Page 56 of Love By the Book
The sky remains stubbornly dark, though.
Of course it does.
The light was never the scenery, the meteors, or even the magic.
It was Rhianna, all along. But she streaked by so quickly.
My hands shake as I pull back the book’s cover and remove a stack of photos. Each one captures a moment where she illuminated my carefully structured world. When she shined a light that made me realize how dark everything was before.
I smile at the first one. The Blue Moon Festival. We both wear ridiculous Elvis wigs and Rhianna is dramatically strumming an inflated guitar. The photo had caught me mid laugh, and now looking at it, I barely recognize myself. That man isn’t thinking about proper citations or comparative literature or book curation checklists. He’s just… happy.
I slide it to the back of the stack and reveal the next image.The Tipsy Mermaidgroup shot. The bartender took it at the exact moment Rhianna threw her head back laughing at oneof my terrible music puns. Her hand rests on my arm, and I’m looking at her like she’s a first edition I’ve spent my whole life searching for. Except that’s not quite right—I’m looking at her like she’s something far more precious than any book.
The skydiving photo makes my stomach drop all over again. I remember gripping her hand so tightly before we jumped, but in the photo, we’re both beaming. She taught me that fear and joy could coexist, that sometimes the scariest moments lead to the most beautiful ones.
I reveal the last photo—my favorite. It’s a selfie I took one morning, the two of us tangled in my sheets, her curled against me in my oversized college sweater. She’d stolen it as soon as she got out of bed, padding around my kitchen while I made French toast. The morning light gleams copper in her ebony hair and I look like a man who just stumbled into his own fairytale.
A tear splashes onto the photo and I quickly wipe it away. My hand shakes so hard I struggle to slide the photos back into place. It’s like I’m vibrating with emotions. I’ve felt that way since the moment I met Rhianna. Up to this point, it was joy rushing through me until it seeped through my pores. Now, it’s an altogether different feeling?—
My thumb grazes the book’s cheap floral endpaper. It’s starting to peel at the corner. The academic part of my brain kicks in, the part that can identify binding techniques and paper types at a glance.
When she gave me this book, I’d barely examined it. Just the fact that she knew I’d love Whitlock, that she’d thought of me while finding it—that was enough to make it precious. As soon as I’d seen the cheap end papers, I’d mentally marked it as not financially valuable. It had become the most treasured book in my collection anyway, simply because it came from her.
I should have noticed though. The end pages don’t matchthe era. With shaking, careful fingers I pull the paper down. It releases from the book easily, like someone had only glued the outline.
Under the decorative paper lies the original end page, pristine despite its age. And there, in the top right corner, is a flourish of faded ink that makes my breath catch. I grab the flashlight, fingers clumsy as I lift it closer.
The signature.
The distinctive ‘C’, pressed so hard it left an indent. The flowing ‘k’ at the end of Whitlock. I’ll need to authenticate it officially, but I already know. It’s real. One of the mythical signed Whitlock’s that got me into rare book collecting in the first place, that launched my entire career studying folklore and mythology.
And Rhianna just… gave it to me.
Handed it over beneath a starry night sky with a casual smile, like she wasn’t changing my entire world. Like she hadn’t found the holy grail of my profession.
The floral paper folds back in place again, revealing the photos. The one of us tangled in my sheets blurs through my tears. I found exactly what I’ve spent my career hunting for, only to realize it’s not what I’ve been searching for at all.
Or rather, it’s not all I’ve been searching for.
The sobs come without warning, echoing into the empty dark. I don’t even try to hold the sound in. There’s no one here to see me fall apart.
“You’re what?” Piper’s voice crackles through the speaker as I wrap another book in bubble wrap.
The record player hums softly in the background, the crackle of vinyl spinning. It’s the only thing I haven’t packedyet. I told myself it was because I’d need the box last. But the truth is, I couldn’t bring myself to silence the music just yet.
I check the book off my packing list—all categorized, organized, just as it was before Rhianna swept into my life and rearranged everything, including my heart.
“Moving back,” I say, keeping my voice steady as I place the wrapped book in Box 7: Office—Reference Materials (Non-Fiction.) I’ve labeled all the boxes as precisely, each category a desperate attempt at order. Fiction, non-fiction. Reference. Personal. As if putting my life back into the neat little containers will somehow make sense of everything that’s happened. As if I could pack away the way she’s changed me as easily as I store away these books. But where’s the box for the sound of her laugh? Which carefully labeled container holds the way she made my heart race every time she said my name? There’s no classification system for the hollow ache in my chest that expands with every item I wrap.
Piper hums sadly before speaking again. “But—what about Rhianna? Did something happen?”
Her name pierces through me. A pain that’s as explosive as a lightning strike, sudden and searing. “I’d rather not discuss it.”
“Eli…” Her voice is soft and I have to close my eyes against the concern in it. Piper, who’s spent years teasing me about how she could set her clocks on my schedule, now sounds worried about my return to the routine. “Talk to me, Brubba.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.” I check another item off my list. The pen makes a satisfying mark against the paper. Clear. Definitive. Final. “Sometimes things just… end.”
“Are you sad?” Piper’s voice is brutally soft. Not teasing, like when she used to ask me about Sarah, my girlfriend of several years. She’d always said Sarah was as exciting as a library card. Our relationship had ended that way as well. Quiet.Expected. Like returning a book you never really wanted to check out. We’d gone our separate ways amicably.
