Flannel and Frost
Copyright© 2026 by Art Samms
Chapter 9
Ryan stood outside the library’s double doors for a full thirty seconds before convincing himself to go in. The glass reflected his own expression back at him—grim, resigned, and a little pinched around the eyes, like someone walking into a dentist appointment he could’ve rescheduled forever.
He rehearsed the line again under his breath.
“Hey, Evelyn. I just wanted to apologize for ... for whatever the other day was. The window thing. The awkward thing. The—”
He stopped. Too many things.
Start over.
“Hey. I, uh ... wanted to say thanks. For the tool piece. And sorry. If I was weird.”
He winced.
“Weird”? Brilliant. Nothing screams confidence like announcing your own weirdness.
He scrubbed a hand down his face, took a breath, and pulled open the door.
The library greeted him with its familiar hush—soft, clean, and somehow warmer than any public building had the right to be. Sun filtered through the high windows, painting thin rectangles of light across the carpet. Somewhere deep in the stacks, a cart squeaked softly.
Ryan stepped inside, his boots suddenly feeling three sizes too loud. He paused near the front desk, scanning the immediate area.
No Evelyn.
Part of him sagged with relief. Another part sagged with disappointment. A third part scolded both of the first two parts for having opinions.
He exhaled slowly. Okay, good. You can track her down, find a quiet corner, say your piece, leave before your brain combusts. Simple.
A small throat-clearing sounded behind him.
“Mr. Meadows.”
Ryan flinched so hard he nearly dropped the notebook he’d brought as a prop—something to make him look like he had an actual, respectable reason to be here besides emotional flailing.
He turned.
Sadie Beltran stood near a cart of newly returned books, her expression pleasantly neutral but her eyes sharp as ever. She wore her usual cardigan—mustard today—and a pencil stuck through her bun like a hairpin. She had the uncanny ability to materialize wherever she was most needed ... or most nosily effective.
Ryan cleared his throat. “Afternoon, Sadie.”
“You look like you’re searching for something,” she observed, rolling a cart forward with her hip. “Or someone.”
Ryan’s stomach seized. “Uh—just ... research.”
“For?”
He opened the notebook randomly and stared at a blank page as if the answer were written there.
“Uh ... hardware ... history.”
Sadie lifted one eyebrow, unimpressed.
Mercifully, a group of giggling kids burst through the entrance, waving picture books at each other, and Sadie turned to usher them toward the children’s alcove with practiced ease.
Ryan seized the opportunity and headed toward the stacks before she could question him further.
The library’s quiet deepened as he walked past the biographies, the classics, the curved row of wooden study carrels. The faint smell of paper and lemon cleaner settled around him.
He rehearsed again, silently.
“Thanks for the tool piece.”
“Sorry for being awkward.”
“I appreciate it more than you know.”
He swallowed.
But as he rounded the corner toward the fiction section—he saw her.
Evelyn stood on a small stepladder, reaching up to shelve a hardcover. Her hair slipped over her shoulder as she stretched, the soft light outlining her profile. She hummed faintly—something tuneful and absentminded. She certainly looked calmer than he felt.
Ryan froze.
His rehearsed lines evaporated like breath on glass. He suddenly couldn’t remember how to speak. Or walk. Or human.
All he could think was: turn around, leave, pretend you came in to borrow a dictionary.
But then Evelyn glanced down ... and saw him.
Her humming stopped. Her hand paused halfway to the next book. And Ryan’s heart performed an anxious, unrequested drum solo against his ribs. He swallowed, trying to remember any sentence he’d practiced.
“Hey,” he managed, his voice lower and rougher than intended. “Um ... can we talk?”
Her expression flickered—surprise, guardedness, something unreadable beneath. She stepped down from the ladder slowly, each small movement echoing in the quiet space between them.
“Sure,” she said, closing the book and holding it against her stomach. “About what?”
Ryan opened his notebook, staring at the blank page. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The library felt too still—like even the dust motes had paused mid-air to eavesdrop.
Ryan shifted his weight, fingers tightening around the notebook he didn’t actually need. “I, uh ... wanted to say something. About the other day. About the water heater.”
Evelyn blinked, caught off guard. “The water heater?”
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Caleb mentioned you ... sent over that tool piece. The old valve fitting from your dad’s shed.”
A faint flush crept up her neck. She looked away, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “It was nothing. Caleb said you needed one, word got around, and I remembered we had a few lying around. That’s all.”
“It wasn’t nothing,” Ryan said quietly.
Her eyes flicked back to him, wary but curious.
“I didn’t even know what I was looking at,” he admitted. “And it fit perfectly. Saved me from flooding the entire place, probably. Or electrocuting myself. Or both.” He gave a small, crooked smile. “So ... thank you.”
Evelyn’s grip tightened subtly on the book she held. She gave a short, almost too-quick shrug. “You don’t have to thank me. People help each other out here. That’s just how it is.”
“Still,” he insisted. “I appreciate it.”
Evelyn opened her mouth as if to respond, then shut it again. She looked down at the cover of the book, tracing the embossed lettering with her thumb. The pause between them stretched into something awkward, fragile.
Finally she said, with forced casualness, “Really, it was nothing. I didn’t even think about it.”
Which was a lie. A small one—but Ryan recognized the stiffness in her shoulders, the way her voice dipped when she tried to sound indifferent. She had thought about it. Enough to go digging through an old shed for something he needed.
But she clearly didn’t want acknowledgment for it. Or she didn’t want him to acknowledge it. Or she didn’t want to know why she’d done it at all.
Ryan nodded, letting her off the hook. “Okay. Well ... I just wanted you to know I’m grateful. That’s all.”
Evelyn gave another small shrug, her expression composed but her fingers tapping lightly on the book’s spine. “You’re welcome,” she said, softer this time—almost against her will.
The quiet settled again, thick and oddly charged.
From across the room, Sadie’s voice called out, “Evelyn? Could you come look at this donation cart? Someone left a box of romance paperbacks from 1992.”
Evelyn straightened instantly, relief flickering across her face. “I—uh—should go.”
“Yeah,” Ryan said. “Of course.”
She stepped past him, her lavender-and-pine scent brushing lightly in her wake. She hesitated only once—just enough for him to notice—before continuing toward the children’s section.
Ryan watched her go, the unspoken words between them lingering in the air.
He felt like he should have left.
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