My senses finally come to me as Marco’s rough chuckle rumbles in my ear. His chuckle stops suddenly, and his body stiffens. As I begin to unwrap myself from him, he grips my hand tight. “Shit. I’m sorry, Cat. You had a rough night. I should take you back. You need rest.”
I respond a little too quickly. “No!” Realising a second too late my shout probably burst his eardrum, I ignore his subtle flinch and utter quietly, “No need for that, really. I’m fine.”
He counters with, “You can barely keep your eyes open.”
I fire back, “That’s just because you’re so big and warm.”
His body shakes in silent laughter. As soon as it dawns on me what I said, I quickly step off his bike, remove the helmet and hand it to him. Averting my eyes, I mutter, “I might’ve drooled in your helmet. Sorry.”
Without looking back, I turn and head for the entrance to the library.
I hear Marco shout, “I’ll be about an hour.”
With my back to him, I lift my hand in a wordless wave to confirm I heard him. The bike’s engine rumbles away, and rolling my eyes at my behaviour, I make my way inside.
Chapter Ten
“Ah, bonjour, Catarina!” Ms Fontaine, the old librarian, happily but quietly greets me. “Comment allez-vous?”
My rehearsed response comes out smoother than expected. With a small smile, I quietly reply, “Très bien, merci.”
Her subtle wrinkles crease further at the corners of her eyes as she smiles at me. “You haven’t been here in a while. I was wondering if I’d ever see you again,” she sniffs.
Oh, Ms Fontaine. So adorably dramatic. Making my way closer to the counter, I feign outrage. “And never see you or my beloved books again?” I lift my nose. “I’d rather fall into a sleep like death.”
She chuckles. “Sleeping Beauty. Charles Perrault. Very clever.” Her calm stance stiffens slightly as a mask cloaks her expression. She leans forward and whispers, “He’s here today.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand. “On his own?”
Ms Fontaine nods solemnly.
“How did he get here?”
Her small shrug tells me that her guess is as good as mine.
My anger simmers. This is unacceptable. With a curt nod, I leave Ms Fontaine to find him. I know where he is. He always sits in the same spot. He likes the view. He hasn’t told me that, but I just know it. It’s the same reason I sit there.
My feet move of their own accord, and once I spot him, a small smile graces my lips. I shake my head and bite my bottom lip to stop myself from laughing.
Oh, dear.
If anyone else attempted to do such a thing in a library, they would be asked to leave. But not Tomas.
Never Tomas.
I knock on the side of a chair, or as Tomas sees it, the door to his fort. My head peeks in, under the mountain of pillows he has taken from the children’s corner to build his cocoon of safety. “May I come in, Tomas?”
My response is revealed when his body stops rocking violently, only a moment before his rocking continues, a little softer than before. My knees hit the worn carpet, and I crawl in beside him.
Smiling, I watch him a moment. Sitting cross-legged, he continues to rock back and forth as his eyes scan the pages of the astrology book on the floor faster than lightening. His contorted left hand held mid-air next to his head, the other hand is held rigid over the page of the book. With a pointed finger that looks so stiff it hurts, he turns the pages as quickly as he reads them.
I’m not sure what makes Tomas this way. I only know I see something in him that many others can’t.
His shaggy brown hair falls past his brow, which is now furrowed in thought. His left hand flicks the locks away, but they fall back exactly as they were.
I’ve been trying to gather information on Tomas for an entire year. I’ve had to do this discreetly. I mentioned Tomas to Bob one day, asking if there was anything we could do to help him. Bob, face full of compassion, ordered me to ‘Leave it alone’.
I told him I would.
But I lied.
“Tomas? What are you reading?” His rocking lessens, my cue to start talking. “You know, the stars are the most beautiful natural sight in the universe.”
His body stops rocking all-together. I hide my smile.
He’s listening.
“Have you ever just sat up in your bed with your window open, hoping you’ll catch sight of a shooting star so you can make a wish?” My voice has turned wistful. “I used to do that. I used to lose sleep catching those stars so I could make the same wish over and over.” I breathe in deeply, talking on through an exhale. “My wish never came true. I never found out who my parents were, or why they didn’t want me.”
Tomas doesn’t focus on me, but his twisted hand pushes his book towards me.
My brows rise in surprise.
This is new.
My body warms and my throat clogs at the unexpected victory. I ask on a whisper, “Would you like for me to read to you, Tomas?”
No answer, just a small nudge of the book towards me.
“I’ll read to you, Tomas.” I clear my throat. “I’ll read to you anytime you like.” I smile to myself as I pick up the book and turn to a different page. “All you had to do was ask.”
***
“So, what’s the deal with the kid?”
After reading another two astrology books to Tomas, he crawled out of his pillow fort and walked out of the library, leaving me to wonder if he actually let me in at all, or if I was so hopeful for it, I imagined it.
I don’t bother hiding my scowl. “He’s not a kid; he’s my age, Marco. And there is no deal. None at all.”
Marco picks up a slice of pizza from the middle of the café’s table and scoffs. “Don’t pretend you can’t see there’s something—”
“If you say something wrong with him, I will stab you with my fork.”
He chuckles. “I was going to say something that makes him different.”
Reaching forward, I pick up a slice and blow on it. “He is that, but it’s more than that.”
Chewing his food slowly, he asks, “He simple?”
Nibbling my pizza, I look down at our table. “Simple? Oh, God, no.” I meet his gaze, lean forward and confide, “He’s exceptional, Marco. Super smart. He reads an entire book in twenty minutes. And today, when I messed up quoting a fact to him, he started rocking and tapped his finger on the page, and when I read it again—correctly this time,” eyes wide, I grin and whisper an awed, “he stopped.”