Page 22 of Love By the Book
Claire meets me with a nervous smile outside the Magnolia Cove Museum, a small building that looks like someone’s grandmother’s house more than a repository of historical artifacts. It’s a stormy ocean blue and has a long porch that runs the house’s length.
“Ready to dive into some fascinating Magnolia Cove history?” She shrugs but her voice pitches high. “Keeping in mind, of course, that this is thetourist-approvedversion of history. But you have the perfect guide to give you the backstage stories.”
I nod, trying to muster some enthusiasm. I should be thrilled about this. It’s a perfect opportunity to see what the locals know about Whitlock. Instead, dread gnaws at my stomach but I try to force casualness into my voice. “Lead the way.”
Claire grins and walks us through the entrance.
What follows is two of the most excruciating hours of me attempting and failing to make small talk I’ve ever endured. The only moments of success are when I imagine Rhianna there and what I might say to her. Claire’s efforts to make every mundane object sound thrilling fall flat, and I long for Rhianna’s zany comments.
“And this,” Claire says, gesturing to a faded photograph, “is Magnolia Cove’s famous cat, Buttercup.” She leans in to whisper. “She belonged to the Head Warlock during the 50s.”
I make a noncommittal noise, wondering how many more exhibits we have left. I’d hoped there might be something about Cyrus Whitlock, but like everywhere else, there’s no trace of him beyond a single mention in theLocal Authorsdisplay that lists his birth and death dates wrong. Probably just a mistake, the kind of minor oversight that happens when no one’s paying much attention. Whitlock might be who I wrote my thesis on, but around Magnolia Cove, he’s just another half-forgotten name in the archives. When I ask Claire, she waves it off with a dismissive “Oh, he’s overrated, honestly” that makes me cringe.
Claire seems perfectly nice, exactly my type on paper, the lack of Whitlock appreciation aside. Normally quirky historical details would fascinate me, but my eyes keep darting toward the door, my mind rushing ahead to dinner with Rhianna.
Rhianna who is anything but my type. If she was giving the tour of this museum, she’d make unexpected jokes that would have me laughing and batting back comments. Thisdate, on the other hand, is an accurate reflection of how most of my attempts at relationships go—and why whatever I have with Rhianna feels so different.
By the time we reach a final exhibit showing off the various shells found on the beach—spiraling Knobbed Whelks, glossy Olive Shells, and sleek, dark ones that are charmingly nicknamed Shark Eyes—I’m silently praying for the minutes to pass.
Piper will analyze and tear this date apart later. She actually popped popcorn for our conversation the other night when I’d mentioned dating at all.Oh, I hope your schedule is clear; I have questions, she’d quipped. The matchmaker aspect I’d left out. I do have some sense of dignity I’m attempting to preserve.
Claire continues to discuss the shells and I continue struggling to find anything to say. I hope Piper is busy and I can get away with a simple text conversation later. I attempt not to look at my watch too obviously.
“Thank you for the tour,” I say as we finally exit the museum.
Claire looks up at me. “Are you hungry? Do you want to get dinner?”
“Ah, I’m afraid I already have plans this evening,” I reply, guilt creeping in.
Her face falls, and she looks away so her hair drifts between us like a curtain. “Maybe another time, then.”
“Sure.” I say, knowing full well it’s a lie.
“Well, I’ll see you on Monday.” She forces a smile on, waves, then practically runs down the steps. I want to follow her and try to explain myself. But nothing I’d offer would console. A pang of guilt swirls through me. It’s not Claire’s fault we lack chemistry. Or that I didn’t come to Magnolia Cove looking for love. Or that natural conversation for me only happens with those who already know me inside and out.Well, unless you're someone who wears quirky pins, debates classic rock like its life or death, and has brown eyes deep enough I could drown in.
That heaviness hangs over me as I make my way toward Seabreeze Avenue, the street that overlooks the ocean. I’m going to have to tell Rhianna that I can’t do anymore matches. My gut twists knowing she’ll be disappointed. The last two hours were excruciating, though, and I hurt Claire’s feelings as well. Not just the anxiety—though that’s always there, humming like an air conditioner I can’t shut off. It’s that I’ve never met anyone who quieted the noise in my head long enough to feel possible. Connection has always felt like something to brace for, not something to want.
Even my one long-term relationship just… happened. Sarah and I liked the same coffee shop, worked at the same university, hit the same gym. Eventually, it felt easier to date than not.
But with Rhianna nothing about her blends in. She’s not routine. She’s wildfire. We’ve shared one breakfast, a handful of conversations, and already she’s in my head like a spark I can’t put out.
It doesn’t feel like folding into someone else’s life. It feels like something cracked open the moment we met and now I can’t look away.
The Siren’s Song, a seafood bistro with a wooden pier-like exterior and twinkling lights, is bustling when I arrive. The restaurant overlooks the harbor where the orange of sunset reflects in the water and splashes color over dozens of sailboats. I walk in and offer my name. The server smiles and tells me to follow her. Inside, the restaurant is cozier, defined by weathered wood, soft blues, and strategically placed mermaid sculptures that manage to be whimsical without crossing into kitschy.
Rhianna sits at a corner table, illuminated by a softlyglowing lantern. She’s wearing a flowing emerald dress that sets off her skin and makes her dark hair seem even glossier. When she turns in my direction, a smile spreads across her face and she waves. She’s chosen dangling earrings made of glass beads and they clatter together as I return the wave and walk over.
Even in this dim restaurant she sparkles like starlight reflected on a still lake. I’ve longed to see her all afternoon, but wasn’t prepared for it. For how beautiful she looks or how my heart feels like it’s going to explode at the sight of her.
As I take my seat, I steel myself for the conversation ahead. How do I tell her that her matchmaking efforts are in vain? Even though I want to quit, I dread disappointing her.
“So,” she says. “How was your date with destiny?”
She emphasizes the last part by spreading her hands out in front of her, maroon and gold bracelets sliding down her arm. I groan and drop my head into my hands. “More like a date with disaster.”
Is it just me hoping or do her shoulders drop and she smiles a bit at my response? She chuckles and the sound is as light and musical as wind chimes. “That bad, huh? Spill the tea, Lancaster.”
And so I do. I recount how a three-room museum felt like it lasted for a hundred miserable years, about Claire’s desperate attempts to engage me in conversation, and the awkward silence (thanks to me) that felt longer than the tour itself. I finish with the uncomfortable parting.
