Visiting the library

You slip the pump back on, wince as the patent leather encases your swollen arch, and stand. The library is visible from here—a modest brick building with large windows and a hand-painted sign reading LARKSPUR HOLLOW PUBLIC LIBRARY, its entrance flanked by overflowing window boxes of impatiens. Three minutes' walk, tops.

The heels carry you there with a clicking rhythm that's become almost meditative. You push through the glass door into cool, conditioned air and the particular hush of a space designed for silence. The interior is small but well-kept: rows of shelves in warm wood, a reading area with upholstered chairs, a circulation desk staffed by a woman with box braids piled high and reading a paperback.

She glances up. "Welcome in. Wi-Fi password's on the cards by the computers—just ask if you need anything."

"Thank you."

You find a corner table near the windows, away from the two other patrons—a man in a flannel shirt scrolling his phone, an older woman knitting. You lower yourself into the chair with a groan you barely suppress, the pencil skirt riding up your thighs as you sit. You kick off both pumps under the table, letting your stockinged feet press flat against the cool tile. The relief is transcendent.

Never taking these shoes for granted again. Not that you ever did before, but still.

You pull Margot's book from your handbag—The Language of Cloth—and open it. The cover is deceptive; inside, the pages are dense with diagrams, close-up photographs of weave structures, and prose that manages to be both technical and poetic. You flip to chapter three as instructed.

It's about drape. How fabric falls differently depending on fiber content, weave density, and thread count. Silk charmeuse versus silk crepe de chine—the same fiber, radically different behavior on a body. You read about bias cuts and how they exploit the diagonal stretch of a woven fabric to create movement. There are photographs: the same dress pattern in cotton poplin versus silk jersey, the difference staggering.

This is actually fascinating. It's like learning a language you've been hearing your whole life but never understood.

You take notes on your phone—real notes, organized, the way you used to for class. Fiber categories. Weave types. Weight classifications. You photograph the diagram of a twill weave because it explains why denim behaves differently from canvas. You read about how wool felts, how linen wrinkles beautifully, how rayon mimics silk but breathes differently.

An hour passes. Then another. Your phone buzzes twice—Darcy's follow-up text, which you swipe away—and you keep reading. By chapter five, you understand why Margot said the wrap dress would work with your collarbone structure. It's about lines of visual gravity, about where the eye travels along a garment's construction.

You're not faking this. You're actually learning.

Around 2:15, the knitting woman leaves and is replaced by a younger guy settling in with a laptop. The librarian restocks a cart nearby, humming something low. The afternoon light shifts through the windows, warming your bare arms.

Your phone buzzes again. This time it's an email notification—from Holloway & Associates, the accounting firm.

You open it.

Dear Riley Bennett, Thank you for your interest in the Receptionist position at Holloway & Associates. While your application was impressive, we have decided to proceed with candidates whose qualifications more closely align with our current needs. We wish you the best in your job search.

Well. That was fast.

You close the email and stare at the book open before you. Chapter six is about color theory—how warm and cool undertones interact with skin, how contrast creates visual interest. You've been reading for over two hours and your brain feels full in the best way, like the first week of a really good semester.

Your feet have stopped aching. The library is quiet. And somewhere across town, a coffee shop owner is still waiting for your reply.