Page 50 of Love By the Book
"Ignore him," Rhianna says, but there's something forced in her laugh. I want to pause the moment, reach for her, and ask what’s wrong. Because something is. Maybe it’s just the fear of going this deep again—of letting someone all the way in. But before I can, she smirks at her brother. “He thinks being the older sibling gives him teasing rights."
"It absolutely does," Gavin grins, extending his hand. "Welcome to the madhouse."
Dinner is... perfect. Almost too perfect. Mr. Wilder—“Please, call me Richard”—keeps me engaged in a fascinating discussion about the evolution of poetry through the ages, from ancient oral traditions to modern experimental forms. His eyes light up the same way Rhianna's do when she’s passionate about something. Mrs. Wilder—Alma—is quieter but razor-sharp, offering occasional insights that make everyone laugh.
Even Gavin and I click instantly when he mentions his current reading obsession with Norse mythology. Sure, I spend most of my time with Celtic and Arthurian texts, but soon we're deep in a friendly debate about the parallelsbetween Odin’s sacrifice on Yggdrasil and other mythological trees of knowledge, while Rhianna rolls her eyes fondly.
This feels like home. Like family. Like forever.
I can already picture Piper here, trading quips with Gavin and commiserating with Alma about their shared concern and love of the children they work with. Mom would absolutely adore Richard—they’d probably spend hours debating poetry while Dad and Alma bond over their shared love of abstract art.
I can see summer barbecues on the back patio, lazy Sunday brunches, Christmas mornings with the banister wrapped in garland, stockings hung by the fireplace. It would be chaos with Piper trying to organize everyone into her infamous family photo shoots while our parents compete to plan the most elaborate family vacations. The thought makes my chest ache with how much I want it.
"Eli?" Richard's voice pulls me from my reverie. "Would you like to see my study? I have a few older books you might appreciate."
I follow him down a hallway lined with black and white photographs—generations of Wilders, I assume. His study is everything I dreamed of having someday: floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a well-worn leather chair, the smell of aged paper and wisdom.
“I have to say…” Richard chuckles, running his fingers along a shelf of poetry collections, “It’s nice to finally have someone over who appreciates these old things. Rhianna loves books, of course, but she’s more interested in where they can take her than where they’ve been. Gavin tolerates my collecting habit, but you”—he gives me a knowing look—“you understand the magic in the binding itself, don’t you?”
I can’t help but grin. It’s exactly how I tried to explain it to Piper last week when she called my collectionfancy dust-gatherers.“There’s something about holding a piece of history inyour hands. Each crack in the spine, each dog-eared page tells its own story. And part of me—sacrilegious as it feels to admit—wants to peek beneath those covers, to touch wooden book boards from trees growing during the Renaissance. To imagine connecting with a tree that could have been a sapling when Shakespeare penned his plays.”
“Now that’s poetry,” Richard says. “The way you talk about books—it reminds me of how my students react when they first discover Wordsworth isn’t as stuffy as they assumed. When they reallyfeelthe words for the first time.”
“That is exactly what drew me to teaching.”
Richard nods, then reaches for a book off a shelf. “You know, Rhianna’s been different lately. More content, even with all her big plans brewing. Usually she’s moving from one thing to another at a pace I can’t keep up with, but these past few weeks…” He smiles. “It’s nice to see her happy again, like she’s finally finding the perfect balance.”
My heart swells at his words. Rhianna had seemed off since I arrived—her smile tight, her usual effervescence dimmed, like she’s holding herself back. But of course she’s nervous. According to Gavin, it’s been years since she’s brought anyone home. This is a big step for her, probably bigger than I realized.
I can see the fear hiding behind her smile, the careful way she's moving around me tonight. Letting me into her family, into this level of her life, is probably terrifying for her. I understand—I've read enough of her story to know she guards her heart fiercely. I can wait until she’s ready. My call to request teaching virtually for the upcoming semester was the right one. I won't tell Rhianna yet—I won't push her. She needs time, and I can give her that. Some books are worth savoring slowly, page by page, and what we're building feels too precious to rush.
But before I can dwell on that thought or respond,Richard pulls another book down. “Speaking of Rhianna, here’s her favorite of my collection. Limited edition of 'Around the World in 90 Days.' She begged for this one when she was younger. Said it would be her planning guide for her own big adventure around the world. I can’t believe that’s coming up so soon.”
He says it fondly if with a bit of wistfulness. The way parents do when they’re proud of their children’s dreams but wish those dreams didn’t take them so far away. I barely register his tone though, because my brain has snagged on one phrase:around the world.
My heart stutters, but I keep my voice casual. “She’s talked about traveling, but I don’t think we’ve discussed the details.” I’m amazed at my ability to speak with so much calm. If I wasn’t living inside my head where I’m mentally screaming, I’d believe myself relaxed. “When is she thinking of going?”
“Oh, she’s saved for years.” Richard hands me another book. High-quality leather, but second edition lacking any inscription. The kind of copy a true collector would admire but not covet. And I can’t believe my brain is able to even process this considering the continued internal screaming. “Following her Grandma Ida’s dreams.” He sighs but smiles. “My mother had a wanderer’s heart her whole life—picked Rhianna’s name, in fact. Those two were like twin spirits from the moment Rhi was born. Always planning adventures, mapping out far-off places they’d visit together someday.” His voice softens. “And now with this fellowship acceptance—twenty-four libraries in six months! And she thinks with her savings she can extend the trip to a year. That’s my girl, doing it in true librarian style. I can’t believe she’ll be gone in a couple of months.”
The room tilts slightly. A year. And she's leaving ina couple of months.A fellowship she hasn’t even told me about. And if it’s anything like the ones through the university, she’sbeen working on this since we met or earlier. Planning it. Dreaming about it. Never discussing it with me.
While I’ve been imagining a future here… with her.
Everything crashes into place—her reluctance when I tried to talk about feelings at the beach, the way she deflects whenever I mention the future, her saying she had plans that inhibited her wanting anything serious. God, I've been such a fool.
I’ve been planning holidays that will never happen. Imagining our mothers’ mingled laughter which will never exist. Standing in this study, surrounded by generations of Wilder family photos, dreaming about where our children’s pictures might hang one day—while she’s been counting down the days until she leaves. Until she leaves me.
I've already made the call to teach remotely next year, started looking at the long-term lease options for my apartment, even begun the paperwork to transfer my research grant to the Magnolia Cove archives—all to build a life around a woman who never planned to stay.
This is exactly what happens when you abandon logic for feelings. When you throw away carefully crafted plans for the wild beat of your heart. I’ve spent my entire life making calculated decisions, weighing every option, considering every outcome. Then Rhianna Wilder walks into my life with her bright smiles and quirky book pins and strong opinions, and suddenly I’m restructuring my life around a woman who never saw anything serious with me. Who probably hasn’t thought twice about who she’s leaving behind, because I was never meant to be anything but temporary.
When we rejoin the others, I see her differently. Her laughter sounds lighter because itislighter—unburdened by the weight of attachment I've been feeling. Every smile, every touch, every moment we've shared... was I the only one building castles in the air?
"Walk you out?" Rhianna asks later, already movingtoward the door. Her voice holds that same warmth it always does, but now I hear what's missing—any hint of reluctance to see me go, any suggestion that this evening meant as much to her as it did to me.
On the porch, the salt air that usually invigorates me now stings. The stars that usually promise possibility now mock my naivety. She rocks back on her heels, hands tucked into the pockets of her dress—a gesture I once found endearing but now recognize as an action that creates distance.
"Thanks for coming," she says, and I search her face for any sign that she means more than just tonight. Any hint that she’s about to bring up the conversation we said we’d have. That I’m not the only one holding space for it. Her eyes don’t even meet mine as she speaks. "My family really liked you."
