Unscripted

Gary likes books. Mia likes plans. Neither is looking for romance. Unscripted is a heartwarming contemporary romance about finding love, building a future, and learning that sometimes the best moments aren't the ones we plan.

Library Gary liked the reference desk because it was predictable. Not the questions, which ranged from straightforward to baffling, but the rhythm of it. People approached with purpose. They explained what they needed, sometimes poorly. He asked clarifying questions. Together, they arrived at something usable. There was satisfaction in that sequence. It was a Tuesday in September, early enough in the term that the students were still optimistic. Gary had already answered three variations of the same question that morning, about how to find peer-reviewed sources without accidentally citing a blog, when he noticed her again. She was standing a few steps back from the desk, scanning the signage as though deciding which rule applied to her. A hint of purple caught the light in her hair, unexpected enough that he noticed it before he meant to. He had seen her before. Once, maybe twice. Enough that her presence registered before her face did. When she stepped forward, he straightened slightly, which he told himself was just good professional habit. “Hi,” she said. “I’m looking for financial journals. Canadian ones, if possible.” “Sure,” he said. “We can narrow that down. Are you looking for market analysis, regulatory material, or something else?” She considered that. “Something else. I’m taking an upgrade course, and my instructor suggested journals over textbooks.” “That tracks,” he said. “What’s the focus?” “Retail banking. Advisory work. So, more practical than theoretical.” “Most of the current issues are online, but we keep several Canadian titles in print. I can show you where those are.” They walked together toward the stacks. The strap of a bright pink backpack cut across her shoulder, incongruous with the otherwise careful way she carried herself. She matched his pace without comment, which he noticed because it didn’t always happen that way. He explained how the journals were organized, which titles were more academic and which were more practical. She listened carefully, asking clarifying questions, not pretending to understand more than she did. When they reached the right section, she ran her finger along the spines. “This is exactly what I needed,” she said. “Thank you.” “You’re welcome.” She gathered a few volumes into her arms and hesitated, as if about to ask something else. Her mouth parted slightly, then closed again, the question disappearing before it formed. Then she seemed to think better of it. “I’ll let you get back to… whatever it is librarians do when they’re not answering questions.” He smiled despite himself. “It’s a secret.” She laughed, soft and quick, then turned and walked away down the aisle, the sound lingering a moment longer than it should have. Gary waited until she was out of sight before returning to the cart he’d left at the end of the row. He slid a book into place, then another, letting the familiar motion settle him. Nothing notable had happened. He’d done his job. She’d been polite. That was all. Still, as he returned to the reference desk, he found himself thinking, not for the first time, that some people had a way of making ordinary spaces feel slightly less so. * * * Gary didn’t expect to see her again so soon. She appeared at the reference desk a week later, this time with purpose and momentum. A notebook tucked under her arm, pen already uncapped. She didn’t hover. She waited her turn, scanning the desk with the mild impatience of someone who knew what she needed and didn’t want to waste time getting it. When she stepped forward, recognition landed cleanly, mutual but unremarked. “Hi,” she said. “I’m back.” “Yes,” he said. “I remember.” She smiled at that. “Good,” she answered, a hint of satisfaction in it. This time she didn’t need journals. She needed help navigating a database interface that had clearly been designed by committee and never forgiven for it. Gary walked her through filters and indexing logic, pointing out shortcuts, explaining why some search terms failed even when they shouldn’t. She followed easily. “So this one,” she said, tapping the screen, “isn’t wrong. It’s just unhelpful.” “Exactly,” he said. “It’s technically correct.” She made a face. “The worst kind.” He smiled. They worked side by side for a while, the conversation thinning as her focus settled. She leaned slightly toward the screen, one hand resting near the track pad, the other tapping the pen lightly against the edge of the laptop when she paused. He found himself watching the way she moved through the interface, deliberate but not hesitant, asking questions only when she needed to, not to fill the silence. It made the time pass more quickly than it should have. When they finished, she closed the laptop and hesitated. “Can I ask you something that’s not strictly academic?” “You can ask,” he said. “I may still answer academically.” She laughed. “Fair. Do you actually like this?” she asked, gesturing vaguely around them. “Libraries. Helping people find things they didn’t know how to ask for.” He considered the question carefully. “Yes,” he said finally. “I like that there are rules. And that within them, you can still solve problems.” She nodded, as if that made sense to her. “That makes sense.” “For what?” “For you.” He didn’t ask what she meant. He let it stand, unsure what he would do with the answer if he asked. “If you’re going to use this one,” he said, pointing to the title on the screen, “the older issues aren’t digitized. They’re bound separately from the current journals.” “Of course they are.” “It wouldn’t be a library database if everything were in the same place.” She closed the laptop. “Can you show me?” They walked toward the back of the library, past the section he had shown her the week before. The bound volumes were kept in a narrower aisle, their spines marked by year rather than issue number. Gary pulled one free and showed her how the indexing worked. “So the database tells me the article exists,” she said, “and then sends me somewhere else to find it.” “Essentially.” She looked at him. “You’re very patient.” He shrugged. “It’s easier than rushing.” She glanced at him, thoughtful, but didn’t comment. When they reached the end of the aisle, she opened her notebook. “I should probably write this down,” she said. “Before I forget.” “You’ll remember.” “Maybe,” she replied. “But I don’t like betting on memory.” That, he noticed, felt familiar. They parted with a nod this time, not quite a goodbye. As she walked away, he returned to reshelving, aware of her presence fading rather than disappearing. Later, as he pushed the cart toward the workroom, he found himself wondering whether she would be back the following week. Not expecting it, exactly. But allowing for it. He found he liked the idea of that. At home, things rarely changed. Evenings followed a familiar sequence: dinner, a book, occasionally a TV show if something held his attention. The quiet settling back in. He preferred it that way. * * * Mia started coming in on Tuesdays. Her employer gave her Tuesday afternoons for the course. Class took up part of it; the rest she usually spent at the library. By the third week, Gary had stopped treating it as coincidence. Tuesdays were quieter than Mondays, when everyone arrived in a panic, and busier than Fridays, when people gave up early. They had a steady, manageable hum to them. Gary liked Tuesdays. Mia appeared mid-afternoon, almost like clockwork. She always carried a notebook, sometimes a coffee, sometimes not. She explained, eventually, that she was taking a work-related course and had the afternoon off to attend class and study. He added it to the quiet accumulation of things he was beginning to notice about her. “It’s nice not to feel like I’m stealing time,” she said. “Even if I still end up here.” “That’s what we’re here for,” he said. “Helping people find what they’re actually looking for.” She smiled at that and headed straight for the financial journals without needing directions anymore. Their interactions became comfortable and repeatable. She asked fewer questions about where things were and more about how to evaluate what she found. Gary showed her how to tell when an article looked impressive but said very little, how to spot methodological problems without reading every word. He taught her to separate confident presentation from useful evidence, and she became good at it quickly. They talked more now, still mostly about research, but sometimes about other things. Neutral things. The campus. The weather. The cold mornings that had started showing up before either of them was ready. One afternoon, she arrived visibly annoyed. “Tell me,” she said, setting her notebook down, “why this database thinks a press release and a peer-reviewed article are basically the same thing.” Gary glanced at the screen. “It doesn’t think they’re the same,” he said. “It just doesn’t care.” She sighed. “That’s worse.” He showed her how to fix it. She listened, absorbed, asked the right questions. “So if I narrow it this way,” she said, “I’m filtering for relevance, not just accuracy.” “Yes,” he replied. “And if I don’t—” “You drown.” She smiled. “Good to know.” * * * The Tuesday before Halloween, she didn’t show up. Gary noticed immediately, which annoyed him. People missed days. Schedules changed. There was no reason to catalog the absence. He told himself that. Twice. He checked the clock anyway. Late in the afternoon, as he was reshelving returns, Vanessa wandered past with an armful of books. “Hey,” she said casually. “Your girlfriend didn’t come in today.” He stopped short. “My…” He turned toward her, confused. “I don’t have a girlfriend.” “You know who I mean,” she continued, unbothered. “Dark hair, purple highlights. Pink backpack. Always here on Tuesdays.” Gary scoffed. “I don’t even know her name,” he said. The words came out a little too quickly. Vanessa blinked, then grinned. “Whoa. Relax, Gary. I’m teasing.” “Oh. Okay.” She shifted the books in her arms. “I just meant she’s part of your routine. People notice when routines change.” “Right,” he said. “Yeah, that tracks.” Vanessa smiled at him, not unkindly, and continued down the aisle. Gary stood there for a moment, replaying the exchange. He hadn’t meant to sound defensive. He hadn’t even realized he might. He returned to his cart, shelving the next book with more care than necessary. * * * Gary looked forward to Halloween every year. Not in a loud way. He didn’t plan months in advance or build anything from scratch. But he enjoyed the permission it gave: to be specific, to reveal a corner of himself that usually stayed folded away. The part that cared about getting things exactly right, even when no one else would notice. A good costume was a form of precision. It said something without requiring explanation. This year’s choice had been easy. The Starfleet uniform was already pressed and waiting when he woke up. Black tunic with red shoulders and grey collar, black pants, polished boots. He’d added lieutenant’s rank pips, not because anyone would notice, but because he would. That was enough. The details mattered. By mid-afternoon, the library had taken on a low-level festive chaos. Cat ears. Witches. Someone from circulation had committed fully to a dinosaur suit and was already regretting it. Gary took his place behind the reference desk and got to work. Most people smiled when they noticed. A few commented. One student saluted solemnly. Gary returned it without irony. It was nearly three o’clock when Mia appeared. She stopped short just half a step and took him in, openly. “Oh,” she said. “You went all in.” He smiled. “It’s Halloween. The chief librarian encourages us to dress up for it.” “It’s Star Trek,” she corrected. “Yes.” She leaned on the desk, eyes bright. “Which series?” “Deep Space Nine,” he said without hesitation. “Well, the first half, anyway. And Voyager.” Her expression changed instantly. Recognition. Approval. “Okay. That’s the correct answer.” Something warm settled in his chest. “So,” she said, glancing around conspiratorially, “do Starfleet regulations allow for financial journals?” “Only under very specific circumstances,” he said. “Mostly involving Ferengi.” She laughed. Not polite, not restrained. Real. They talked longer than usual. “DS9 works because it stays put,” he said. “It lets the characters change.” Mia nodded in agreement. “That makes sense. Voyager was stranded halfway across the galaxy, but nothing ever changed.”a. “That makes sense. Voyager was stranded halfway across the galaxy, but nothing ever changed.” “Or if it did,” Gary said, “it didn’t stay that way.” They kept going. Favorite captains. Why some shows held up and others didn’t. When she finally gathered her things, she hesitated. “I’m glad you dressed up,” she said. “It suits you.” He considered that. “Thank you.” She smiled and headed toward the stacks. Gary watched her go. Later, Vanessa drifted past the reference desk, her dark green cloak brushing the floor. She had gone for something that wouldn’t have looked out of place in Lord of the Rings: practical boots, leather belt, hair braided back like she might be headed into a forest rather than the stacks. She gave him a slow, appraising look. “Nice pips,” she said. He smiled. “Nice cloak.” “Thanks,” she said. “It has pockets.” “Of course it does.” She leaned in slightly. “You have a good Halloween?” “Yes,” he said. And meant it.