I just have to wait it out—somehow.

As I run, the cicadas scream and the purple clouds roll closer, and for the time being the sound drowns out the anxiety pulsing in my head. But it’s never for long enough.

“WELL THEN,” I MUTTER TO MYSELF as Vance Reigns jogs away, “screw you, too.”

I push my hurt feelings down into my gut and fish out my umbrella from the trunk of my car. The thunderclouds on the horizon look angry and heavy, and I don’t feel like getting soaked on the way back to my car tonight. I could’ve warned Vance if he’d stopped long enough, but whatever.

If he gets drenched and catches a cold, that’s his own fault.

I highly doubt he’ll make it back in time to help me organize that library. I doubted he would to begin with. You’re not here for him, I remind myself. I take a deep breath and head up the driveway toward the castle-house.

Even in the daytime, this house looks like the kind of place that’ll trap me for the rest of my life and steal my soul and have me haunt the second-floor bathroom until the mold is so thick in the tub it grows its own ecosystem. I hesitantly make my way across the drawbridge. It runs over a small stream that snakes between the road and the house, and when I glance down a frog hops into the knee-deep water and submerges. I swallow the lump in my throat and shakily ring the doorbell, expecting some nightmarish gong.

Instead, there’s a pleasant ring.

A moment later, Mr. Rodriguez pokes his head out of the door. He’s in neatly pressed slacks and his thick peppery hair is smoothed back. He smiles. “Welcome! I’m so glad you could make it.”

“Oh, um—was not coming an option?”

“Of course not,” he laughs, and flourishes a hand behind him. “Please, come in.”

The inside of the castle-house in the daytime is nothing like it felt last night—i.e., a dark and cobweb-infested dungeon. Instead, it’s light and spacious, and it smells like fresh laundry. The floor is a warm cedar wood, and the walls are hung with portraits with vibrant splashes of colors. There are a few medieval touches—the chandelier in the foyer is a large iron lantern, and some of the sconces on the walls remind me of torch brackets—but otherwise it looks like almost any other multimillion-dollar house on the lake I’ve toured with my father while we pretended to be rich enough to afford them.

As I step inside, Mr. Rodriguez asks to take my jean jacket. I hand it off, and the myriad of pins clack together as he hooks it onto the coat rack. “Are you thirsty? Hungry?”

“Water, maybe?”

“Water! Great choice! Lemon?”

“…Sure?”

“Perfect! I’ll bring you a pitcher. I trust you can see yourself to the library.” He points like an airplane marshaler down the left hallway toward the library I’ve already been to before. Then he turns and leaves for what I can only assume is the kitchen.

What a weird, weird guy.

I like him.

The library is just as I remembered it—untouched, bathed in golden afternoon light. Rows and rows of spines, all stretched outward, beckoning me to pluck them off the shelf and dive into the pages. But I realize now that most of the shelves are empty, books hidden in stacks of cardboard boxes, having sat there collecting dust for God knows how long. It’s like a bookstore, but all of the books are priceless and treasured and waiting.

For me.

I walk around the circumference of the library. It isn’t that big a room, but every wall houses built-in shelves stretched from the floor to the ceiling, waiting for books to fill them. Star Wars, Star Trek, sci-fi and fantasy and countless editions of A Song of Ice and Fire and Harry Potter, and then on the back wall are old and tattered paperbacks, the ones I met last night.

I run my fingers over their bindings.

The Broken Throne.

Starfield Forever.

To Nox and Goodnight.

The entire collection of Starfield books. All in one place. They remind me of my mother’s collection. I blink back the tears coming to my eyes and turn away from them.

This will be more work than I realized. I dump my bookbag down in one of the cushy red leather chairs and pry open the closest box. Inside, Anne McCaffrey spines stare back at me.

“Now, let’s discuss what you’ll be doing, exactly,” Mr. Rodriguez says as he comes back with a tray carrying a pitcher of water and a glass of ice. He sets it down on the expensive-looking mahogany desk and wipes his hands on his jeans. “As you can see, there are a lot of books here. Most of them don’t have homes on the shelves, and the ones that do are in no particular order, so that’ll be your biggest job, I think. Then, you need to catalog them and note them for damages, if any, and put them all into a spreadsheet”—he points to a nondescript iPad on the desk, bound in the same red leather of the chairs—“so we can know what books are accounted for, and which aren’t.”

“Right, just like processing books at the library,” I reply, running my fingers along another shelf of novels. Thrawn, Black Spire Bloodline, Heir to the Empire, Aftermath…

“This, of course, will be a lot easier with Vance helping, but…”

“But I shouldn’t plan on that,” I guess, and he makes a wavering motion with his hand.

“He had rough day today. He’s really not that terrible, he just needs…a little time. To get used to being here.”

Right, a little time. It just sounds like Mr. Rodriguez is making excuses for him, but it’s none of my business so I keep my mouth shut. It’ll probably be easier to get this job done without Vance, anyway.

“Either way, all of this needs to be done by October 11. It doesn’t give you very much time—a month—but I think it’s doable.”

“A month?”

“Well, I’m not sure how long we’ll be staying after that,” he replies with a hesitant smile.

All right, a month. A month to organize the library. A month with my mom’s favorite books. Somehow it feels like both too much and not enough time. October 11 is also the Homecoming football game, with October 12—that Saturday—being the actual dance.

Perfect timing, really.

“Yeah, that should work,” I reply, because at least it’ll keep my mind off Homecoming and Garrett Taylor as my doom approaches.

Mr. Rodriguez claps his hands. “Great! The library and the kitchen are yours to wander through. The bathroom is down the hallway to your left, and you can go out to the backyard if you want on your breaks—don’t mind Sansa. She usually doesn’t escape the backyard.”

“If she does, I can go find her again.”

“Leave that to Vance, he needs to get out more. Now”—he clasps his hands together—“if that’s all, I’ll leave you to it?”

“Sounds good,” I reply, and he turns to leave. A thought occurs to me. “I do have one question.”

He pauses in the doorway. “What is it?”

Why are you and Vance here? Why is he hiding? Why was Elle in the car with him that night? And who the heck owns this house and why do they have the complete extended-universe set of Starfield? There are so many questions I want to ask, but I chicken out. “Can I…borrow a book to read every now and again?”

At that, Mr. Rodriguez smiles. It’s genuine and settles my nerves a little. “I can’t say no to a bookworm. Just don’t go swimming with another one, yeah?”

“Not unless you ask me to.”

He laughs. “I’ve got a good feeling about you, Rosie Thorne.” Then he turns and shuts the library doors after him, leaving me alone with all of these old, whispering novels.

And I can’t even.

Like, at all.

Words are—there aren’t any words, really.

There’s only silence, and shelves of plots and possibilities and pages, and looking at them all makes me feel so small. When I make sure I’m finally alone, I go over to the desk, and pick up the waterlogged Starfield novel that I almost destroyed. The cover is curled and crinkly, and the pages have drawn into themselves, but I can still read the name of the author, and I trace my fingers across the title.

The Starless Throne.

I know my mom isn’t really there. She doesn’t exist anymore. Most of the time, I try not to think about it, but sometimes grief comes in waves. It laps against the sandy beach of your soul, again and again, soft and rushing and impossible to escape.

She’s gone, but I miss her.

She no longer exists, but the words she loved still do.

I return the book to the shelf and get to work.

* * *

—

  VANCE DOESN’T RETURN UNTIL I’M GETTING IN MY CAR, ready to leave for the weekend. My eyes are tired and my contacts are dry from staring at titles for two hours. He’s coming down the road with his dog trotting at his heels. The rain seemed to have held off after all. Lucky him. He glances up at me, just for a brief moment, and once again I get that feeling that I’ve met him before. It bugs me.

A second later, Sansa sees me and her ears perk. She tests her leash, but Vance pulls her back and leads her into the house instead.

“See you Monday!” I call after him, and when he—surprise!—doesn’t respond, I get into my car and mutter to the steering wheel, “Asshole.”