Page 52 of Love By the Book
Jokes aside, he deserves someone who sees forever as a gift. Someone who loves him fully and without fear.
And I don’t have that in me anymore. All I want to do is run. Even if it breaks me. Even if he’s the best thing that ever happened to me. Because loving someone like Eli takes more bravery than I have left—and if I stay, I’m afraid I’ll only end up proving myself right: that Iamtoo much. That people like me don’t get chosen. Not for keeps.
I open my laptop, the screen illuminating with painful brightness and start typing:
Dear World Library Tour Fellowship Committee,
I am honored to accept...
The words blur as I type, but I keep going. Sometimes being brave means walking away from something that could be beautiful, toward something that could be extraordinary. At least, that's what I tell myself as I hit send, ignoring my thoughts screaming internally. My stomach twists. My heart aches like I’ve pulled the muscle.
Dad's voice carries up the stairs, along with the pop of a wine cork. He's telling Mom about his lunch date with Eli, his voice warm with pride over a new acquisition Eli’s found as if he’s already part of the family.
I stare at the sent email confirmation, waiting for the rush of excitement, the soaring euphoria of dreams coming true. That’s how this moment was supposed to feel.
Instead, I feel like a balloon that’s had all its helium let out—deflated and earthbound when I should be floating. My grand adventure, my perfect escape, and all I can think about is how Eli’s bangs fall across his forehead, and how his skinsmells like coffee, and how he argues about mid bands just to be contrary, and how he…No, Rhianna. Stop it.
I close my laptop and head downstairs, the weight of my decision settling around my shoulders like a heavy cloak. Two dozen libraries. Two dozen adventures. And one heart left behind in Magnolia Cove, tucked between the pages of a book in Eli's carefully curated collection.
At least I'll have plenty of material for my own story. Even if it's not quite the happy ending I didn't know I wanted.
Rhianna
The Library Comes Alive event is a roaring success. So many kids fill the library’s main area that I can’t even count them all. We’ve transformed each section into a different storybook world, complete with twinkling lights and more than a little magical enhancement (though the tourists just think we’re great at special effects).
Claire’s White Witch holds court in the winter wonderland we’ve created in the Reference section, complete with fluffy snow we’ll have to vacuum up for weeks. She’s also arrived with her promised Turkish Delight. (I’m so curious to see if any kids actually eat the stuff.)
In Fantasy, Michael’s Mad Hatter leads tea parties every half hour with delicacies purchased from The Whimsical Whisk. The Mystery section has become a Victorian London street where kids can follow clues to solve cases with a certain consulting detective who looks unfairly handsome in his deerstalker cap—no, I’m not thinking about that right now.
I’ve transformed the circulation desk into Number Seventeen Cherry Tree Lane, complete with a painted London skyline.
“Spit spot!” I announce in my crispest British accent to my crowd of wide-eyed visitors. “Who’s ready to see what’s in my carpet bag?”
I reach in, grateful that the Council allowed me this bit of magic for the night. The children gasp as I pull out an impossibly large umbrella, then a potted plant that shouldn’t fit through the opening, and finally—for the grand finale—a coat rack that I sit beside me. The children whisper among themselves, trying to figure out how I managed it. To the non-magical parents, it looks like a clever sleight of hand. They’re certain I have a hole in the table the bag rests on. To the magical folks, their smirks give away their true understanding.
From the back of the room, Eli watches. He’s devastating in his Sherlock Holmes getup—the cap casting shadows across his cheekbones, giving them sharp angles. The fitted coat makes it seem like he stepped straight out of a Victorian novel. The sight of him sends an ache through my chest so fierce I nearly fumble and drop my bag.
“Miss Wilder!” Jasper bounds up, his Lorax mustache slightly askew. “Can you pull a Truffula tree from your bag next?”
I force a smile. This should be one of the best nights of the year. I’ve spent months planning and organizing it. Yet, here I am, my heart weighing heavier than all the books in my carpet bag combined. I’m trying to focus on the kids but my mind keeps remembering Eli’s wonky star doodles, him singing Fleetwood Mac without reserve, him kissing me beneath starlight. His voice getting low and shaky as he?—
“I’m afraid Truffula trees are strictly outside my jurisdiction,” I tell Jasper as I reach into my bag. “However…” I produce an orange feather boa that matches his costume. “Perhaps this will suffice?”
His eyes double as I drape it around his neck, and for a minute I’m reminded why I love this job, this life, and eventhis town. Then I notice Eli again, his expression unreadable, and the weight settles back into my chest.
Some things even Mary Poppins can’t fix with a spoonful of sugar.
“And now,” I announce to my gathered crowd, channeling every ounce of the beloved British nanny that I can muster, “I believe it’s time for us to solve a mystery! Inspector Holmes is waiting for you on Baker Street to help our young detective crack a most curious case.”
I usher the children toward the Mystery section. Gaslight-style lamps cast a warm glow over cobblestone paths crafted from carefully painted cardboard. Eli stands beneath a light, his tall frame casting long shadows across the fake street.
“Gather round young detectives,” he greets them, his voice dropping into a perfect British accent that makes my treacherous heart skip.
It’s strange how he can fumble over small talk and get flustered ordering coffee when they don’t have his usual, but put him on a karaoke stage or in front of these kids and he transforms. Like he knows exactly who he’s supposed to be in those moments. I wish I had that confidence.
“We have a most peculiar case before us,” he continues. “The library’s rarest book has gone missing, and only the keenest observers among you can help locate it.”
He kneels down to the children’s level, and I try not to notice how the motion pulls his coat across his shoulders, how his eyes spark with enthusiasm behind his glasses. I try not to think about how I’ve seen those shoulders bare beneath moonlight, or how those eyes lit up in different ways when we were alone—softer, darker, full of promises I’m too afraid to embrace.
