In the Middle of Somewhere (Middle of Somewhere, #1)(21)

Rex nods.

“How come you don’t have a bunch of books in here?” he asks, looking around at my tiny cluster of books on the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that gape around the perimeter of my office. “Most of the professors’ shelves are full. Did you not unpack yet?”

All my grad school friends had tons of books: old favorites from when they were kids, all their books from college, a ton of books for research. They thought it was weird that I didn’t because almost all of them came from smarty-pants families, but I never got books as a kid. I got a library card when I was in sixth or seventh grade, but I never wanted to check books out because I shared a room with Brian and he could be counted on to destroy anything I owned at any moment. Then, later, I never had cash to spare on buying books when I could get them from the library—especially not the pricey books of literary criticism or theory that my classmates spent thirty or fifty bucks a pop for.

“I don’t really have many,” I say. “Could never afford it. I just get the library to order things I need. Of course, that’s hard here because this library is tiny.”

“What’s that one about?” Rex asks, pointing.

“Oh, The House of Mirth? I’m teaching it in my Intro to American Lit class. It’s about this woman, Lily Bart, who wants to be a member of the upper class, so she goes to all the right parties and tries to make the right friends. But then she meets this guy who she really likes—he’s different than the stuffy people she usually socializes with—and kind of falls for him. Only he’s not rich, so she can’t let herself be with him. She tries to marry this awkward rich guy she doesn’t like, but it doesn’t work out. Eventually, she ends up in debt to the husband of one of her friends by mistake and has to get a job making hats. I don’t want to ruin the ending, but let’s just say it’s not happy. Edith Wharton hates happy endings.”

“Why was she so desperate to marry a rich guy?” Rex asks.

“Um, because she’s terrified of being poor. Terrified of living in an ugly place and not being admired. It’s really sad. A lot of people read it as Wharton’s commentary on how vapid and materialistic the upper class is, but she definitely writes it as a tragedy, so she’s not totally unsympathetic to Lily.” I break off, aware suddenly that I sound like I’m lecturing him about the book.

“She wrote that one about the guy and the sled, right?” Rex asks.

“Ethan Frome, yeah,” I say. Huh, maybe he wasn’t just asking about the book to be polite.

Rex smiles shyly. “I liked that one. It reminded me of here—all that snow, and how isolated it can feel.”

“So, do you read a lot?” I ask. Rex studies the mess on the floor.

“Oh, well, I like some of the stories,” he says, looking self-conscious. “So, let me grab a broom to clean this up, and then I’ll replaster the crack. I think we’ll have to get you a floor lamp, because the wiring in these offices is garbage, and I don’t want to try and hang a new light just to have these old wires crap out on you. I’ll put in the order for it on Monday.” He heads for the door.

“I can clean it up,” I say, getting up.

“Daniel, sit,” Rex says. “It’s fine. This is my job.” He turns around without another word.

“So,” Rex says when he gets back, running a hand over the back of his neck. “What with the chatting and all, I didn’t really think. You probably don’t want me in here doing this when you’re trying to do your work. They had me come by on a Saturday because they figured that’s when I wouldn’t be disturbing anybody.”

“No, no, I don’t mind. Stay.”

“Well, I don’t want to disturb you, banging around and all.”

“No, seriously. I worked as a bartender all through college and grad school. It was at this music venue in North Philly, and I’d do all my reading for classes while the shows were going on, because that’s when fewer people were at the bar, right? So, one night, I’m trying to finish the whole second half of Moby Dick for my seminar in the morning and the band that night is some shitty speed metal group trying to be Slayer and failing miserably. So I’m pouring drinks and trying to finish one of the greatest literary works of all time while the band is screaming unintelligibly in the background. I still hear feedback whenever someone even says the word ‘whale.’”

Rex laughs and leans a hip against my desk.

“Really, stay. I’d like the company.”

“Sure,” he says. “I can pretty much guarantee that I won’t scream, at least.” He pushes off the desk to reach for his toolbox and the whole thing lurches. He’s pretty heavy.

“Jesus, Daniel,” he says, squatting down to look at the desk, which I’ve shimmed with some old copies of the school literary magazine that I found in my filing cabinet. “This thing is falling apart. Did you put these here?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I stood on the desk the first day I was here to try and change the lightbulb in the ceiling fixture and the desk kind of slumped.”

“And they never gave you a new one?”

“Oh, well, I never asked. I just stuck those there and they were actually the perfect height, so it’s fine now.”

“Yeah, as long as no one touches it,” he says.