Page 4 of The Lonely Hearts Book Club

“I can’t explain it,” I said—and I couldn’t. Not in a way that Mateo would understand, anyway. I barely understood it myself. All I knew was that I’d come to enjoy these little scuffles with Arthur McLachlan. His tongue was sharp and his tone acid, but he never cut any deeper than I could handle. And he always seemed happy to see me, even if nothing would prevail upon him to let it show.

“It’s another beautiful day, don’t you think?” I called to him as soon as Mateo maneuvered an exit strategy. “The sun is shining, the spines of all your favorite depressing German philosophy books are uncracked, and there are half a dozen librarians hiding from you in dark corners.”

“Not today, Sloane,” Arthur said. His head was down as he moved past me, an unfamiliar shuffle in his step.

I paused in the middle of the aisle, my hand poised over the copy ofA Little PrincessI’d planned to slip into his stack of books when he wasn’t looking. I’d spent most of last week coming up with a plan diabolical enough to take our strange friendship to the next level, and this had seemed like the best approach.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Is something the matter?”

“I just want to browse the library in peace today, if that’s all right with you,” he snapped, genuine angerin his voice for once. “I don’t need you following me around like a lost child, questioning my every move.”

“I didn’t mean to… That is, I’m not…” My voice trailed off as a hot, pricking sensation rushed to the surface of my skin. This was the point where I’d normally tuck tail and run, but something made me stand my ground. It might have been my confusion at the sudden one-eighty in Arthur’s personality, but I suspect it had more to do with the expression on his face. Instead of looking outraged or amused, like he usually did, he looked…bleak.

“I’m sorry if you’re not having a good day,” I said. Then, because I couldn’t seem to leave it alone, I added, “If it helps, mine hasn’t been too great, either.”

My confession seemed to revive him. “Why? What’s the matter with you?” He turned and peered critically at me over the top of his wire-rimmed glasses. “What happened?”

“Nothing catastrophic,” I said, recalling my meeting with Octavia with a wince. “There was an opening on the library acquisition board and I didn’t get it, that’s all. My boss told me about it just a few minutes ago.”

He narrowed one eye and looked me over, a frown curling his upper lip. “Why didn’t you get it?”

I offered him a shrug in lieu of a reply. The truth—that Octavia thought I was too sentimental for the post—wasn’t something a man like Arthur McLachlan would understand. Everything on his personal reading list revolved around the themes of deep dark gloom. Heavy philosophical tomes, war biographies, the occasional bloodcurdling thriller… Unless a book reinforced everything that was awful about humanity, he wasn’t interested.

“You might as well tell me what you did,” he grumbled, leaning heavily on his cane. I suspected it wasn’t good for him to spend too much time standing, but I knew better than to help him to a chair. “What is it? You dog-eared all the westerns? Mispronounced a word during story time?”

I couldn’t help laughing at these mock atrocities. “How dare you, Mr. McLachlan,” I teased. “What kind of a person do you think I am?”

That playful essay into camaraderie was a mistake. In this mood, with his brow darkening and a cloud starting to form over his head, Arthur seemed every bit as scary as Mateo had originally painted him to be.

“Well?” he asked. “What’s wrong with you?”

I splayed my hands in a last-ditch effort to keep things light. “How long do you have?”

To my surprise, he barked out a short, sharp laugh. At least Ithoughtit was a laugh. There was a phlegmy undertone to it that didn’t sound great. “Let me guess,” he said. “They’re looking for someone less naive.”

I blinked, taken aback by the accuracy of his remark. Octavia hadn’t used the wordnaive, but she’d come perilously near it.

“I’m not naive,” I said, my protest sounding feeble even to my own ears. “I know things. I read things.” In the back of my mind, I knew I wasn’t saying this to Arthur McLachlan so much as to the world at large, but it didn’t matter. He believed me as much as they did.

“Ha!” He turned and started picking his way toward the back of the library. “Reading about life isn’t the same as living it. The things you know about the real world would fit in the tip of this cane.”

“That’s not true,” I protested to his retreating back. And it wasn’t—it really wasn’t. I might not have crossed off all the items on my bucket list, but I was only twenty-seven. I had a college degree. I was gainfully employed and engaged to be married. Those things might not have signified much to a cantankerous old grump, but they meant something to me.

Theymattered.

He paused long enough to turn back to me. “When was the last time you cared about something so much you couldn’t eat?” he demanded. “Or sleep? When have you ever felt the fire of life burn so bright that it hurts? When did you ever bother tofightfor something you loved?”

When I didn’t answer right away, Arthur snorted. “That’s what I thought. You may as well leave me be. I’m not your pet or your library mascot, and I’mdefinitelynot your friend.”

All the air seemed to leave my lungs at once.

“I see you for what you are,” he added. “It’s written on you as clearly as the words on a page.”

I shouldn’t have asked. No good ever came from standing in front of someone and asking for the truth, especially when a person like me was doing the asking.

I did it anyway.

“And what am I?”