Chapter 2 — The Wrong Number
Third Person
Lily Hart stared at the scrawled phone number on the scrap of floral notepaper, her hazel eyes wide behind her thick-rimmed glasses. She’d checked the digits three times against the listing for the rare collection shop in the city, but doubt still gnawed at her. The thought of speaking with a stranger—someone surely more confident, more worldly—made her chest tighten. Her thumb rubbed over a loose thread on the cuff of her cardigan, a nervous habit she couldn’t seem to break.
Taking a deep breath, she glanced at the pressed wildflower pendant hanging at her throat. The cool glass comforted her, a fragile link to her grandmother and the courage she used to encourage.
“You’ve got this,” she whispered, though her voice lacked conviction. Her fingers tightened around her phone like it might slip through her grip if she hesitated any longer.
Finally, with a sharp inhale, she swiped the screen and brought the phone to her ear. The ringtone buzzed, each note stretching the moment painfully. When the voicemail beeped, its suddenness made her jolt, her carefully rehearsed words scattering like leaves on a gusty day.
“Hi, um, yes, hello,” she said, her voice thin and a little rushed. “This is Lily Hart calling about the special first edition of *Wanderer’s Path* you have listed… or, um, had listed—I’m not sure if it’s still available. Anyway, I work at a library, and I’m—well, I suppose that doesn’t matter.” She paused, wincing as her thoughts tangled further. “I’d love to inquire about it. If you could call me back at…” She rattled off her number quickly, her voice climbing higher with every syllable. “Thank you! And have a great day!”
As she ended the call, the phone slipped from her hand and landed on the desk with a dull thunk. Lily buried her burning face in her hands.
“Perfect,” she groaned, her voice muffled through her fingers. “A flawless impression of a flustered bird.”
She exhaled slowly and sat back, letting her gaze drift to her pendant. The forget-me-not inside stared back at her, a tiny, frozen fragment of her grandmother’s garden. Her grandmother had always encouraged her to take chances, to step outside the safe little bubble she’d built for herself. “How else will you grow?” she used to say. But even something as small as this phone call felt enormous, like navigating a maze with no end in sight.
The quiet hum of the library surrounded her, the faint creak of the wooden floor under her chair grounding her in the present. Rising, she moved to the poetry display and began rearranging the anthologies for the upcoming Spring Book Fair, her fingers brushing the spines of the books with care. The familiar task should have soothed her, but her mind looped back to the voicemail, each replay sharper and more cringe-inducing.
The sharp buzz of her phone jolted her, and she froze. Her heart leapt into her throat as she stared at the screen, her damp palms smoothing over the soft fabric of her dress. For a moment, she debated letting it go to voicemail, but curiosity won out, and she answered with a hesitant, “Hello?”
“Hi there,” came a voice that was warm, smooth, and unmistakably edged with amusement. “I’m not sure who you are, but you left me a very fascinating voicemail about a book.”
“A… voicemail?” Lily’s mind scrambled, the heat rising to her cheeks as her fingers gripped the phone tighter. “Oh no. Oh no, no, no. Did I—did I misdial?”
“Depends,” the stranger replied, his tone teasing and light. “Were you trying to reach Alex Carter, intrepid traveler and occasional eater of dubious street food?”
“No!” she spluttered, squeezing her eyes shut as though that could erase the entire exchange. “I mean, I don’t know you. I was calling about a first edition from a rare book shop.”
“Well,” Alex said, the grin in his voice unmistakable, “I hate to disappoint, but this Alex Carter doesn’t deal in rare books. Just a lot of worn luggage and a camera that’s seen better days.”
Lily groaned softly, pressing her fingertips to her temple. “I… I am so sorry. I must have mixed up the numbers.”
“Don’t apologize,” Alex said lightly. “Your voicemail was the highlight of my day. If it makes you feel better, I’ve been mistaken for an insurance agent before. That call lasted ten minutes and ended with someone explaining deductibles to me.”
Despite herself, Lily let out a small, reluctant laugh, her embarrassment softening into something closer to amusement. “Well, I suppose I’m in good company, then.”
“You are,” Alex confirmed, his voice warm and conspiratorial. “So, do you always leave such charming voicemails, or was I just lucky today?”
Lily bit her lip, her fingers tugging at the hem of her cardigan. “Only when I’m trying to impress rare book shop owners, apparently.”
“Bold strategy,” Alex said, chuckling. “Though for what it’s worth, if I did own a rare book shop, I’d call you back. You’ve got the kind of determination that inspires confidence.”
A small smile tugged at her lips despite herself. “That’s kind of you to say, but we both know my voicemail was more flailing than confident.”
“Flailing can be endearing,” Alex countered. “I should know—I’ve flailed my way through plenty of situations. Like the time I tried to order coffee in Vietnam and ended up asking for a table instead of a latte. I spent the next five minutes holding a stool while the shopkeeper stared at me.”
Lily laughed, the sound surprising her with its ease. There was something disarming about Alex’s humor, the way he turned awkward moments into stories worth sharing.
“Well, thank you, Alex Carter, Non-Bookstore Owner, for letting me know about my mistake,” she said, her voice softer now, touched with genuine humor.
“Anytime, Lily Hart, Non-Deductible Inquirer,” he replied.
A brief, comfortable silence lingered between them, tinged with unspoken curiosity.
“You’ve got an interesting way of speaking,” Alex said thoughtfully. “Precise but introspective. Are you a writer by any chance?”
“Oh, no,” Lily replied quickly, shaking her head as if he could see the gesture. “I’m a librarian. I just… well, I love books, so I suppose that comes through.”
“It does,” Alex said. “It’s refreshing, actually. Most people I talk to don’t take the time to be thoughtful. So, librarian, huh? That explains the rare book obsession.”
“I wouldn’t call it an obsession,” Lily said automatically, adjusting her glasses. “I just have… an appreciation for literary history.”
“That sounds like the polite way of saying ‘obsession,’” Alex teased.
“And you sound like someone who thinks they’re very clever,” she shot back, surprising herself with the playful edge in her voice.
“Guilty as charged,” Alex admitted, his laugh easy and unforced. “But in my defense, I’m a journalist—being clever is practically in the job description.”
“A journalist,” Lily repeated softly, the word conjuring images of bustling cities, foreign landscapes, and the kind of boldness she admired but rarely dared to pursue. “That must be… exciting.”
“It has its moments,” Alex said. “But I’ll admit, sometimes the idea of a quiet library sounds pretty appealing. The closest I’ve had to peace and quiet recently was a 12-hour layover in Tokyo where I napped under a departure gate sign.”
Lily smiled faintly, the contrast between their worlds striking yet oddly compelling.
“Well, Alex Carter, I should let you get back to your adventures,” she said, though a strange reluctance tugged at the words.
“Or,” Alex replied with a teasing lilt, “you could call me again the next time you’re looking for a rare book. Wrong numbers seem to lead to the best stories.”
Lily hesitated, her fingers brushing the pendant at her throat. “Perhaps,” she said softly, her voice caught between shyness and intrigue.
“Until then, enjoy the library,” Alex said. “And if you ever need tips on flailing through the unknown, I’m your guy.”
“Noted,” she replied, a small, genuine smile playing on her lips.
As the call ended, Lily lowered the phone slowly, her heart fluttering in a way she couldn’t quite name. The library around her seemed quieter, the stillness amplifying the strange spark left by their conversation. For the first time in what felt like ages, she wondered if maybe—just maybe—the unpredictable wasn’t entirely a bad thing.
