Abner of many Hearts

I push the bridge of my glasses farther up on my nose and turn the page in my book. I adjust the airpod in my ear and try very hard not to hum to my favorite song, weary of the librarian sorting books on a shelf just a few feet away.

I sigh and close my book, leaning back on the plush couch. Susanne Collins can’t seem to inspire me anymore. Nor can Victoria Aveyard, or Veronica Roth. I’ve tried everyone from Rick Rioridan to James Patterson, but not an ounce of inspiration has hit me.

Maybe I should’ve gone to Starbucks instead . . . Starbucks is my go-to for people-watching—and people-listening. I’ll sit there for hours, pretending to be deep in thought on my laptop, but really I’m tuning in to the conversation around me and trying to find something to inspire me. Even if it’s just someone venting to a friend or an inside joke that I don’t understand. I can take about anything and put it into a book if the moment is right.

Not to mention that I’ve had my mind elsewhere all day. Both my parents and friends have been nagging me about getting a boyfriend. You’re twenty-three, Genevieve. Don’t you think it’s about time you start thinking about settling down?

No. I haven’t published anything successful yet. I don’t want to settle down until I do something that I can make a career out of.

I get up, replacing the book back on the correct shelf. I brush the titles with my fingertips, looking for fresh material. But everything is something that I’ve already read; already gained some sort of inspiration from.

“Ms. Cooper,” the soft voice of the librarian, named Mrs. Loughty, says. I turn my head, acknowledging her. A wiry woman with grey hair, her back sort of hunched forward so she looks shorter than she actually is. Cat hair sticks to her deep crimson sweater. “You’ve been in that same section all week. I don’t think you’re going to find anything new.”

I sigh, forcing a soft smile. “Yeah, I know. Just scanning.”

“Well, if you’re looking for something new, you know you could always ask for a recommendation,” she continues.

I raise my eyebrows, silently asking for her to continue.

“Here.” She turns back to the shelf she was organizing and takes a book from it. Mrs. Loughty hands it to me. “See if that interests you.”

I run my fingers over the title and the field that decorates the cover. Abner of many Hearts. There doesn’t seem to be an author on the cover or the binding.

I look up from the book. “Uh, ma’am—” I look around the corner for her, but Mrs. Loughty has disappeared. So has the man at the front desk on the other side of the large room.

Strange. I decide not to think much of it and sit down on the couch with the book, opening the cover to reveal the first page. The dedication reads: To all who can’t possibly imagine the impossible limits of writing and storytelling.

Confused, I turn to the next page. It’s blank. As is the next, and the next, and the next . . .

I must have fallen asleep, because when I open my eyes next, the night setting on the overhead lights is on. I glance around me, but there is no one to be seen.

Was I forgotten in the library?

There are worse places to be locked in, especially if you’re a bookworm like myself. I know every inch of this library, and none of it scares me.

I yelp at the loud sound of a book falling off a shelf, standing quickly. Well, I mean, anyone would be at least a little startled over that.

I look around to where the sound came from, squinting through the darkness. Slowly, a boy pokes his head around the corner, holding a book in his hands.

“Sorry ta wake ya’,” he says. “I didn’t mean to. I mean, you just looked so peaceful sleepin’ like that, so—”

I yelp again and chuck the book at him. It bounces off his chest harmlessly.

Next goes a pillow. Then another book.

“What are you doing here? Who are you?” I yell and scream and throw everything I can at him as he slowly approaches me. I begin to back up slowly, keeping the space between us as he tries to get rid of it. “Get away from me!”

“Hey!” he yells when a book hits him in the face, making him stumble back. “Calm down, will ya’? I’m not gonna to hurt you!”

I take another book in my hands and pull my arm back, aiming at him. But I don’t throw it. Not yet.

“You asked what I’m doin’ here. And the honest answer is ‘I don’t know.’ ” He shrugs. “Someone opened my book and left it open. So, here I am.” He bows. “Abner McKro, at your service.”

“A-abner?” I look at the book, Abner of many Hearts, at his feet. “From the book? But the book was blank.”

“Exactly. That’s ‘cos my story hasn’t been written yet.” He looks up at me. “But I don’t know why. I’ve been waitin’ so long—”

“Please, shut up,” I interrupt, pressing my fingers to both of the temples. “Can you explain to me exactly what’s going on?”

He gives me a blank stare. “I’m as clueless as you.”

“Helpful,” I mutter. I take a deep breath, trying to calm my ringing nerves. I close my eyes; a few moments of silence.

“Okay.” I open my eyes again. “So, remind me again who you are, exactly?”

“The name’s Abner. Abner McKro,” he explains. “I grew up in a small town called Greenville. 1800’s.” His eyes skim down my figure, and I feel the slightest bit of heat begin to crawl up my throat. “But I don’t think I’m in 1871 anymore.”

Slowly I shake my head. “No. No you’re not.” Never taking my eyes off of him, I motion to the couch beside us. “Shall we?”

He looks from me to the couch and back before nodding in agreement. Almost in synchronization, we both sit down. I make sure that I’m as far away from Abner as I can possibly be.

“So. Tell me more about yourself, Mr. McKro.”

He shakes his head. “Please, it’s Abner. And there’s not much to say ‘bout myself.” He shrugs. “I mean, I grew up poor, and now I’m tryin’ ta find a life for”—he grins—“yours truly. Pa wants me to get into business. Ma doesn’t really care, as long as I’m doin’ somethin’ that makes me happy.”

His slang surprises me. Then again, he did say he was from 1871 . . .

“What do you think you’re going to do?” I ask, intrigued.

He meets my eyes, all-seriousness. “I think I ought to get married. That’s what my older sister, Carrie, keeps telling me.” His eyes wander from me again, taking in the library around us. “I mean, I guess I am twenty-three. Most men my age already have a youngin’ or two.” He sighs, leaning back on the couch. “But I dunno. And I sure don’t have a passion for business like my pa wants me to have.”

“So, what is your passion?” I ask.

Once again, his eyes snap to mine. “I like to paint, I guess.”

“What do you like to paint?”

“Oh, mountains. The ocean.” His smirk fades. “Things I’ll never really get to see with my own eyes.” He turns his head from me again. “But nothin’s stoppin’ me from thinkin’ ‘bout ‘em, ya’ know?”

Without much thought, I take out a small notebook and pen out of my coat pocket, jotting some things down. “Highly fascinating,” I murmur.

“You’re a writer, ain’t ya’?” I look up at him to see him eyeing me with mild curiosity. “I know a writer back home.” A soft smile tugs at the corners of his lips. His eyes wander from mine again, sadness flickering. “She’s got an awful lot of talent, that girl.”

“What’s her name?”

He looks at me, frowning. “I . . .” His eyes wander from my face to my hands. “I don’t remember.”

“What? How can you not remember?” My eyebrows furrow to the center of my forehead. “You really can’t remember your own friend’s name?”

His eyes flick back to mine. Bright, baby blue. A mysterious, yet happy color. “What’s your name?”

“Genevieve. Genevieve Cooper,” I reply.

He thinks long and hard for a few moments. Then, he snaps his fingers. “Yeah, that’s it! Funny, you two have the same name.”

I blink at him a few times. “If that was a flirting attempt, you’re very bad at this.”

Abner’s face falls. “F-flirting? I wasn’t flirting.” His face turns a shade of crimson and cherry. “That’s her name. Genevieve Cooper. I never lie.”

We both glare at each other for a few long, silent moments. I lean forward, trying to intimidate him with my eyes narrowed, but he doesn’t cower.

“You know, you’re a lot like ‘er.” He flushes. “If I told her there was another girl who was a writer with the same name as her, I betcha she would question me, too.”

I nod slowly, jotting something else down. Abner is silent as I do so, watching me.

“Has anything tragic ever happened to you? Like, memorably so?” I ask, looking back up at him.

He nods. “Yes. Plenty things.” His eyes wander again. “There was the death of my little sister.” He frowns. “She fell off a tree. A big one, too. This wasn’t just one of those small ones that little kids like to climb up. On the way down, she hit her head on a rock. Broke her skull.” His lips twist with something like disgust at the memory. “Pa almost killed himself because of that.”

My expression droops. “I’m so sorry.”

He smirks. “Thanks.” My eyebrows furrow with confusion at the unlikely response; the quick change of the atmosphere of our conversation. “And then there were the bullies that always picked on my little brother. I was workin’ one day after school, and they took him and beat him up. Left him on the side of the road.” He grins. “All of ‘em got a lickin’ from me and their Pa’s after that.” He slaps his knee, laughing. “Oh boy, if you coulda seen the looks on their faces when I broke one of their noses!”

I can’t hide the smile on my face at the thought of a group of boys, with fearful, wide eyes and open mouths, all staring at Abner, a spot of fresh blood on his knuckles. It’s a picture I don’t want to forget.

He sighs. “And, of course, there’s Genevieve.” He runs a hand through his dirty blond hair, not meeting my eyes. “She’s not married yet, and she don’t have a bou. Both Pa and Ma like her, so much so that they’ve been pushing me to go on an outing with her.” His face flushes again. “But I’m not even sure if she’s interested in me.”

I nod slowly, taking a few more notes. “I think you should ask her.” I look up from my notes. “People in the 1800’s don’t ask people to dinner, do they?”

Abner shrugs. “Sometimes. Most times it’s to go fishing, or go on a walk, or sometimes even out to a picnic.”

I smile. “Sounds romantic.” My smile widens into a grin. “If this Genevieve is really a lot like me as you say she is, then I suggest you take her out on a picnic. I think she’d like that.”

Abner smiles shyly. “Do you think she loves me?”

I nod. “I’m sure she does.”

He grins and stands, handing me his book. “Oh, thank you so much.” He holds the book in my hands and closes it. His voice seems to echo in my head as the picture of him, excited and smiling, dims. Oh, thank you so much . . .

I inhale deeply, rolling my head to the side to see the curtains on my window flowing in the soft morning wind. I sigh, blinking the sleep and sudden light out of my eyes.

I sit up quickly, alarmed. “Ab . . . ner?” My voice lowers as I quickly realize that I’m actually in my room of the apartment complex down the street, not in the library.

Had it been nothing but a dream?

My pants lay on the floor next to my bed. Leaning over, I scoop them up, reaching my hand into the left pocket. I pull out my notepad and skim the pages.

My notes that I remember taking are still there, just as I remember them. Only, instead, underlined on the bottom of the sheet of paper, is the title: Abner of many Hearts.

I lurch out of bed and slip on some fresh clothes, quickly brushing through my hair and slipping on my glasses. I snatch my keys off the table by the door and leave, jumping in the car and pulling out of the apartment complex.

Down the road, I pull into the parking lot of the library. I forget to lock the car as I get out, jogging to the doors. They slide open for me as I near them, and I take a sharp left through the sensors. I make my way through the open space of the children’s area, back to the young adult section.

Once I’m there, I remember that the book didn’t have an author. Only a title. How am I supposed to find the book, then?

Instead, I scan the titles and the color of the covers, looking for green and yellow with a bright blue sky. I find nothing.

“Ms. Cooper! My, you’re early this morning.” Mrs. Loughty approaches me from behind, holding a few books in her hands. She begins to place them back on the shelf where they belong.

“Oh, yes. I was just looking for that book you gave me yesterday,” I say, watching every book with searching eyes as she places them on the shelf.

She hesitates for a moment. “The book I gave you yesterday?”

“Yes. Abner of many Hearts?”

She contemplates the title. “I can’t recall giving you a book yesterday, nor can I remember that title.” She places the rest of the books on the shelf. “Let me look it up in the system.”

Next to us, she searches the title on a tablet. She bites her lip as she scrolls through the titles, me looking over her shoulder.

“No. I don’t think that book exists, Ms. Cooper. But it’s a beautiful title. Maybe your next book?” As she looks at me, I know she’s holding back a laugh. I know she is.

“Maybe,” I murmur as I walk away. “Maybe.”