The Library Agreement

06

I wake with my cheek pressed against Charlie's shirt, my legs curled under me, the feeling in my feet almost completely gone—they are tingling, as if they'd lost circulation overnight.

I glance around, unable to tell what time it is because the library is still dark, but the noise has stopped.

At long last, the noise has stopped.

I shift myself so that I am propped up against the wall instead of Charlie, whose breaths are even and steady—I assume he is still sleeping. I glance over at his hunched figure, spotting his watch on his right arm—the one farthest from me.

Carefully, I lean over him to tap the watch face, and it illuminates with a blue LED, reading the time as 3:20 A.M.

Nodding, I release a breath. I've only been here for about two hours. That's okay. I can make it home in time. Parker and his friends are gone.

Parker. The name itself gives me chills—and not the good kind. It gives me a feeling of helplessness, of chaos, of pain and abduction and broken trust. Even thinking of him makes me want to puke on the spot.

So I fight the wave of nausea that rolls over me and calm my erratic heart rate, desperate to leave, to go home, where I know I'll be safe.

My gaze falls once again on the sleeping face of Charlie Portman, and something in my chest implodes. He doesn't know why I'm here, or who Parker is, or what he and his friends did to me. And I had the guts to come charging in here, firing orders and sobbing my eyes out.

And he just went with it.

Honestly, he doesn't seem like the kind of person who would just go with it.

But that's what stereotypes do, isn't it? Mr. Popularity is supposed to be a suave playboy who gets bad grades and hits on girls—not a literature-loving geek. And Ms. Misunderstood is supposed to be shy and quiet and bullied—not the kind of person who would make reckless decisions in the middle of the night while being chased by a bunch of teenage guys.

And somehow, some way, this Library Agreement brought us to the point where he would hide me, and I would trust him.

Because, despite my protesting logic, I am beginning to trust him.

So I lean over Charlie once more, my warm breath hitting the side of his head as I try to control my breathing, my heart rate. I lean down, my nose just inches away from his, brushing my lips lightly against his cheek.

"Thank you." I whisper, and my voice comes out broken and ragged. "Thank you so much."

I get to my feet and work my way to the front of the library, unlocking the door and letting myself out into the warm air of Reidville, South Carolina once more.

________

The next day at school, I see her sitting alone at her lunch table again.

She's just sitting there. All alone. Unashamed.

Her head is held high; she's not looking at her phone. Instead, her intense brown eyes are sweeping over the rows of kids before her, flickering, completely impenetrable and somewhat alluring.

As I look at her, I can't help but wonder how everyone else in this lunchroom even has the ability to ignore her.

Thinking about that makes my stomach twist. Up until a few days ago, it was me who had been oblivious to Hailey Richards' existence. I was the one who didn't even know her name when she first stepped into the library.

But now, I can't even take my eyes off of her.

That's the thing with beautiful people, though. You don't realize that they're beautiful until you see them up close.

She was beautiful when she cried last night. She was beautiful as she clung to me, as her fear shone through. She was beautiful when she was exposed and vulnerable and imperfect.

She is beautiful up close.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, causing me to snap back into reality, slightly put off by the sudden sound. Frowning, I pull it out, reading the message that lights up the screen.

There are more subtle ways to admire people, Charlie.

I feel my brow dig into my forehead; the message was sent by an unknown number. Who could have...?

Oh.

Oh.

I look back at Hailey's table, where I see a faint ghost of a smile tracing her lips as she raises her eyebrows at me.

Instantly, I look down again and type back:

How did you get my number?

The responding speech bubble appears. My fingers still on the electronic keyboard.

Magic.

I nearly scoff out loud.

Uh-huh.

She responds nearly a second later.

I'm kidding. There is such thing as a directory, though.

I feel the edges of my mouth begin to kick up into a smile.

You're smarter than you seem, you know that?

A pause. I bite my lip. What? Had I said something wrong? Then,

You are, too.

________

I have to fight to suppress my grin. Charlie Portman—the Charlie Portman—is texting me.

Unbelievable.

Absolutely unbelievable.

I can hardly keep my eyes off the screen as his newest message appears.

Did you make it home okay?

I release a breath. Last night. I had almost forgotten.

I had almost forgotten.

Forgotten that I cried in front of him. That I hugged him like a little girl. That I couldn't even speak, that he felt the need to protect me, that he probably just felt bad.

I had almost forgotten about that entire mess.

I don't hesitate another second before responding, my fingers trembling a little as I do so.

Yeah. I did.

But that doesn't seem like enough.

He begins to respond once more, but I cut him off.

Thank you. For all the help, I mean. Most people wouldn't do that.

His speech bubble disappears. I stare at the screen in anticipation.

And then,

I'm not "most people", Hailey. See you in English.