Worth the Effort: Ella's Story

Chapter 7

If I have to work on weekends, it's usually the ten to two shift. I have end-of-quarter finals next week, so I asked if I could work this weekend and have Wednesday through Friday off.

The restaurant is a different kind of busy on weekends. The crowd is made up of vacationers and shoppers, people who are downtown for leisure activities, so different from the usual business crowd. Though I love weekend crowds, the hours feel longer. When my shift ends, I leave through the front door, so I can walk to the library to stock up on books to read during winter break.

The air is crisper than I anticipated. I dig my gloves out of my bag, yank them on, and pull my sweater tight around me. The library is only two blocks away. I jump up and down in place while waiting for the light to turn green so I can cross the street. I stride purposefully down the sidewalk to the big brick building, thankful for the heat that washes over me as soon as the doors swoosh open. I'm intent on making it upstairs to browse the shelves.

As I leave, my stack of books teeters precariously while I pull my gloves back on. I stride through the automatic doors into the still cooler than expected air. I glance at a person sitting on the sidewalk, leaning against the building with a book propped open on his knees.

"Ayden!"

He looks up and smiles. "Hi, Ella."

Somehow, his raspy voice warms me, like a barrier from the biting wind.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, not able to identify what's wrong with what I see in front of me.

His smile broadens, flashing straight, white teeth. He shrugs. "Basically, I kind of live here."

His eyes sweep from left to right, and I understand he means all of downtown. That intriguing smile crooks a little in a teasing way, and without consideration, I step forward and plop onto the sidewalk next to him.

The scent coming off his clothes makes my eyes water, and I have to shift away, which makes me sad. If he notices, he doesn't react. He continues to look surprised that I sat down in the first place.

"What are you reading?" I ask.

He flips the book closed, and I scan the cover. I don't recognize it, but it looks like a horror novel, which makes me chuckle. That's when I realize what's wrong.

"That's a library book."

"Yes," he says, frowning at it, then lifting his eyebrows to me.

"Did you...steal it?"

Now he's frowning at me. "Why would you think that?"

My embarrassment won't let my tongue move. He studies me as my cheeks flush and my lips press closed.

His sad sort of smile tells me there are so many thoughts he can't or won't share with me. "I'm homeless, not a criminal."

"Oh! No. Ayden, that's not what I meant." But that's exactly what I said. I rest my hand on his arm, and he startles. "I'm sorry. I feel so stupid. Well, I am stupid, actually."

He's frowning again, and all I can think about is how bright his dark eyes are and that his hair isn't hiding them.

"What are you stupid about?" he asks.

I'm blushing again—trying not to notice how his gaze keeps sweeping over my face, my hair. I fight the urge to brush my bangs out of my eyes and tuck my hair behind my ear.

"Homelessness in general, really," I admit.

My heart flutters. I'm scared he'll push me away and tell me to leave, or feel I'm being condescending and demand I let him be. Suddenly I want to know his story. No, that's not right. I've wanted to know his story since I first saw him. Now, I want to be a part of his story, and I'm scared to death I'll do or say something so insulting he'll refuse me access.

"That's a good thing, I'd say." He might be looking at the wild pulse in my neck, but it seems like he's far off in a memory. "Mostly people only know about it if they're living it."

"Well, that doesn't seem true." I tip my head to the side as I mull over his statement further.

There's an irony, a curiosity in his manner that, again, doesn't fit into the image I've formulated of him. It seems my ability to stereotype is as faulty as it is boundless.

"What do you mean?" he asks.

"Just that there are shelters available for the homeless and other resources. Not everybody remains ignorant about it."

He nods and looks off into the distance. Considering what I've said, I think.

"The book...what I meant...I'm surprised you can borrow a book from the library." Again, I'm filled with fear that what I say may offend him, and he'll disappear like a dream that was just getting good. "Don't you need an address to have a library card?"

The bright, amused smile is back on his face, and my fear unravels.

"You do."

I stare at him, waiting for more of an answer. He finally obliges.

"I wasn't always homeless."