The Lending Library

by Aliza Fogelson

I could blame the mess on my ovaries, my DNA, my Y chromosome or whatever the one is that makes you a lady, but I couldn’t blame the messenger anymore.

How is she this obsessed and this uninformed? I thought she read a lot.

I had done a terrible job. I had failed.

What the actual fuck.

I couldn’t help replaying Terabithia’s squinched-up, unhappy little face, over and over in my mind. What if I damaged him irreparably? I fretted. What if he never wants to be around me again?

Lol!

Oh. Holy. Halifax. $2,562 on my credit card. $406 on utilities and phone bill. Plus I owed $1,839 for my mortgage. That came to $5,807. That was . . . a lot. That was . . . definitely more than I was expecting. And more than I made in almost two months. What had I bought? I scrolled through the charges.

Thinks she has to pay cc stmt in full. Also you can't scroll thru paper.

Overnight guests—holy pajamas! Or preferably, no pajamas at all!

Good thing 'holy pajamas' is normal to say or she couldn't have made that clever pun.

He flashed a smile at me that flambéed my underwear.

She's never getting over this unavailable man.

Like some lovesick schoolgirl, I kissed every book before I reshelved it. They were my babies, after all. And they smelled sooo good.

We get it. You do the sniff thing.

“Dodie,” he interrupted, his voice low. “When Sullivan died, everything became so clear. I wanted to be by your side. There was no other choice for me, no other person. Knowing how sad you’d be . . . that’s why I was there that day.”

What the actual fuck is this horseradish.

Each hand that touched a book, that gently flipped the pages or pressed them down so the spine would lie flat or even bent the paperback around itself . . . each of these acts of devotion would release the delicious secret scent inside.

She's going full psycho with that last part.

I held up my hand, jumping to my feet. “I’m sorry. I can’t talk anymore right now. I’ll call you tomorrow.” I gave Mackie a quick hug, then sprinted away without missing the look of surprise and hurt in her eyes.

That's what I would do to my dead friend's mom too.

Watching his wrists while he made quick work of the rest momentarily distracted me.

The wrist obsession. I don't get it.

Except it wasn’t the painting of the mermaid sisters. It was another old painting of mine of a girl looking down at the sleeping dog whose head was in her lap, her face etched with love. Eek!

Legit forgot she painted too. Would anyone else remember with all this other crap?

Over my unconscious body.

Too soon to use the word dead?

Shep grabbed my arms. I gasped from surprise. It didn’t hurt, though. It felt amazing, as if he had the strength I couldn’t find in myself.

Ummm wtf? She loves to be abused?