.

“I know I do,” I said. “That’s the point. Arthur’s the one who’s alone.”

“You aren’t alone.”

“Iknow. Are you even listening to me?” Frustration went a long way in helping me with that whole confrontation thing. I wasn’t quite looking her in the eyes yet, but I had her forehead on lockdown. “He’s got something called a pulmonary edema—that’s when a dangerous amount of water gets in the lungs—and his medication makes him too dizzy and disoriented to take care of himself. He needs someone to—”

“Sloane.” Octavia shot to her feet so suddenly that I was left staring at her belt buckle. “You arenotArthur McLachlan. I want to hear you say it.”

Wrinkling my nose, I tried to keep the tingling behind my eyes at bay, but it was a struggle. Especially once Octavia’s meaning hit me at full speed.

“I’m not Arthur McLachlan,” I said. “I have people who care about me. I’m not alone.”

They were lies, of course. That was why the tingling was winning—and why I wouldn’t back down even as the tears began to fall.

Octavia meant well, I knew. What she wanted me to admit was that I was a young woman at the start of her career and the start of her life, the whole world unfurling before her feet. When I walked out that door, it would be to join my fiancé and his generous family, to fall into the cradle of their collective warmth for however long I needed to get back on my feet again. I wasn’t a crotchety old man who threw people out of my house—and no matter how dire my life got, I never would be.