Status: Rewritten, let me know what you think!!
A Library Romance
Chapter Nine
*Nico's P.O.V.*
When I get to work after school I find out from Bill that Adlar called in sick this morning. I'll have to work the store by myself today. That's all right with me but I wonder why Adlar never called me. He knows I'm pretty well boss around here besides Bill, so I'd figure he would have called me. But I hadn't heard anything from him all day, not even a text.
He seemed fine when he left my house Saturday night, but I guess lots can happen in a matter of 48 hours. I just still don't understand why he didn't call me.
I got through the evening fine by myself, but had to call home to say that I would be a bit late. At around 8:30, as I was finishing putting the last of the books on the shelves, the bell above the door rang, signaling a customer.
"We're closed," I call from my spot at a shelf.
There's no answer. I hear heavy footsteps shuffling towards me. My first instinct was to be scared, but then I get a whiff of the undenying scent of lilacs.
Adlar.
I turn my head and just as I suspected, Adlar is standing at the end of the bookshelf. His clothes are messy, his hair is in disarray, and his cheeks are streaked with old tears.
"Adlar, what's wrong?"
"I'm sorry for not calling you, but I just wasn't thinking," he says, a new batch of tears falling from his beautiful eyes.
"There's nothing to be sorry for, you were sick," I say.
"I wasn't sick. M- My grandf- father died."
"Oh, my God Adlar, I'm so sorry! You should be with your family then!"
Adlar shakes his head furiously, "I just really need a hug."
Tears begin to flow quickly down Adlar’s cheeks. I open my arms wide as Adlar rushes over, throwing his arms around my waist. His head fits perfectly in to the crook of my neck as he continues to cry on my shoulder.
Why does it suddenly seem as if I'm the man here? I'm supposed to be the ‘woman’.
"I don't know what to do without him, Nico," Adlar says stiffly as he pulls himself away from me, looking embarrassed, "God, I'm such a mess. I'm supposed to be a man, men don't cry. I don't even want to imagine what you think of me right now."
Adlar sits heavily on the floor, leaning back against the bookcase.
"Believe me, Adlar, I'm the last person you need to convince you're manly," I chuckle, taking a seat next to him.
"Checking me out, Nico?" Adlar jokes weakly.
“You wish."
Adlar groans, leaning forward and places his head in his hands.
"You'll get through it, Adlar, I know you will," I soothe, placing a hand on his back.
"How do you know?" Adlar scoffs.
"Cause my grandpa died last year. He was the first one to really accept me for who I was. Which is quite surprising since he was Old Italian; but he'd always believed in being true to yourself, and to staying loyal to those you love. He taught me a lot."
"Sounds like your grandpa and my grandpa were best friends," we chuckle, "How'd you do it?"
"I just reminded myself of him every day, and I strive to be like him. Don't ever try to forget who he was, Adlar. You'll regret it."
“You gotta stop reading books, you’re too damn smart.”
“Then maybe you should read more,” I laugh.
“Ha ha, very funny, but too bad, I don’t read. I fall asleep.”
“Maybe you just haven’t read the right ones. Or maybe you need it read to you. That was always my favorite way. My mami used to read to me. There’s nothing like it.”
“Would you want to read to me?” Adlar asks hesitantly.
“Why not?” I shrug, “I was going to start a new book tomorrow. How ‘bout we start it now?”
“Sure,” Adlar nods.
“But I don’t know how you’re going to like it,” I say hesitantly, “It’s a romance.”
“Try me,” Adlar mumbles, staring at his hands in his lap.
I get up, moving to the front of the store to grab a book out of my bag. Shanna, by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss. I’ve heard she’s a master at romance novels.
Grabbing the book I head back towards Adlar, sit next to him, and begin to read:
Midnight, November 18, 1749
London
Night gripped the city with cold, misty darkness. The threat of winter was heavy in the air. Acrid smoke stung the nostrils and throat, for in every home fires were stirred and stoked against the seaborne chill that pierced to the bone. Low-hanging clouds dribbled fine droplets of moisture which mixed with the soot spewed forth from London’s towering chimneys before falling as a thin film that covered every surface.
When I get to work after school I find out from Bill that Adlar called in sick this morning. I'll have to work the store by myself today. That's all right with me but I wonder why Adlar never called me. He knows I'm pretty well boss around here besides Bill, so I'd figure he would have called me. But I hadn't heard anything from him all day, not even a text.
He seemed fine when he left my house Saturday night, but I guess lots can happen in a matter of 48 hours. I just still don't understand why he didn't call me.
I got through the evening fine by myself, but had to call home to say that I would be a bit late. At around 8:30, as I was finishing putting the last of the books on the shelves, the bell above the door rang, signaling a customer.
"We're closed," I call from my spot at a shelf.
There's no answer. I hear heavy footsteps shuffling towards me. My first instinct was to be scared, but then I get a whiff of the undenying scent of lilacs.
Adlar.
I turn my head and just as I suspected, Adlar is standing at the end of the bookshelf. His clothes are messy, his hair is in disarray, and his cheeks are streaked with old tears.
"Adlar, what's wrong?"
"I'm sorry for not calling you, but I just wasn't thinking," he says, a new batch of tears falling from his beautiful eyes.
"There's nothing to be sorry for, you were sick," I say.
"I wasn't sick. M- My grandf- father died."
"Oh, my God Adlar, I'm so sorry! You should be with your family then!"
Adlar shakes his head furiously, "I just really need a hug."
Tears begin to flow quickly down Adlar’s cheeks. I open my arms wide as Adlar rushes over, throwing his arms around my waist. His head fits perfectly in to the crook of my neck as he continues to cry on my shoulder.
Why does it suddenly seem as if I'm the man here? I'm supposed to be the ‘woman’.
"I don't know what to do without him, Nico," Adlar says stiffly as he pulls himself away from me, looking embarrassed, "God, I'm such a mess. I'm supposed to be a man, men don't cry. I don't even want to imagine what you think of me right now."
Adlar sits heavily on the floor, leaning back against the bookcase.
"Believe me, Adlar, I'm the last person you need to convince you're manly," I chuckle, taking a seat next to him.
"Checking me out, Nico?" Adlar jokes weakly.
“You wish."
Adlar groans, leaning forward and places his head in his hands.
"You'll get through it, Adlar, I know you will," I soothe, placing a hand on his back.
"How do you know?" Adlar scoffs.
"Cause my grandpa died last year. He was the first one to really accept me for who I was. Which is quite surprising since he was Old Italian; but he'd always believed in being true to yourself, and to staying loyal to those you love. He taught me a lot."
"Sounds like your grandpa and my grandpa were best friends," we chuckle, "How'd you do it?"
"I just reminded myself of him every day, and I strive to be like him. Don't ever try to forget who he was, Adlar. You'll regret it."
“You gotta stop reading books, you’re too damn smart.”
“Then maybe you should read more,” I laugh.
“Ha ha, very funny, but too bad, I don’t read. I fall asleep.”
“Maybe you just haven’t read the right ones. Or maybe you need it read to you. That was always my favorite way. My mami used to read to me. There’s nothing like it.”
“Would you want to read to me?” Adlar asks hesitantly.
“Why not?” I shrug, “I was going to start a new book tomorrow. How ‘bout we start it now?”
“Sure,” Adlar nods.
“But I don’t know how you’re going to like it,” I say hesitantly, “It’s a romance.”
“Try me,” Adlar mumbles, staring at his hands in his lap.
I get up, moving to the front of the store to grab a book out of my bag. Shanna, by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss. I’ve heard she’s a master at romance novels.
Grabbing the book I head back towards Adlar, sit next to him, and begin to read:
Midnight, November 18, 1749
London
Night gripped the city with cold, misty darkness. The threat of winter was heavy in the air. Acrid smoke stung the nostrils and throat, for in every home fires were stirred and stoked against the seaborne chill that pierced to the bone. Low-hanging clouds dribbled fine droplets of moisture which mixed with the soot spewed forth from London’s towering chimneys before falling as a thin film that covered every surface.