I don't have to read the stories within to know that (A) every hero dreams of running his fingers through the woman's hair, and (B) every hero equates anything false—I'm talking even a little bit of lipstick or rouge, in the case of the bodice-ripper—as some sort of moral deficiency in the heroine, stripping her of heroine status.
Yep. I no longer have any hair for a man to be tempted by (A). The disease that started as alopecia areata, or spot balding, has progressed past even alopecia totalis, where I didn't have any hair on my head but still had hair on other places on my body. Now, it's alopecia universalis, which, as I'm sure you've guessed, is a complete and universal loss of hair. Everywhere. I no longer have to shave my legs (yay!), but I also have lost characteristics that are essentially associated with being human. The face radically changes when it no longer sports eyebrows or eyelashes.
Which, of course, leads to (B) and the fact that not only do I apply makeup, as do probably ninety-five percent of modern women, but a lot of what I wear is fake. Fake eyelashes. Fake temporary eyebrow tattoos. Fake hair in the form of a wig.
I quickly reshelve the trio of books and make my way back to the front desk. I don't often think of my character status anymore. Not since I moved to Little Creek and began my fresh start, anyway. But for some reason, my stalking of Tai Davis earlier brought it all back. Maybe because I wasn't able to clearly classify him, although, again, I'm not sure why I even tried. I don't often make a habit of judging people without talking to them first. Even then, I try to give them the benefit of the doubt if the first impression isn't the best. Life isn't a Jane Austen retelling of Pride and Prejudice.
"I've been meaning to ask you." Hayley looks up from the computer where the library's catalog is glowing on the screen. "Can you call me at exactly 7:10 tonight?"
"That's a really specific time. What would happen if I called at 7:09 or 7:11?" My fingers graze the zipper of my skirt, which has scooted to its current and erroneous position in front of my hip bone. Taking the waist, I rotate the material an inch to the left to put it back in place.
"I might either be the victim or the perpetrator of a murder." Hayley spins the desk chair to face me.
The bookmarks by the checkout area are askew, so I reach over and fix the stack. "If you think you might be murdered, then don't do whatever it is you're planning on doing. Same advice if you think you might be the one on the other side of the trigger."
"Or—" she draws the word out—"you can call me at exactly 7:10 like a good friend and citizen. Really, Evangeline, you might be considered an accessory if you don't make the call. Sheriff Jacobs is just looking for a good bust on which to build his new reelection campaign."
"And arresting a couple of small-town librarians will give that to him?"
"I don't know." She winks. "I heard a rumor that librarians have a wild side.
At this my composure cracks and I let out the small laugh I'd been holding back. "Let me guess, another first date tonight?"
She nods, her thick bangs bouncing a little with the motion. "I'll need a way-out call. 7:10 is the perfect time. We're supposed to meet at the Tasty Tortellini at 6:30. That gives a ten-minute buffer if he's running late, plus thirty minutes to order and deduce if he's some weirdo who collects his own toenail clippings in a jar or Chris Hemsworth's equally hot but less famous long-lost brother. The food comes, I take a couple delicious bites of their portobello ravioli in Parmesan cream sauce, then you call. If the date is going horribly, then I pretend you're having an emergency and I have to leave right away—-taking my meal to go, of course. But if the date is going well, then I'll tell you I'll see you at work tomorrow and then give you the juicy details in the morning."
"He's going to know exactly what you're doing," I warn.
Hayley shrugs. "So what? If I leave, I won't care if he does. If I stay, then he knows I'm interested. Win-win, if you ask me." She leans forward and captures my hands, begging over them. "Please, I promise I'll return the favor next time you go out on a first date."
I snort. "You know I don't date."
"Then I promise to feed your cat the next time you go home to see your grandparents."
Kitty Purry is rather independent, and I can leave her with some extra food and water over a weekend, but she did give me the stink eye last time I came back from a visit home, hiding under the bed for two days at the perfect distance where I could almost reach her but not quite as punishment. "Fine."
Hayley springs from the chair. "You're the best!"
See? Sidekick material.
