Brothers Keep Her
Lucky Catch

The library is full of co-eds with deadlines when you arrive. You don’t like imposing on other people’s study space so you look for an empty table. To your dismay, there are none on the main floor. That doesn’t bode well for the tables upstairs, either. The group closest to you looks up as you walk by, still in your black pants and polo. You didn’t have time to go home and change after work. You probably smell like the roasted coffee beans you ground up today or the latte that you spilled on your shoe first thing in the morning, but you don’t care right now. You ignore them and head for the stairs in the back. The section you need is up on the second floor anyway.

You circle around to the front where the mythology books collect dust, enveloped in the sweet notes of almond and vanilla that you can never get enough of.

You replace one empty table hidden away behind a few rows of bookshelves and you claim it before someone else does. You scan book bindings, looking for anything with the word “dragon” in it. You wonder now if you should have chosen a safer topic to write your final paper for World Mythology class. That’s what happens when you get too excited about something, and you’ve always loved mythology.

One by one, you pull books from the shelves, sending tiny dust particles swirling in the still air around you. A beam of sunlight from the skylight overhead makes the dancing dust gleam. You sit down at your table with a stack of old, hardcover books on dragon lore. You can’t work when it’s too quiet, so you pull your phone out of your purse and plug in your earbuds. You play your collection of upbeat instrumental music that helps you focus when you work. You dig your laptop out of your backpack and crack open that first book.

Two hours and fifteen pages of notes later, the library page comes around with an arm-full of books he’s returning to the shelves. He tells you the library closes in fifteen minutes. You pull your earbuds out to thank him and pack up your things. You know exactly which three books have to come home with you tonight, so you put the rest back. With your bags on your shoulders and the books in your arms, you make your way back to the stairs. The quiet up here has a thickness to it that messes with the pressure in your ears. You clear your throat as softly as you can. Just as you reach the top of the stairs, Sam pops out from behind a bookshelf shrugging his bag back onto his shoulder.

You want to say hello, but you don’t know if you should, and while you fret over this, you miss the first step. Your heart lurches into your throat as you fall, clutching your pile of books and trying to grab the railing. Lucky for you, Sam is quick. He manages to jump over the railing and snatch your backpack, saving you from the dangerous nose-dive. Both of you sprawled on the steps, you watch your discarded books tumble toward the main floor.

“You okay?” he asks you, still hanging on to your backpack. You can feel the tension in the straps.

Your eyes are wide. You’re still trying to wrap your head around what just happened. You nod. “Yeah. Thank you.” You grab the railing and Sam steadies your wrist to help you up. He towers over you now, standing one step above you. You’re still shaking, but you need to get down these steps.

“Hey, aren’t you..? Didn’t I just see you at the coffee shop?” he asks with that same one-eyed squint and upturned mouth.

You laugh a little nervously. “Yes. How was your panini?” What a dumb thing to say, you scold yourself.

“It was great. Hit the spot. Here,” he says as he extends his arm to you.

You hook your hand in the crook of his elbow, and together you walk down the stairs, fetching your books along the way.

“Into dragons?” he asks you as he hands the last one over.

“Uh, I’m writing a paper,” you say. You hope he doesn’t think you’re weird. “I had this crazy idea that I could write a paper proving they actually existed somewhere in the world at some point. Don’t know what I got myself into.”

Sam doesn’t say anything. Great, he thinks I’m a wackjob.

At the bottom of the stairs, you turn to look at him. “Well, thank you again,” you say. “Lucky you were here.”

“You sure you’re alright?” he asks you with cute little wrinkles in the middle of his forehead. He still smells like cologne and public bathroom soap, but somehow it’s cute on him.

“Yes. Thank you.” You don’t know what else to say and you feel nervous standing there. You smile and hug your books, then turn away to hide the heat that rushes to your cheeks. You make a beeline for the desk to check out.

Sam follows you. Out of the corner of your eye, you see that he has a book in his hand, too. Your stomach feels funny in a ticklish kind of way, and your conscience is screaming at you to say something - anything - to keep him talking. But you’re not so great with situations like this. You’re not really all that outgoing except when you have to be at work. It’s different there, though. There, people expect you to talk to them. And you practically have a script for conversation.

“So, did you replace anything cool?” he asks.

It’s your turn. The library assistant scans your card and then your books. “A few things. It’s mostly the similarities through the ages between recordings from cultures thousands of miles apart that I think are the key.” You take your slip and scoop up your books.

“Do you think they really did exist?” he asks as he hands his book over with his brand new library card on top. He must have applied for that just today.

You take a few steps toward the door, then turn back and shrug. “Maybe,” you say. You can’t hide your smile. You don’t wait for him to respond or give him a chance to ask for your number - or not ask for it, which would be your luck. You don’t feel like waiting around to be dejected.

The sun is beginning to set as you step outside into the cool, brisk air. Your heart won’t stop dancing. It was warmer earlier so you left your jacket in your car, a decision you regret now. You’re thinking that you’ll never see the alluring Sam again (just your luck) when all of a sudden you hear his voice behind you. “Wait!” he calls, hurrying to catch up.

When he falls into step beside you, he smiles and scratches at the back of his head with the book he just borrowed from the library. “I didn’t get your name.”

“I don’t think I ever gave it to you,” you say, but you immediately feel bad. It was pinned to your shirt at the coffee shop, after all, though that pin sits in the cup holder in your car now. You tell him your name.

“It’s nice to meet you,” he says.

“You live around here?” you finally ask. You have to know. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before.”

“Uh, no. My brother and I, we... We’re just passing through.”

Your heart sinks a little. “Oh. How long are you in town for?” You hope that asking him these questions will give him the hint that you’d like to see him again.

“Just a few days, I think. It depends on this job we’re...” He trails off like he’s trying to think of the right words, but before he can finish his thought, his phone vibrates in his pocket.

You’ve reached your car, anyway, so you take the out. “Have a good night, Sam,” you say as you get into your car and dump your books and bags onto the passenger seat. You pull away. There’s really no point; he’ll be gone in a few days.

You glance in your rearview mirror. He’s still standing there, watching as you drive away. The butterflies in your stomach flutter a little. You sort of wish he’d try to follow and wave you down, give you a reason to stop, but he doesn’t. He finally answers his phone as you turn out of the parking lot and start down the road, cursing your luck. The rich, throaty hum of an older engine rolls by going the opposite direction. You don’t catch what kind of car it is because you’re driving and it’s getting dark, but you love that sound.

You’re daydreaming about the mysterious Mr. Sam as you drive down the road when you get the chilling feeling someone (or something) is watching you. You check your mirrors but there isn’t another car in sight. You’re on a back road now, headed back to your apartment complex where your roommate hopefully doesn’t have a guy over again. You hit the lock on your door for reassurance, even though your doors automatically lock the minute you put the car in drive. You look over your shoulder at your backseat, but it’s empty as it should be. It doesn’t really make you feel any better.

You’re driving down the last dark stretch of the back road before you are back in civilization again when your car suddenly sets into a wild spin. Your northern-born instinct has you turning into the spin to regain control of the car without a second thought. You manage to slow it down and come to a stop in the middle of the road, facing the wrong direction. The road is still empty, except for you. Only then does it dawn on you that it’s not cold enough for black ice. You know your car isn’t the greatest but you also know you didn’t hit anything. Nothing ran out in front of you; you didn’t swerve. The only logical explanation is that something is drastically wrong with your steering column. Great, you think. So much for that vacation money you’d been saving up. You take a deep breath, shake the creepy feeling off your shoulders, and turn the car around.

You take the rest of the drive home a bit slower than normal, unsure when or if your car will spin out of control again. You’ll have to take it in tomorrow. It’s a good thing you have off from work the next two days. You’ll just hitch a ride with your roomie to school until you get yours back.

You park outside of your building, thankful for the outdoor lighting. You scoop up your three books from the floor of the passenger seat and hook your arm through your backpack and purse straps. You lock the car and head toward your building.

You stop at your trunk. You didn’t see this when you walked around to the passenger side to get your stuff, but you see it now. It feels like all the blood leaves your body as you stare at the four letters scratched into the paint: D. W. S. W.