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Chris wasn’t trying to spy on his parents. Really, he wasn’t, he isn’t even a spy. Although, actually, he would be a really good spy. He’s very quiet when he wants to be, and he’s excellent at keeping secrets.
One time, his friend Derek told him that he was the one who broke Mrs. Patterson’s flower pot and Chris didn’t tell anyone, even when Mrs. Patterson asked the whole class and said whoever told the truth would get a lollipop. Chris wanted that lollipop so bad. It was grape, the best flavor, and everyone who says otherwise is wrong. But Chris didn’t say anything, because he’s not a snitch.
Anyway, the point is, he’s not spying. He woke up because he’s thirsty and it’s not his fault that his parents are in the kitchen being loud.
Well, not loud loud. They’re doing that thing where they talk really quietly but also giggle a lot which usually means they’re talking about grown-up stuff Chris isn’t supposed to hear. In his opinion, he should get to hear everything. He’s seven, that’s practically a grown-up.
Mom’s doing most of the talking and Dad keeps making the wheezy sound he only makes when something is really, really funny. Chris likes that sound. He sits down on the top stair, quiet as a mouse, because if they catch him out of bed he’ll have to go back to sleep, then how will he hear all the juicy gossip?
“On the counter?” Dad wheezes.
“On the counter, Eddie! Right next to the coffee maker!”
Chris doesn’t know what they’re talking about, probably something boring. Adults get excited about the weirdest stuff.
He picks at a thread on his pajama pants. These are his second-favorite pajamas. His favorite ones have dinosaurs on them but they're in the wash because he spilled hot chocolate on them, which was not his fault. The mug was too full.
The laughing stops and now there are clinking sounds, like glasses, then everything gets quieter. Chris is about to give up and just go get his water—he’s really thirsty, actually, his throat feels like sandpaper which is a word he learned last week and has been trying to use more—
But then Mom does The Voice.
The Voice is the one she uses when Chris is in trouble or when something serious is happening. Like when she sat him down to tell him her and dad weren’t going to be married anymore, or another time when she used it when Chris accidentally put dish soap in the fish tank to help clean it. The fish were fine. Mostly.
“So,” Mom says. “Have you been seeing anyone?”
Chris leans forward so fast he almost falls down the stairs. He catches himself on the railing. Spy skills.
Dad takes so long to answer, Chris isn’t sure if he’s still in the room. Chris could have gotten his water and come back by now. He could have taken a bath or ran a lap around the house, that’s how long dad takes.
“No,” Dad finally says. “I, uh. No.”
“Eddie.”
“I know, Shan. Okay? I know.” Dad sounds tired. Not sleepy tired, but the other kind. The kind where you sigh a lot and stare out windows. Chris doesn't really get that kind of tired yet, but he's seen it. "I thought it would be easier, you know? I spent all that time figuring out that I like guys, and I thought after that, everything would just... work. But it's hard. It's so much harder than—" He stops. "Sorry. That's probably weird to say to you."
"It's not weird. Tell me."
Chris leans forward more, on the edge of his seat.
"I don't even know when a guy is interested," Dad says. Chris can hear him doing the thing where he rubs his face with his hands. He does that when he's stressed. "Like, is he flirting or is he just being nice? Is he looking at me or looking at me? With women, I knew the rules. With guys, I have no idea what I'm doing."
“What about dating apps?”
Dad groans. "Everyone wants something casual. Or they see I have a kid and suddenly they're super busy."
Wait, what?
Chris frowns. What's wrong with Dad having a kid? He's the kid and he's great. He has the second-highest reading level in his class and he can do a cartwheel and he knows all the planets in order, even the dwarf ones. If they don’t want to hang out with him, that seems like a them problem.
"I'm just... lonely, I guess," Dad says, quieter now. Chris has to really strain to hear. "Which is stupid, because I have Chris and you and everyone at work—"
"That's not stupid," Mom interrupts. "That's not the same thing and you know it. You're a catch, Eddie. You deserve someone. A partner, someone who makes you happy."
Dad goes quiet again.
"I'm serious. You need to put yourself out there. Find yourself a hunk."
Dad chokes on his drink. “A hunk?”
“A beefcake! A smokeshow!”
“Please stop. "
"A grade-A prime cut of—"
"Shannon!"
They're both laughing now and Chris smiles, but his brain is stuck on the other part.
Dad is lonely.
His teacher, Ms. Simmons, has said that word before. She talks about it with Ms. Montgomery during quiet reading time when they think the kids aren't listening.
Ms. Simmons said that if "Mr. Diaz" liked women, maybe he could "fix her lonely." Chris is pretty sure she's talking about his dad, because there's no Mr. Diaz at his school, and also because Ms. Simmons gets really weird at pickup. She always laughs super loud at stuff Dad says even when it's not funny, and she does this thing with her hair, and one time she said "oh, Eddie, you're so funny" when all Dad said was "thanks, have a good day."
Adults are weird.
But the point is, Chris knows his dad is really good at making people happy. Dad gives the best hugs and he makes the best grilled cheese and he always knows how to make Chris feel better when he's sad. Dad could definitely fix someone's lonely.
So that must be what lonely means. Dad wants a friend. A special friend, like him and Mom were, but a boy this time. Someone to play with and do stuff with and make him smile for real, not the kind of smile he does when he talks to Ms. Simmons.
Chris isn’t really sure what a hunk is, but Mom said it like it was something really good. Like the best present ever.
Ever since Dad moved out of Mom’s house, he’s been different. Not a bad different, just a sad different. He smiles a lot but it looks weird. He needs a hunk. A hunk would fix everything.
Chris sneaks back to his room and totally forgets about being thirsty. He’s got an idea.
Actually, he has the best idea he's ever had in his whole entire life.
He’s going to find his dad a hunk.
The thing about having the best idea ever is that you have to do it right.
Chris has had good ideas before. He's had great ideas. Like the time he decided to make breakfast in bed for his mom and only set off the smoke alarm a little bit. Or the time he tried to teach himself to skateboard using a YouTube video and a cookie sheet. That one didn't work, but the idea was solid. The execution was the problem, he’s sure. That's what Dad said, anyway, while he was putting the Batman bandaids on Chris's knees. Dad always tells him he can do anything he puts his mind to.
This idea? This idea is perfect. It has no flaws, it’s going to fix everything.
He just needs supplies.
Chris waits until Dad drops him off at Mom's house on Tuesday, because Mom has the good art supplies. Dad has art supplies too, but they're all boring. Brown and black and regular-people colors. Mom has every color, and glitter glue, and the fancy paper that's thick and doesn't rip when you fold it.
Cardstock, it’s called. Chris learned that word from Mom. She uses it for her work stuff sometimes, for making business cards.
Business cards.
Business cards!
That’s it! That’s what Chris needs. He’s seen them before—little rectangles grown-ups hand out when they want someone to call them. Mom has a whole stack of them in her desk drawer. They say her name and her phone number and her job, which is something long that Chris can't remember, but it sounds important.
If Chris makes Dad a business card, then people will know that Dad is available. For dating. For hunk stuff.
This is genius.
He waits until Mom is on a work call. She does that thing where she puts her finger up and mouths "five minutes" which actually means like an hour. Then he sneaks into the office and borrows some cardstock. He only takes four pieces because he's not greedy. Also because he can cut each piece into smaller rectangles and that's called efficiency. They learned about that in math. Sort of.
He sets up at the kitchen table with his supplies: cardstock, scissors, and his crayons. He thinks about using markers, but markers bleed through sometimes and also his red marker is dead. He did a funeral for it last week, it was very sad.
Okay, focus.
He stares at the blank cardstock rectangle and thinks about what it needs to say.
Dad’s name, obviously. Also that he’s single, and that he likes boys, so the hunks know they have a chance. What else?
Oh! He should say that Dad is a firefighter; that's important. Everybody loves firefighters, they're heroes. Dad is a hero. He saves people from fires and car crashes and one time a cat in a tree, which Dad said wasn't as exciting as it sounds, but Chris thinks it sounds very exciting.
He should also say that Dad is a hunk himself, because he is, Mom said so. And Chris has seen the way people look at Dad sometimes, like he's a big piece of cake and they want to eat him. Which is weird, but Chris is pretty sure it means Dad is good-looking.
What else, what else…
Oh! Contact information. That's the important part, that's the whole point of a business card.
But Chris doesn’t have a phone. He asked for one for his birthday and Dad said, “when you’re older,” which is what adults say when they mean “no, but I don’t want to argue about it.” So there’s no number to put on the card.
He thinks about this for a minute.
He could put mom’s number, but then she would get all the calls and that would be weird. He could put in dad’s number, but he doesn’t actually know it. He knows it starts with a three, or maybe a five… it’s definitely a number, that’s for sure.
Okay, new plan. He’ll just put his name. “Contact Chris.” Then, when someone wants to date Dad, they’ll just… find him… somehow.
Details.
He picks up his blue crayon, because blue is Dad’s favorite color, and starts writing very carefully.
My dad likes boys and is single.
Good. Clear and to the point. Onto the next line.
He is a HERO and fights fires, kinda like Superman.
Chris looks at this and feels proud. It’s true, Dad is like Superman. Except Dad doesn’t wear a cape, which is a missed opportunity if you ask Chris.
Next line, this is the important one.
He is a hunk.
Chris giggles. He still doesn't totally know what a hunk is, but Mom made it sound really good, so it must be. It's called marketing. They talked about that in school, too. You have to make people want the thing.
Last line.
If intrested, please contact Chris Diaz.
He looks at “intrested” for a second. That doesn’t look right. He erases it and tries again.
Interested.
Hmm. Still weird. He tries one more time.
Intrestid.
Whatever, it’s close enough. The hunks will figure it out.
He sits back and admires his work.
It’s perfect. The most perfect thing he’s ever made. Even better than the clay turtle he made in art class that Ms. Simmons said was “very creative” which Chris is 98% sure was a compliment.
He makes four more, just in case. You have to have backups, that’s just smart planning.
He stacks them up real careful and puts them in the front pocket of his backpack, right next to his emergency fruit snacks and the cool rock he found at recess.
Now he just has to wait for the right hunk to come along.
Buck is having a great day.
Last night, he watched this documentary about octopuses—or octopi? Octopodes? He looked it up once and apparently all three are technically correct—and now he can't stop thinking about them. They have three hearts! Three! And blue blood! And they can squeeze through any hole bigger than their beak, which is the only hard part of their body, which means they can basically become liquid whenever they want.
Buck wants to become liquid whenever he wants. That would solve so many problems.
Anyway, the documentary was amazing but also kind of short, so now Buck needs more. He needs to know everything about octopuses. He needs to become an octopus expert. Is that a job? Can he make that a job?
Probably not. But he can go to the library.
Buck loves the library; it's one of his favorite places. It's free, first of all, which is insane. You just walk in and they let you borrow books. For free. You just have to bring them back, that's the whole deal. Whoever invented libraries deserves a medal. Someone probably did give them a medal; Buck should look that up, too.
He's in the nature section now, crouched down low because of course the book he wants is on the bottom shelf. Why do they always put the good stuff on the bottom shelf? His knees are going to be so mad at him later.
He tilts his head sideways to read the spines.
Ocean Habitats. Marine Biology for Beginners. The Secret Life of Coral Reefs.
Close, but not quite.
Tentacles: The Amazing World of Cephalopods.
Oh, that's the one. That's definitely the one.
He reaches for it… and nearly jumps out of his skin.
There's an eye looking at him. A single, small, brown eye, peering through the gap in the books from the other side of the shelf.
Buck yelps—manly, very manly, definitely not a shriek—and jerks backward, losing his balance completely. His arms pinwheel, which doesn't help, and he lands flat on his back with an "oof" that knocks the wind out of him.
He stares up at the ceiling for a second, contemplating his choices.
When he lifts his head, the eye is still there, watching him. Then, it blinks.
"You fell down," a small voice observes from the other side of the shelf.
Buck props himself up on his elbows. "I did."
"That was really loud."
"Yeah, I know."
"Are you okay?"
"I think so."
A pause. The eye disappears for a second, and then a whole face appears at the end of the aisle. A kid, maybe seven or eight, with curly hair and a very serious expression. He's using crutches, moving with confidence towards where Buck is splayed out on the floor.
"You should be more careful," the kid informs him. "Libraries have hard floors."
"That's... very true," Buck agrees, sitting up properly now. "Thanks for the tip."
"You're welcome." The kid makes his way down the aisle and stops a few feet away, studying Buck with open curiosity. "Why were you on the floor?"
"I was looking for a book."
"On the floor?"
"On the bottom shelf."
"Oh." The kid considers this. "What book?"
Buck holds up Tentacles: The Amazing World of Cephalopods. He didn't even realize he'd managed to grab it on his way down. Small victories.
The kid's eyes go wide. "Woah. Is that an octopus?"
"Yeah! I watched a documentary about them last night and I wanted to learn more. Did you know they have three hearts?"
"Three hearts?"
"And blue blood."
"No way."
"Way." Buck grins. He scoots back so he's leaning against the shelf, the book in his lap. "They can also squeeze through any hole bigger than their beak. They're basically made of liquid."
"That's so cool," the kid breathes. He maneuvers himself down to sit across from Buck, crisscross applesauce, crutches laid neatly beside him. "I want to be made of liquid."
"Right? Same."
"I watched a documentary last week about sharks," the kid offers. "Did you know some sharks have to keep swimming forever or they die?"
"I did know that! It's because of how they breathe, right?"
"Yeah! They're called obligate ram ventilators."
Buck blinks. "That's... a very impressive phrase."
The kid shrugs. "I like sharks."
They talk about sharks for a while, then dolphins. Then the kid asks if Buck has ever seen a whale in real life, and Buck tells him about the time he went whale watching and threw up over the side of the boat, and the kid laughs so hard he snorts, then Buck tells him about the time he tried to pet a sea lion and almost got bitten, then somehow they're talking about whether a fight between a giant squid and a sperm whale would be fair and Buck is having more fun than he's had in weeks.
He's in the middle of explaining how giant squid have the largest eyes in the animal kingdom—"like, the size of dinner plates"—when it occurs to him that he's been sitting in the middle of the library floor talking to someone else's kid for probably fifteen minutes.
"Hey," he says, glancing around. "Where are your parents?"
"My dad's at the front desk," the kid says, completely unbothered. "He's trying to talk to the library lady about some overdue fees."
"Oh."
"My abuela is here too. She's gonna sweet-talk them if Dad gets frustrated." The kid rolls his eyes. "He always gets frustrated. He doesn't like it when people tell him he owes them money, even when he does owe them money."
Buck laughs. "That's fair."
"She's really good at sweet-talking," the kid adds. "One time she got us free churros just by being nice to the churro guy. She says it's because she's charming. I'm charming too, it runs in the family."
"I can tell," Buck says, grinning.
The kid grins back.
And then, suddenly, his eyes go wide and he gasps so loud that Buck flinches.
"OH!"
"Shhhh!" hisses someone from the next aisle.
The kid claps a hand over his mouth. His eyes are huge and sparkling with something that looks like excitement or mischief, probably both.
"Sorry, sorry," he whispers loudly. Then he leans forward, like he's about to share a secret. "You're a hunk, right?"
Buck chokes on nothing. "I. What?"
"A hunk," the kid repeats. "You know, a hunk."
"I..." Buck has no idea what's happening. "Sure? I guess? I mean, I've been told... I work out sometimes—"
"Perfect!" The kid is already digging around in his backpack. He pulls out a slightly crumpled rectangle of cardstock and presents it to Buck with great ceremony. "This is for you."
It's a handmade card written in crayon, blue crayon. The handwriting is careful but wobbly, the letters all different sizes.
My dad likes boys and is single. He is a HERO and fights fires like Superman. He is a hunk. If intrested, please contact Chris Diaz.
Buck stares at it for a minute before looking up at the kid.
"You're Chris," he says.
"Yep!"
"And your dad is..."
"A firefighter," Chris confirms proudly. "He saves people. And sometimes cats."
"And he's... single."
"Uh huh. And he likes boys, that's important."
"Right." Buck looks at the card again, warmth blooming in his chest. "And you're trying to find him a... hunk."
"My mom said he needs one," Chris explains. "She said he needs to get out there and find a hunk, so I'm helping."
Buck doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. This might be the most adorable thing that's ever happened to him. This kid made business cards for his single dad.
"Chris, this is—"
"Christopher."
The voice comes from behind Buck, and it is—
Oh.
Oh no.
Buck turns around, still sitting on the floor like an idiot with a children's book about octopuses in his lap and a crayon business card in his hand, and—the man standing at the end of the aisle is, objectively, the most beautiful human being Buck has ever seen in his entire life.
He's got dark hair and dark eyes and a jawline that could cut glass and he's wearing a soft-looking shirt that's doing amazing things for his shoulders and his arms are crossed and he's looking at Chris with an expression that's trying to be stern but isn't quite making it.
"Buddy," the man says. "I told you to stay by the audiobooks."
"I know," Chris says, completely unrepentant. "But I made a friend."
The man's gaze shifts to Buck. Buck's brain stops working.
"Hi," he manages. "I'm, uh. The friend. I mean, I'm Buck. My name is Buck. That's, hi."
Nice one, Buckley.
The man's eyebrows go up slightly. "Eddie," he says. "Chris's dad."
"Right! Dad. Yes. I figured. He mentioned—" Buck waves the card, then realizes that's probably weird, and shoves it in his jacket pocket. "I mean, he mentioned you. Not the card. Well, also the card. The card also mentions you. Because it's about—anyway. Sorry. I wasn't trying to, uh, we were just talking about octopuses."
Eddie blinks.
"They have three hearts," Buck adds helplessly.
"...Okay," Eddie says slowly.
"Mijo!"
An older woman appears behind Eddie, her face breaking into a wide smile when she spots Chris on the floor. She's small and elegant and looks like she could charm the pants off anyone she met.
Abuela, it’s got to be.
"There you are! I turned around and—oh!" She stops when she notices Buck. Her eyes do a quick sweep, up, down, up again, and her smile turns delighted.
"And who is this?" she asks, looking at Eddie meaningfully.
"This is Buck," Chris announces. "He's my new friend. He watched a documentary about octopuses."
"Octopi," Buck corrects automatically, then winces. "Or, actually, octopuses is also correct. They're both… it's a whole thing—"
"He's very handsome," Abuela stage-whispers to Eddie. Loudly. Not even remotely subtle.
Eddie closes his eyes. Buck wonders if he’s praying for strength.
"Abuela."
"What? I'm just saying!"
Buck feels his face go approximately the temperature of the sun. He should stand up. He should definitely stand up. He's been sitting on the floor this whole time like a weirdo, standing up would make this less weird.
He tries to stand up, hoping to god he can make it as smooth as possible, and of course, his foot catches on one of Chris's crutches. He stumbles forward, arms flailing, and crashes directly into Eddie's chest.
Eddie catches him, which would be Buck’s nightmare if it weren’t also so goddamn hot, his hands gripping Buck's upper arms, steadying him.
They're very close. Buck can smell his cologne, or maybe his soap, he’s not sure. He just knows it’s warm and clean and slightly woodsy.
"Sorry," Buck breathes. "I'm so sorry. Your kid's crutch—not that it's his fault, I'm just, I have long legs. And apparently no control over them."
Eddie is looking at him, amusement twinkling in his big brown cow eyes. His hands are still on Buck's arms.
"You okay?" Eddie asks.
"Yep. Great, super good, very stable now."
Eddie fights a smile, a slight blush creeping onto his cheeks as he lets Buck go. Buck immediately misses the contact. Which is insane. He's known this man for approximately forty-five seconds.
"We should go," Eddie says, turning to Chris. "Say goodbye to your friend."
"Bye, Buck!" Chris waves as Eddie helps him up and hands him his crutches. "It was nice to meet you!"
"You too, buddy." Buck manages a wave back. "Good luck with the, uh, shark research."
"Thanks!"
Eddie puts a hand on Chris's shoulder to guide him toward the exit. Abuela follows, but not before shooting Buck one last approving look. Buck stands there, frozen, watching them go. Just before they round the corner, Chris turns around.
"Hey Buck!" he calls, loudly, earning another round of shushes from invisible library patrons.
"Yeah?"
Chris grins, wide and bright. "Don't forget to call!" Then he's gone.
Buck looks down at his pocket where the little cardstock rectangle is tucked away.
If intrested, please contact Chris Diaz.
There’s no number. He has no idea how he's supposed to contact Chris.
But god, he wants to figure it out.
Buck has a slight problem. The problem is five inches tall, written in blue crayon, and currently sitting on his nightstand mocking him.
My dad likes boys and is single. He is a HERO and fights fires like Superman. He is a hunk. If intrested, please contact Chris Diaz.
Chris Diaz means Eddie Diaz, which means Buck has a name. A full, actual, real-life name with a first part and a last part and everything. That’s basically a golden ticket, right? That’s all you need to find anyone in the modern age.
The internet is a vast and terrifying place where nothing is private and everyone’s weird high school photos are just floating around waiting to be discovered. Buck is excellent at internet stalking.
One time he found his third-grade teacher’s Pinterest board just from remembering her first name and the general area of the city she moved to. Mrs. Hernandez was really into rustic farmhouse decor, which was surprising because Buck remembers her classroom being very minimalist, but people contain multitudes, he supposes.
The point being, he’s basically a detective. He’s basically Sherlock Holmes if Sherlock Holmes spent most of his time looking for pictures of a hot firefighter instead of solving murders. Which, honestly, sounds like a better life. Sherlock Holmes should have tried it.
Except here’s the thing. Eddie Diaz is a ghost.
Eddie Diaz does not exist on the internet. Eddie Diaz has somehow managed to avoid every single social media platform ever invented, which Buck didn't even think was possible in this day and age.
Does Eddie Diaz not have friends who tag him in things? Does Eddie Diaz not have a weird aunt who posts family photos on Facebook without asking permission? Does Eddie Diaz live under a rock? A very attractive rock?
Buck has searched everything. Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, LinkedIn, even Nextdoor, which was a mistake because now he knows way too much about parking disputes in neighborhoods he doesn't live in.
There are plenty of Eddie Diazes out there, sure.
There's an Eddie Diaz in Florida who sells cars and has very white teeth.
There's an Eddie Diaz in New York who posts gym selfies with captions like "no days off" and "rise and grind," which, good for him, but also please stop.
There's an Eddie Diaz in Texas who exclusively posts photos of his lawn at different stages of growth, which Buck actually found weirdly compelling for about ten minutes before he remembered he was supposed to be finding his Eddie Diaz.
Buck even tried searching "Eddie Diaz firefighter Los Angeles" and got nothing. Nothing. How is that possible? Chris said Eddie was a firefighter; he said Eddie was a hero. Heroes should leave digital footprints. There should be news articles and medal ceremonies and those local news segments where the anchors make flirty comments about the firefighters' calendars.
Where is Eddie's calendar? Buck would buy that calendar. Buck would buy seventeen copies of that calendar and wallpaper his bedroom with it.
Okay, that’s creepy, he wouldn’t do that. He would buy one copy and look at it a normal amount.
That being said, Eddie Diaz has no online presence whatsoever, which either means he’s a secret agent, a vampire, or just a guy who values his privacy like some kind of old-fashioned weirdo. Buck respects it. Buck also hates it. Buck is experiencing a lot of conflicting emotions right now.
He glares at the card on his nightstand, the card stares back.
If intrested, please contact Chris Diaz.
Great, super helpful. How is Buck supposed to contact Chris Diaz? Chris Diaz is like seven years old. Chris Diaz does not have a LinkedIn. Chris Diaz probably doesn’t even have an email. Chris Diaz put his name on this card but not a phone number or an address. Sure, he put his last name, but still. How is this supposed to work, Christopher? Did you think this through? Did you have a plan?
Buck respects the hustle, he really does, but the execution has some gaps.
He flops back on his bed and stares at the ceiling.
This is fine.
He has a name and nothing else and it’s driving him slowly and completely insane, but it’s fine.
He could give up. That would be the normal thing to do. It would be the healthy, well-adjusted, not-obsessive thing to do. He met a hot guy one time for ninety seconds; most of those seconds were spent with Buck on the floor babbling about octopi.
Octopuses. Whatever.
It’s not like they had a connection or like Eddie knows Buck exists beyond “that weird guy that fell on me.”
Except.
Chris gave him the card; Chris chose him. Out of all the people in that library, all the potential hunks in Los Angeles, Chris looked at Buck and decided yes, this one, this is the guy for my dad.
That’s basically a blessing, a sign from the universe. Buck cannot just ignore a sign from the universe. It’s cosmically irresponsible. So he does the only logical thing he can think of.
He goes back to the library.
The first time, he tells himself it’s not weird. He’s just returning the octopus book, a completely normal and reasonable thing to do. That’s what you’re supposed to do with library books. You borrow them, you read them, you return them. That’s the whole system. He’s being a good library patron.
He takes his time, though. Walks through every aisle, checks the kids’ sections, loops past the audiobooks since that’s where Eddie told Chris to stay, right?
They’re not there. That’s alright, it was always a long shot, Buck is not disappointed.
He checks out another book on the way out. This one’s about deep-sea creatures; there’s a whole chapter on giant squid. The cover has a picture of an eye the size of a basketball and Buck is very into it.
The second time, it’s because he finished the giant squid book.
He didn’t mean to finish it so fast, but in his defense, it was incredible. Giant squid have the largest eyes in the animal kingdom. Not just big, literally the largest. The size of dinner plates; the size of your head, if your head was a dinner plate.
Buck already knew this fact from telling Chris about it, but now he knows so much more.
Like how they live so deep in the ocean, so impossibly deep, that scientists didn’t even get footage of a living one until 2004.
2004! That’s so recent!
What else is down there? What else are we missing? The ocean is terrifying and magnificent and Buck needs to know everything about it immediately.
He does a casual loop through the library while he’s there, just to stretch his legs, no other reason.
He does not see Eddie or Chris.
Buck checks out a book about bioluminescence and tries not to feel like a stalker.
The third time, one of the librarians recognizes him.
“Back again?” she asks, smiling her warm librarian smile, genuinely happy to see someone excited about books.
“Yeah, I, uh…” Buck waves the book. “I’m really into marine biology right now.”
“I can tell! You’ve checked out four books this week!”
“Is that a lot?” It feels like a lot. It might be a lot.
She laughs. “It’s not not a lot.”
Her name is Patricia and she's worked here for fifteen years. She recommends a book about coral reef ecosystems that she says is "a little dense but worth the effort," and Buck trusts her immediately because Patricia has kind eyes and sensible glasses and clearly knows her stuff.
She’s right, it’s dense. It’s also amazing.
He learns that coral is important and also very stressed out because of climate change and now he’s worried about coral, which is a new emotion he didn’t expect to have today.
He walks through every section of the library while he’s there, including the tax preparation section he has never once in his life had any interest in.
No Eddie. No Chris.
The sixth time, Patricia asks if he’s looking for anything specific.
“No,” Buck says quickly, as if she just accused him of a crime. “Just browsing. I like browsing, I’m a browser, it’s what I do.”
“You’ve been browsing a lot.”
“Is that illegal?”
Patricia smirks. “I guess not.”
She doesn’t push it, because Patricia is a professional and also possibly a saint, but she gives him this look. This knowing, patient, slightly amused look that makes Buck feel like she can see directly into his soul and she’s not impressed but she’s not judging either.
She recommends a book about the history of libraries instead, which feels pointed but is actually fascinating. There's a whole chapter about Benjamin Franklin.
Buck reads the whole thing.
He learns a lot.
He walks through every aisle twice and does not see Eddie Diaz.
By the eighth visit, Buck is starting to feel like a crazy person.
Not because of the books; the books are great. He's learned so much in the past few weeks. He knows about octopuses and giant squid and bioluminescence and coral reefs. He knows about Theodore Roosevelt's complicated relationship with his father. He knows about the history of libraries and the invention of the Dewey Decimal System. He knows about tide pools and deep-sea vents and that one type of jellyfish that's technically immortal.
The books are not the problem.
The problem is that he keeps showing up to the library hoping to "accidentally" run into a man he met once, based on a crayon business card made by a seven-year-old.
That's... a little weird, right?
Like, if Maddie told him this story about someone she knew, if she said "yeah, so my friend met this hot guy at the library for ninety seconds and now he goes there every other day hoping to see him again," Buck would be concerned. Buck would say "your friend needs a hobby" and "has your friend considered therapy" and "your friend sounds like the opening act of a true crime podcast."
But it feels different when it’s him.
Because… well because Chris chose him, he decided he was hunk material.
But it’s been three weeks. Three weeks of haunting this library like a book-obsessed ghost, of checking every aisle and inventing excuses to stay longer and lying to Patricia about why he's there even though Patricia definitely already knows.
Maybe it's time to accept that this isn't going to happen.
Maybe Eddie and Chris came to this library once and never came back. Maybe they live on the other side of the city or they moved to another state or maybe they were never real and Buck hallucinated the whole thing because he wanted a meet-cute so badly that his brain invented one.
That seems unlikely but at this point Buck isn't ruling anything out.
He stands in the middle of the nature section, staring at a book about migratory birds without actually seeing it, trying to convince himself to give up.
It doesn't work but he should probably do it anyway.
He puts the bird book back on the shelf. He's going to go home and stop doing this. He's going to delete the photo he took of the business card, or at least stop looking at it every night before bed like it's a love letter instead of a crayon-scrawled advertisement for a single dad.
This is the healthy choice. This is what a normal, not creepy, well-adjusted person would do.
He takes a deep breath and turns towards the exit.
Two months.
It's been two months since Buck gave up on the library thing, and he's fine. He's totally fine, he's moved on. He's a mature adult who does not obsess over strangers he met one time after getting knocked on his ass in the nature section.
He's kept the jacket, though.
The jacket with the card in the pocket. He wears it everywhere. Even when it's hot, even when Maddie asks him why he's wearing a jacket in July and he has to make up something about the restaurant being cold, even when he sweats through his shirt at the grocery store because the AC is broken and he still won't take it off.
It's not weird. It's just a good jacket! It goes with everything.
The card is still in there; he hasn't looked at it in weeks. Okay, he looked at it once. Maybe twice. But not in a weird way! Just in a "huh, I wonder if this is still in here" way. Totally nonchalant and normal.
He doesn't think about Eddie Diaz anymore.
Except sometimes, when he sees a firefighter, or a dad with his kid, or someone with nice arms, or basically anyone with dark hair.
But other than that, he's completely over it.
The book, in the end, is what brings him back. He’s cleaning his apartment (actually cleaning, not just relocating piles of stuff from one surface to another) and finds it wedged under his couch.
Bioluminescence: Nature's Living Light.
Shit.
He forgot to return it. He stole a book from the library, he's a criminal.
Okay, that's dramatic, but still. Patricia trusted him, Patricia recommended this book to him personally, Patricia called it "one of my favorites" and Buck just kept it like some feral book-hoarding goblin.
He wasn’t planning on an impromptu trip to the library today, but he’s not going to have the title of book thief hanging over his head for the rest of his life.
The library looks exactly the same. Which makes sense, because it's been two months, not two decades, but still. Part of Buck expected it to feel different somehow. Smaller, maybe, unfamiliar. Like returning to your elementary school and realizing the hallways have shrunk.
But no. Same shelves, same carpet, same faint smell of aged paper that Buck has, embarrassingly, kind of missed.
Patricia is at the back desk as usual. She looks up when he walks in, and her face cycles through a bunch of emotions. Surprise, then recognition, then a smile that's a little bit scolding.
"Well, well, well," she says. "Look who finally decided to show up."
"I know, I know." Buck holds up the book like a peace offering. "I'm so sorry, I found this under my couch. I didn't mean to keep it, I swear."
Patricia takes the book and inspects it, as if checking for damage. "Two months, Buck. I was starting to think you'd fled the country."
"I've been busy."
"Uh huh."
"I have! Work stuff, life stuff." He waves a hand. "Stuff, stuff."
Patricia looks as though she doesn't believe him but is too polite to call him a liar. "Well, I'm glad you're back. We got some new books in the marine biology section. There's one about mantis shrimp I think you'd like."
"Mantis shrimp?"
"They can punch hard enough to break glass."
"What? That's insane. Why didn't anyone tell me about this?"
Patricia laughs. "I'm telling you now. It's in aisle seven, bottom shelf."
Buck grins. Maybe he missed more than just the smell of old paper. "Thanks, Patricia. I'll check it—"
The front door opens and Buck glances over towards the sound automatically.
His heart stops. Because holy shit, it's them.
Eddie Diaz is walking through the door of the public library, one hand on his son's shoulder, looking somehow even more unfairly attractive than Buck remembered. He's wearing a t-shirt this time, which is almost worse, because Buck can see his arms, and they're just as good as he’d imagined.
Chris is chattering about something, gesticulating with one hand while the other grips his crutch, and Eddie is nodding along with that soft almost-smile that Buck has replayed in his mind far more often than is reasonable.
They're here.
They're here.
Buck's body makes a decision before his brain catches up, and he drops. Like, fully drops behind the help desk, on the floor, like a cartoon character hiding from a villain.
Patricia rolls her chair over and peers down at him, eyebrows raised. "Um," she says.
"Shit," Buck whispers. "Shit shit shit. Oh shit. Fuck."
"Are you... okay?"
"No. No, Patricia, I am not okay." Buck presses his back against the desk and stares up at the ceiling. "I am the opposite of okay. I am the furthest possible distance from okay."
Patricia glances toward the entrance, then back down at Buck. "Does this have anything to do with the man and the kid who just walked in?"
"How do you know that?"
"Because you were perfectly fine thirty seconds ago and now you're on the floor."
Fair point.
"Okay," Buck breathes. "Okay. So, remember how I used to come here all the time?"
"Vividly."
"And I said I was just really into marine biology?"
"I recall."
"That was... partially true."
Patricia's expression shifts into barely-contained amusement. "Go on."
"I was also looking for someone. A guy. That guy." Buck points vaguely upward. "I met him here like two months ago. His kid gave me this—" He digs frantically in his jacket pocket and pulls out the crumpled business card. "And I tried to find him but I couldn't and then I kept coming back hoping to run into him again but I never did so I gave up and now he's here and I'm on the floor, Patricia."
Patricia takes the card from him, reading it slowly as a smile spreads across her face.
"His son made him business cards."
"Yes."
"To find him a boyfriend."
"Apparently."
"And the son gave one to you."
"Yes."
"Because you're a—" She squints at the card. "'Hunk.'"
"Apparently."
Patricia looks down at him for a moment, then she nods, as if she's made a decision.
"What's your plan?"
"I don't have a plan. That's the problem. I never have a plan. I just do things and hope they work out and then they usually don't but sometimes they do and I'm really hoping this is one of the sometimes."
"Okay. What do you want to do?"
Buck thinks about this. Eddie is somewhere in the library with Chris right now. This is his chance; his actual, real, possibly-only chance.
"Do you have a pen?" he asks suddenly.
"A pen?"
"Or a Sharpie. Something that writes dark."
Patricia opens a drawer and hands him a black Sharpie. "What are you—"
Buck is already flipping the card over, pressing it against the floor, writing as fast as he can while still keeping it legible.
My name is Buck. I like boys too. I'm single. If interested, please contact the number below.
He writes his phone number, double-checks it, triple-checks it.
"How does this look?" He holds it up to Patricia.
She reads it, smiles.
"I think it's perfect."
Buck takes a deep breath. Okay. Okay, he can do this. He's a hunk, Chris said so. He just has to walk out there and be confident and charming and not trip over anything.
He can definitely do at least one of those things.
"Where are they?" he whispers.
Patricia peers over the desk. "Just finished at the front desk. Now they’re heading toward the kids' section."
"Okay. I'm gonna—" Buck gestures to his right. "Go… out there… and, uh, be normal."
"You've got this."
"I absolutely do not have this."
"That's the spirit."
Buck takes one more breath, shoves the card in his pocket, and stands up.
His legs are shaking. That's okay, legs shake sometimes, it's a thing that happens.
He walks out from behind the desk, aiming for casual, probably achieving psychotic. He picks a random direction and starts walking, eyes fixed straight ahead like he's a man with a purpose, definitely not looking for anyone specific, just a regular library patron going about his regular library business—
Patricia clears her throat, loudly.
Buck glances back at her and she gives him a very pointed look and tilts her head toward the kids' section.
Right. That direction.
He changes course, trying to make it look natural, and that's when Eddie and Chris both turn around.
For a second, nobody moves. Eddie's eyes widen slightly, recognition flickering across his features, and Chris's eyes go enormous.
"BUCK!"
The shout reverberates through the entire library. Somewhere, multiple people hiss their disapproval. Chris doesn't care. Chris is already moving toward him, crutches flying, face split into the biggest grin Buck has ever seen.
"Buck! You're here! Dad, look, it's Buck!"
"I see him, buddy," Eddie says, and he sounds confused, but not displeased.
Chris reaches Buck and immediately launches into speech at approximately one thousand words per minute. "I didn't think I'd ever see you again! Did you learn more about octopuses? I learned more about sharks. Did you know there's a shark that glows in the dark? It's called a kitefin shark. It's the biggest bioluminescent shark. I told everyone at school about it and they didn't believe me but I showed them pictures and then they believed me. Where did you go? You just disappeared. I thought maybe you moved away or something."
"I didn't move," Buck says, grinning down at him. "I've just been busy. But I'm really glad I ran into you. I wanted to tell you—the giant squid thing? With the dinner plate eyes? I learned even more about that. Apparently they've only ever found them dead or dying at the surface. Scientists still don't know that much about how they live."
"Whoa."
"Right?"
"That's so cool!"
Eddie has caught up now, standing just behind Chris, observing the exchange with an unreadable expression. He looks good. He looks stupidly good. His hair is doing a thing where it flops slightly over his forehead and Buck wants to die.
"Buck," Eddie says. "That's... hi."
"Hi." Buck's voice comes out approximately an octave higher than normal. He clears his throat. "Hey. Yeah. Hi."
Nailed it.
"I didn't expect to see you here," Eddie says.
"Yeah, no, I just—" Buck waves a hand. "Had to return a book. Overdue. Very overdue, actually. Two months overdue. Patricia was not happy with me." He laughs, it sounds insane; he keeps going anyway. "So. Yeah. Just... library stuff. Normal library stuff."
Eddie nods slowly. "Right."
There's a pause. A long, horrible, excruciating pause.
Chris looks between them. "Dad, aren't you gonna say something?"
Eddie blinks. "I... what?"
"About Buck! He's a hunk, remember? I gave him a card!"
The color that floods Eddie's face is magnificent. It starts at his neck and creeps upward, blotchy and crimson and absolutely gorgeous.
"You—" Eddie stares at Chris. "You gave him a card?"
"Yeah! At the library! I told you about it!"
"You told me you made a friend who liked octopuses!"
"He does like octopuses. And he's a hunk. Those aren't—" Chris makes a face communicating that Eddie is being exceptionally dense. "Those aren't opposite things, Dad."
Eddie looks like he's considering fleeing the country. "Chris."
"What?"
"We talked about the cards."
"You said I shouldn't give them to strangers."
"Yes!"
"But Buck isn't a stranger anymore. I gave him the card and then we talked for a really long time, so now he's my friend. That's how friendship works."
Buck watches Eddie struggle with this logic. It's tremendously entertaining.
"I—that's not—" Eddie pinches the bridge of his nose. "That's not how that works."
"It's a little bit how that works," Buck offers.
Eddie shoots him a look.
"Sorry," Buck says, not sorry at all.
Eddie sighs. He turns to Buck, and his expression softens into something more apologetic. "I'm really sorry about this. I had no idea he was giving those out. He's been... very invested in my dating life."
"Because you're lonely, Dad."
"Thank you, Christopher."
"You're welcome!"
Buck is going to explode. He's going to actually, literally explode from how cute this is. He needs to do the thing. He needs to do the thing right now before he loses his nerve.
"Actually," Buck says, reaching into his pocket. "I'm glad you brought that up, the card thing."
Eddie's eyebrows draw together. "You... are?"
"Yeah. Because I have something for you." Buck pulls out the card, slightly crumpled, crayon on one side, Sharpie on the other, and holds it toward Eddie. "I tried to contact Chris, but there must’ve been a typo on the card. The number wasn't on there."
Eddie stares at the card. He doesn't take it.
"So I added my own information," Buck continues. "On the back. In case you wanted to, uh, verify my hunk credentials."
Eddie accepts the card slowly, gingerly, as though it might bite him. He turns it over.
Buck watches his face as he reads it.
My name is Buck. I like boys too. I'm single. If interested, please contact the number below.
Eddie's blush, which had started to fade, returns with devastating force. He stares at the card for a prolonged moment, biting his lip.
"I, um." Eddie clears his throat. "This is—"
"I know it's unconventional," Buck says quickly. "Bizarre, even. I met you one time and I've been thinking about it for two months and I kept coming to the library hoping to run into you again, which, now that I'm saying it out loud, sounds genuinely unhinged, but I promise I'm not dangerous or anything. I mean, it's slightly unhinged, but in a romantic way? A hopeful way? And Chris gave me the card and it felt significant, you know? Like the universe wanted me to find you. Or I guess Chris wanted me to find you. Which is almost the same thing. And I just thought—"
"Buck."
"Yeah?"
Eddie looks up from the card. His eyes are warm, honeyed in the afternoon light filtering through the library windows, and his mouth is curving into that almost-smile again. Except this time it goes further, this time it reaches completion.
"I'll call you," Eddie says.
Buck's brain short-circuits. "You—wait, really?"
"Yeah." Eddie ducks his head, but Buck can still see the smile spreading across his face. Full and bright and breathtaking. "Yeah, I'll call."
"Oh." Buck is grinning, he can feel it, his face might actually split in half. "Cool. That's, yeah. Cool. I'll just—I'll answer. When you call. Because I have a phone. And it… yeah."
"Smooth," Chris stage-whispers, and Buck has never been more mortified in his life.
Eddie laughs, actually laughs, out loud, and it's the most glorious sound Buck has ever heard. Rich and surprised, like it was startled it out of him.
"We should go," Eddie says, tucking the card carefully into his pocket. "Chris has a book report to work on."
"About sharks," Chris adds. "Obviously."
"Obviously," Buck agrees.
Eddie puts his hand on Chris's shoulder and starts to guide him toward the exit. He pauses, glancing back at Buck.
"I'll call tonight," he says. "If that's okay."
Buck's heart soars. "That's— yeah. More than okay. That's great. I'll be, I mean, I'm always available. Not in a desperate way. Just in a— I have a flexible schedule. For calls. From you."
Eddie's smile widens. "Bye, Buck."
"Bye."
Chris waves over his shoulder as they head for the door. "Bye, Buck!"
"Bye, Chris!"
And then they're gone.
Buck stands in the middle of the library, heart pounding, face aching from smiling, feeling like he just won the lottery.
Patricia appears beside him holding the mantis shrimp book. "So," she says. "That went well."
Buck takes the book. He looks at the door. He looks at the book. He looks at Patricia.
"I think I'm going to marry that man," he says.
Patricia pats him on the shoulder. "One step at a time, Buck. One step at a time."
Buck makes it approximately fourteen steps toward the nature section before his phone buzzes.
Unknown number.
His heart catapults into his throat. It can’t be. There’s no way, Eddie said tonight, Eddie specifically said tonight, and it’s been maybe three minutes so—
“Hello?”
“So, I lied.”
Buck walks directly into a bookshelf.
“Eddie?”
“I couldn’t wait until tonight.” Eddie’s voice is warm and a little out of breath and a little embarrassed. “We’re still in the parking lot. I haven’t even started the car. I just sat down and looked at the card and then I was dialing and now I’m… doing this. Calling you. From my car. Like a crazy person.”
Buck is beaming so hard his face might actually split open. A woman browsing the travel section gives him a weird look. He doesn’t care, though. He doesn’t care about anything except the voice in his ear.
“You’re not a crazy person.”
“I’m sitting in my car calling someone I saw fifteen minutes ago because I couldn’t handle waiting a few hours. That’s at least a little crazy.”
“It’s romantic.”
“It’s embarrassing.”
Buck laughs, loud and delighted, and claps a hand over his mouth when Patricia shoots him a look from her desk. “I’m glad you called,” he says, quieter. “Even if it’s embarrassing.”
In the background, Buck hears Chris's voice. "Dad, is that Buck? Are you talking to Buck? Tell him I say hi! Ask him if he knows any more shark stuff!"
“Chris says hi,” Eddie says fondly. “He wants to know if you have any more shark facts.”
"Tell him I'm going to research kitefin sharks specifically and get back to him with a full report. I take my responsibilities as his shark consultant very seriously."
There's a pause, presumably while Eddie passes this along, and then Chris's voice again, slightly muffled but audible, "Dad, I like him."
“I know, buddy.”
“He’s a good hunk.”
“I know, buddy.”
Buck's entire chest goes supernova. He has to lean against the bookshelf for support. The woman from the travel section is definitely staring at him now, he waves at her, she leaves.
"I've been thinking about you," Eddie says, his voice has gone quieter. "Since that first time. It's annoying, actually. I'll be doing something completely normal, like making dinner or folding laundry, and then out of nowhere my brain will just go dinner plates and I'll stand there like an idiot thinking about squid eyes."
"Giant squid have the largest eyes in the animal kingdom," Buck supplies automatically.
"SEE. That. Why do I know that now? Why is that information in my head? I don't even like the ocean that much; it freaks me out. Too big, too many things with too many teeth."
“The ocean is a nightmare hellscape and I’m obsessed with it.”
“That’s concerning.”
“Probably.”
Eddie laughs, properly this time, and Buck wants to live inside that sound forever. He wants to build a small house in that laugh and never pay rent anywhere else.
"I'm glad you called," Buck says. "I was fully prepared to spend the next three hours vibrating with anxiety and checking my phone every thirty seconds and driving myself insane. You saved me from myself."
“Only three hours?”
"Okay, more like six. I was going to lie in bed and stare at the ceiling and replay every stupid thing I said and convince myself you were never going to call."
“I was definitely going to call.”
"I didn't know that! You could've been being polite! You could've been humoring your kid! You could've gotten home and looked at the card and thought actually, that weirdo who fell on me in the library is not someone I want in my life—"
“Buck.”
“Yeah?”
"I called you as soon as I sat in my car. I didn't even make it out of the parking lot. I think it's safe to say I'm interested."
Buck's face is going to cramp from smiling. This is a medical emergency. He's going to need facial reconstructive surgery.
"Okay," he says. "Good. That's. Yeah. Good."
“Eloquent.”
"I'm very eloquent. I'm known for my eloquence. Ask anyone."
“I’m asking you.”
“Okay, bad example. Ask literally anyone else.”
Eddie snorts. In the background, Chris yells, "Buck IS eloquent! He knows so many big words! He said bioluminescent!"
"Your kid believes in me," Buck says. "That's all the validation I need."
"He's very easily impressed."
"I am NOT," Chris protests loudly. "I'm discerning. Abuela said so!"
"Abuela also said you were spoiled."
"That's because I'm worth spoiling.”
Buck is laughing so hard he has to muffle himself against his sleeve. Patricia is giving him the look again. He mouths sorry and shuffles further into the nature section, tucking himself between Marine Biology and Ornithology.
"So," he says, once he's mostly got himself under control. "Dinner."
“Dinner,” Eddie confirms. "Tonight. I know a place. Italian. The breadsticks are incredible. Chris is very particular about breadsticks and he's given them his official seal of approval."
"If Chris approves, I'm in. His judgment is clearly impeccable."
"He picked you, didn't he?"
Buck's heart stutters. "He did."
"Then yeah," Eddie breathes. "Impeccable."
There's a pause. Buck can hear Eddie breathing, can hear Chris humming something in the backseat, probably a song from a movie, slightly off-key. He can hear his own blood rushing in his ears, loud and insistent, like his whole body is trying to remind him that this is happening, this is real.
"Text me the details?" Buck asks.
"As soon as I get home. Which requires me to actually start the car and drive, which requires me to hang up the phone, which..." Eddie trails off. "I don't really want to do that yet."
"Then don't."
"I'm in a parking lot, Buck."
"Parking lots are great, very underrated, lots of atmosphere."
"There's a seagull staring at me."
"Entertainment! You've got entertainment."
"It looks angry."
"Seagulls always look angry, it's their whole vibe. Very confrontational birds."
"I feel like it wants my car."
"Don't let it have your car, Eddie, I need you to drive to dinner later. I don't have a car. Well, I have a car, but I want you to drive. Because then it's more like a date, if you pick me up. That's date behavior."
"You want me to pick you up?"
"If that's okay? I can send you my address. Or we can meet there. Whatever's easier. I'm flexible. Very flexible. I do yoga. I don't know why I’m mentioning that. Please stop me."
"I'm not stopping you. This is the best phone call I've ever had."
"It's definitely the best phone call I've ever had, and I once won a radio contest, so the bar is pretty high."
“What did you win?”
"Tickets to see a band I didn't even like that much. I just really wanted to win something."
“Did you go?”
"I went, they were fine. The nachos at the venue were better than the music, honestly. Really good cheese sauce. I think about those nachos a lot."
Eddie is laughing again and Buck is so far gone it's not even funny. He's known this man for a combined total of maybe twenty minutes across two separate occasions and he's already mentally planning what to wear to their wedding.
That’s probably too fast. That’s definitely too fast. He’s going to keep doing it anyway.
“I really should go,” Eddie says sadly. "Chris has homework. And I need to shower. And I should probably feed him something before we go out."
"Responsible. Very dad of you."
"I try."
"Hey, Eddie?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm really glad your kid gave me that card."
Eddie's quiet for a second. When he speaks again, his voice is barely a whisper.
"Me too, Buck. Me too."
There's another pause. Buck really doesn't want to hang up. He wants to keep standing here in the nature section, wedged between books about whales and books about birds, listening to Eddie breathe.
“One of us has to hang up,” Eddie says finally.
“You called me. Caller hangs up first, that’s phone etiquette.”
“That’s not a real rule.”
“It’s absolutely a real rule, ask anyone.”
"You keep saying that and I'm starting to think you don't actually know anyone."
"I know Patricia. Patricia!" Buck calls out toward the back desk. "Is there a rule about callers hanging up first?"
There’s a long silence, then Patricia’s voice, annoyed. "Please stop yelling in my library."
"She's busy," Buck tells Eddie. "But I'm sure she'd agree with me."
"Goodbye, Buck."
"Wait, no, I wasn't ready—"
"I'll text you tonight, with details."
"You promise?"
"I promise."
"Okay." Buck exhales. "Okay, drive safe. Don't hit any seagulls."
"I'm going to hit so many seagulls now."
"EDDIE."
“Goodbye!”
The line goes dead.
Buck stands there, phone pressed to his ear even though there’s nothing to hear anymore, grinning like an absolute lunatic. Patricia appears at the end of the aisle. “So,” she says. “How’d it go?”
Buck looks at his phone, still clutched in his hand. “Patricia, I have a date tonight.”
"Congratulations. Now please check out your book so I can close out my register. My shift ended two minutes ago."
"Right. Yes. Sorry." He takes the book, looks at it, looks back at Patricia. "Mantis shrimp can punch hard enough to break glass."
“I know. I recommended it.”
“My life is incredible right now.”
“I’m very happy for you. That’ll be due back in three weeks.”
Buck floats to the checkout desk. He floats through the parking lot. He floats all the way home, the mantis shrimp book tucked under his arm, his phone clutched in his hand, his whole entire future stretching out in front of him bright and terrifying and full of possibility.
He has a date.
With a hot firefighter dad.
All because a seven-year-old thought he was a hunk.