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And to think I’ve been one of the drooling masses who follow him on QuickStar.
I flip Byron’s power switch to “Off” with a bit more force than needed. Unlike me, he can’t feel it. He can’t feel anything. If only my emotions had an off switch—or a delete button. What I wouldn’t give to forget how obsessed I’ve been over Bryan Brooks and his posts. How I’ve analyzed and agonized over his literary quote of the day, thinking I could get to know the man by the books he reads. Not to mention all the minutes—fine, the hours—I’ve spent ogling his shirtless photos, wondering if he feels and tastes as delicious as he looks.
I know, I know. I’m a librarian and really should have a little more professionalism when it comes to anything book-related. But, honestly, that man’s way with words would melt even the most bibliophobic fool. And since I’m an unapologetic bibliophile, the depth of my foolishness when it comes to that man is epic.
JANE
I glance at the clock hanging above the reference desk, exhale a hard push of air, and assume the hands on hips Wonder Woman pose, ready to take on the world and all its challenges. I have three minutes to post my daily video before the library opens.
My phone is already set up in front of the ring light, so I pull up my QuickStar app and start to record.
“Hey, guys, I have some sad news about Book Talk with Byron.” I pause the video briefly to gather my thoughts.
I know what I have to say next, but it’s not easy. I’ve been doing this daily segment where I chat with Byron about books for the past six months. Not that Byron actually talks back. I just tell the viewers what I imagine he’s thinking. In an Irish accent, like Nana’s.
I’ve gathered quite a following of fellow readers, and I love doing it, but it’s a hobby, not a job. It’s never going to pay the bills. And once I no longer work here, I won’t have that either. My hobby has been stolen, too, just like my career.
I sigh, force a smile, and hit record again.
“This is probably going to be my last video.” Because I just can’t see myself filming over the next two weeks, knowing my days here are numbered. “I’ve been laid off. Byron here will be taking over my job, and he hasn’t learned how to post to QuickStar yet. He also can’t talk—at least, not yet…”
Considering how brilliant Bryan Brooks is, I wouldn’t be surprised if Byron 2.0 had the capability of taking over my social media following, too. Not that I say that part aloud. I just force out a chuckle instead.
I learned a long time ago that when life gets tough, you can laugh or you can cry. And I prefer to laugh.
I hold up the book I promised I’d review this morning. “This was a special request from a library patron here at Maple Valley Library. It’s not something I’d normally read, but with a title like, Knitting With Dog Hair: Better A Sweater From A Dog You Know and Love Than From A Sheep You’ll Never Meet, how could I resist?
“Byron, you’ve never told me if you dream of electric sheep, but if you do, I imagine the thought of being wrapped in an electrified scarf must make you a little anxious. I haven’t researched whether we have any spinners in Maple Valley, but, buddy, if we do, I’m going to have them knit you something made of dog fur donated by all the patrons in this town. A little something to say thank you for your hard work helping me keep our shelves so organized.”
I blink hard to keep my tears from spilling over. Here I am offering to knit a scarf for a robot, and the Library Board is disposing of me like I’m no more valuable than the dust the cleaners sweep off the floor. Cleaners who—I might add—have not been replaced by robots.
I spend a few minutes talking about the book and then force one final smile. “This is it from us. Goodbye, everyone. And all the best to you, Byron. I hope you love this job as much as I have.”
I post my video to QuickStar, delete the stupid app so I can forget all about the robot and his inventor, and head downstairs to grab my purse. My locker is right next to the tiny lunch room overlooking the garden, and I step inside with a heavy heart. The large padded windowsill makes for a cozy little reading nook, and all the librarians who have worked here since the building first opened in 1907 have added decorations to it to leave their mark.
I run my fingers along the patchwork quilt Amelia and I helped the quilting group make and fight back tears. My shoulders slump, and I grab the throw pillow—which has the first chapter of The Duke’s Regret printed on it in tiny text—and squeeze it tight against my chest. Our other coworker, Tabitha—who’s a general librarian and is completely obsessed with the historical romance in question—and I found it on the author’s website during one of our more quiet shifts… while Byron was probably in the stacks, hard at work. Tabitha is around my age, and a good friend. I’ll miss seeing her at work every day.
It takes me a while to gather my thoughts. I’m so lost in shock I don’t realize I’m staring at the painting of anthropomorphic books I hung up on April Fool’s Day two years ago as a joke. At least I’ve left my mark here, too.
I head back upstairs and find Tabitha at the librarian’s desk with her weeding cart. She has the tough job of deciding which books stay on our shelves and which get discarded to make room for new ones.
My heart goes out to the old medical textbook as she raises her stamp and slams it down onto the title page.
Withdrawn. Just like me.
“Hey, Tabs,” I say softly.
She looks up, and her blue eyes widen behind her cat-eye glasses. If ever there was a librarian who looked the part, it’s Tabitha. Her glasses are attached to a beaded chain, her brown hair is up in a bun, and her outfit consists of a white blouse beneath a blue cardigan, paired with a matching knee-length pleated skirt. She takes pleasure in playing into the librarian stereotype, and it suits her.
To be fair, I’m in a cardigan today, too, but only because the temperature in the library always skews cold. And my own hair is up in a bun for very practical reasons—so it doesn’t get in my eyes when I bend down to put books on the lower shelves. Not that I’ll be doing that anymore.
“Oh, Jane,” Tabitha abandons her work and rushes around the desk. “I’m so sorry. I just heard. I can’t believe the Board would do this to you. It’s preposterous. You’re so much more than that hunk of junk Byron, and the fact that they don’t see that makes them all idiots.”
“Thanks, Tabby.” I fight to hold back tears. “I’m going to miss you.”
“Miss me?” Tabitha scowls. “We may not have been friends growing up, but we are now. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”
I smile my first genuine smile since I’ve been told I’m being let go. “Brunch on Sunday like usual?”
