with his own name on it underneath the nameplate. She imagined Professor Emerson coming along and ripping the card off out of spite. Then she noticed Paul’s full name: Paul V. Norris, MA.
“What does the V stand for?” She crooked a finger at the homemade sign.
Paul looked uncomfortable. “I don’t like using my middle name.”
“I don’t use mine either. And I can understand if you don’t want to tell me.” She smiled, turning her gaze expectantly at the locked door.
“You’ll laugh.”
“I doubt it. My last name is Mitchell. It’s nothing to be proud of.”
“I think it’s nice.”
Julia reddened but only slightly.
Paul sighed. “Promise you won’t tell anyone?”
“Of course. And I’ll tell you my middle name: it’s Helen.”
“That’s beautiful too.” He drew a deep breath and closed his eyes. Then he waited. When he could hold his breath no longer, and his lungs were clamoring for oxygen, he exhaled quickly. “Virgil.”
She stared incredulously. “Virgil?”
“Yes.” He opened his eyes and studied her for a minute, worried she was going to laugh at him.
“You’re studying to be a Dante specialist, and your middle name is Virgil? Are you kidding?”
“It’s a family name. My great-grandfather was named Virgil…He never read Dante, trust me. He was a dairy farmer in Essex, Vermont.”
Julia smiled her admiration. “I think Virgil is a beautiful name. And it’s a great honor to be named after a noble poet.”
“Just like it’s a great honor to be named after Helen of Troy, Julia Helen. And very fitting too.” His eyes grew soft, and he gazed at her admiringly.
She looked away, embarrassed.
Paul cleared his throat as a means of lessening the sudden tension between them. “Emerson never uses this carrel—except to drop things off for me. But it belongs to him, and he pays for it.”
“They aren’t free?”
Paul shook his head and unlocked the door. “No. But they’re totally worth it because they’re air conditioned and heated, they have wireless internet access, and you can store books in here without checking them out at the circulation desk. So if there is anything you need—even if it’s reference material that you can’t check out—you can store it in here.”
Julia looked at the small but comfortable space as if it were the Promised Land, her eyes wide as they wandered over the large built-in workspace, comfortable chairs and floor to ceiling bookshelves. A small window offered a very nice view of the downtown skyline and the CN tower. She wondered how much it would cost to live in a carrel rather than in her not-fit-for-a-dog hobbit hole.
“In fact,” said Paul, clearing some papers off one of the bookshelves, “I’ll give you this shelf. And you can have my extra key.”
He fished around and came up with a spare key, writing a number down on a piece of paper. “That’s the number on the door, in case you have trouble finding it again, and here’s the key.”
Julia stood, gaping. “I can’t. He hates me, and he won’t like this.”
“Fuck him.”
Her eyes widened in surprise.
“I’m sorry. I don’t usually cuss—that much. At least, not in front of girls. I mean, women.”
She nodded, but that was not exactly why she was surprised.
“Emerson is never here. You can store your books, and he’ll think they’re mine. If you don’t want him to catch you, you don’t have to work in here. Just drop by when I’m around—I’m here a lot. Then if he sees you, he’ll think we’re working together. Or something.”
He smiled sheepishly. He really wanted to key her—to know that she could drop by at any time. To see her things on his shelf…to study and to work next to her.
But Julia didn’t want to be keyed.
“Please.” He took her pale hand in his and gently opened her fingers. He felt her hesitate, and so he ran his thumb across the back of her hand just to reassure her. He pressed the key and the paper into her palm and closed her fingers, taking great care not to press too hard lest he bruise her. He knew that Emerson had bruised her enough.
“Real isn’t what you are; it’s something that happens. And right now, you need something good to happen to you.”
Julia started at his words, for he had no idea how true they were.
Is he paraphrasing from…? Impossible.
She looked up into his eyes. They were warm and friendly. She didn’t see anything calculating or crude. She didn’t see anything underhanded or harsh. Maybe he truly liked her. Or maybe he simply felt sorry for her.