The Library Agreement

05

It's one o' clock in the morning.

And I am hardly falling asleep.

Instead, I am skimming over the Library Agreement, reading the words over and over, absentmindedly tracing Hailey's slanted handwriting, trying to imagine the way she wrote down her name, how she was able to keep her signature perfectly on-point, never going up or down, just staying straight.

I stop myself abruptly when my finger reaches the end of the last letter, shame settling in the pit of my stomach. No one in existence admires other people's handwriting, Charlie. No one obsesses over actual penmanship. Get over yourself.

And so I do. I fold the Agreement in half and set it aside, my gaze trailing along the rows of books that stand before me. I glance down at my watch. 1:03. She'll be here soon. She has to be here.

But she doesn't. I remind myself. She doesn't have to come unless she wants to.

And I find myself somewhat disappointed by the fact that Hailey Richards will most likely never talk to me again, despite this Agreement and everything that comes with it. After all, she did say that she wasn't much of a reader.

I sink my face into my palms with a groan.

Of course she's not coming. Of course she's not.

I was stupid to think otherwise.

So you can imagine my surprise when the greeting bell gives a chime and Hailey Richards rushes in, slamming the door behind her in a frenzy, her wide hazel eyes turning to meet mine as she whispers the words,

"I need your help."

________

In the event that I am being pursued by my ex-boyfriend and his cronies, Charlie Portman is the last person I want to run to.

But it's one o' clock in the morning. And who is always awake at one o' clock in the morning?

You guessed it. Mr. Popularity himself.

So here I am. Standing in the middle of an almost-abandoned library, staring Charlie Portman in the face with my back pressed against the door, a pair of beaming headlights shining behind me.

"Hailey?" Charlie asks finally, his expression dumbstruck, as if he can't quite believe that I'm standing here.

"Shh," I plead. "Charlie, please, you have to shut this place down. I need to hide."

"What?"

I glance behind me, briefly, the panic beginning to flood in.

"Shut the place down. Put up the 'closed' sign. Turn the lights off. I need to hide."

He does nothing, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. I can't help but feel a little exasperated.

Nevertheless, I stand my ground, my shoulders still pressed against the cool glass, willing it not to budge. I can hear the car doors opening outside. I can hear their hollering. I shudder at the mere sound of his voice, the voice that I once trusted.

The voice that can now break me.

"Charlie!" I say, the desperation creeping into my tone now evident, prominent, so very much there. As much as I hate sounding weak, now is not the time to stand around staring at each other.

Then, in an instant, he's different.

He sets his jaw, his eyes hardening. He moves in one swift, fluid motion—out from behind the desk, to the door, pulling out a key and locking the door. He reaches up and pulls down the blinds, using his free hand to switch off the lights. And then it's just him and me and darkness—and I feel his hand wrap around my own, pulling me into the depths of the library, past the bookshelves and to the back, where I lean against the solid wall and sink down to his feet.

Charlie follows suit, and despite the impenetrable black, I can feel his gaze on mine.

"What the hell is going on?"

I open my mouth to answer when there's a loud banging on the front door. Even from this far away, I can hear his voice, loud and clear.

"Come on out, Richards! You can't hide in there forever."

I grit my teeth together, suppressing a scream as panic bubbles up in my chest. Charlie grips my hand like a vice, but I work it out of his grasp, feeling the sweat already beginning to pool in my palms. I wipe them frantically against my jeans, but to no avail. There is nothing that can stop my fear now.

"Hailey," Charlie says, his tone a gentle hush. "Who are those people outside?"

"I—I can't—"

More knocking. The hollers and catcalls of drunken boys resonate throughout the empty parking lot. At one point, there's the sound of glass shattering, and I'm almost positive that one of them has thrown a beer bottle at the ground in frustration.

"Get out here, Richards!" One of them screams. "We weren't finished with you yet!"

A chill runs up and down my spine as the utter helplessness crashes into me. Tears pool in my eyes and cascade down my cheeks, my breaths are thick and halting. I can't hold myself together any longer; I collapse into Charlie, who wraps his arms instinctively around my waist.

"Hey," he murmurs, and his voice is calming, not at all shocked or disgusted—like I had initially expected it would be. "Hey, it's alright. You're safe here; they can't get in."

All I can do is nod; I have lost the ability to articulate my thoughts.

"It's okay." Charlie says, and for once in my life, I believe that it will be.

________

If someone had asked me the plans I had for tonight, I can honestly say that holding a crying Hailey Richards in the back of a dark library while hooligans try to break down the door would not be one of them.

And yet, here we are. Her soft sobs muffled by my T-shirt as I grip her tighter against me. If we were any closer, we wouldn't be able to breathe.

The door is trembling from the incessant pounding, the bottle-breaking, the ruckus and noise that I'm sure—in Reidville, at least—will be enough to have the sheriff on them in an instant.

Then, it clicks.

"Hailey," I murmur. "Should I call the police station?"

Her thin frame freezes up against my own, as if she's only just aware of her actions, and she slowly unravels herself from me. Shaking her head, she gulps, pushing back from me and leaving the cold air to spread where she was huddled, only seconds before.

"Sorry." She gasps. "Sorry, I don't know what got into—"

"It's okay." I say, surprised at the embarrassed tone in her voice. But I decide not to press the matter.

Instead, I repeat myself. "Should I call the police?"

"No." She says, firmly, with such force that I falter.

"What? Why not? Whoever those guys are, I don't think they're leaving soon. And, besides, what about your parents? Won't they be worried?"

"They're out of town."

"Don't you have a sister?"

A pause. Reluctance. Then,

"Y-yeah."

"Does she know where you are?"

"No."

"Come on, Hailey. She's probably scared out of her mind."

"She sleeps like a rock. Doesn't even know I'm gone."

But my hand is already in my pocket, fingers outstretched towards my phone. When she notices what I'm doing, her voice emerges from the dark, a desperate wail in the back of her throat.

"Charlie, please. Don't."

I pause, my hand already clenched around the small device, startled by the sad brokenness in her tone.

And that's when I know.

These people—these guys outside—they have hurt her.

I don't know how, or why, but they have.

To get them thrown in jail is equivalent to signing Hailey up for a death sentence.

"Okay," I say finally, and it's almost like she was holding her breath, because a relieved sigh escapes her lips. "I won't call. But if they don't get out of here soon, I'll go deal with them myself."

"They will," she assures me, her voice tight. "They always do. Give it a few more minutes, and I promise, they'll leave."

"I believe you."

And then there is silence—a long, heavy silence interrupted only by the jangling of the locked door, Hailey's suppressed crying, and my erratic heartbeat. Fury and sadness and elation and a thousand other feelings churn through my veins, begging to be released, to be unchained from their imprisonment. I am overcome by the strange desire to hold this girl—this broken mess of a girl—in my arms again, to feel the way she fits next to me, like a puzzle piece I wasn't even aware of missing until I found it.

Hailey Richards, of all people, should not be making me feel this way.