Page 7 of Love By the Book
With a shaky hand,—and a silent prayer that none of my students ever get word of this—I reach out and tear off one of the contact strips. The sound of ripping paper is impossibly loud in the quiet foyer. I quickly stuff the strip into my pocket, as if hiding evidence of a crime.
There. I've done it. Sort of.
Now all I have to do is actually talk to this Rhianna person. At the circulation desk. Where I'll be working. Every day.
My heart races. What if word gets around that the new guy is so desperate he immediately signed up for amatchmaking service? What if it makes its way back to my actual job and life?
I take a deep breath and smooth the cuffs of my favorite tweed blazer. No backing out now. This is bold move number two. It's terrifying, yes, but that's the point, isn't it? To do things that scare me, to live life instead of observing it from behind the safety of my books.
With one last glance at the glittery monstrosity of a flyer, I turn and walk toward the circulation desk. Time to start this new chapter.
The library smells of lemons. That’s not something I would have guessed. My loafers tap softly, echoing in the quiet space as I force myself to move toward the circulation desk.
That’s when I hear it—a soft humming and the occasional lyric sung under someone’s breath. The sound draws me toward the circulation desk, where a whirlwind of movement catches my eye.
She’s a blur of color and energy, her dark hair swaying as she bobs her head to whatever tune is playing through her earbuds. Her fingers dance over book spines as she sorts through a cart of returns. She’s wearing a turquoise skirt that whirls as she bops around. It’s paired with a white graphic tee and a mustard-yellow cardigan adorned with pins that say things like ‘Prose before Bros’ and ‘Talk Wordy to Me.’
I clear my throat, suddenly feeling like an intruder in this moment of joyful solitude. “Excuse me, are you Rhianna?”
She spins around, thick lashes framing warm brown eyes that brighten when she smiles. My heart stops pounding for a moment as she pulls out an earbud and answers me. “The very one. The only one, in fact!”
Something unexpected flutters in my chest—a sensation entirely foreign to my carefully regulated emotional landscape. Her smile hits me with an almost physical impact, and I find myself momentarily transfixed by the curve of her lips,the sparkle in her eyes that seems to illuminate her entire face. I've never been distracted by someone's mere presence before, yet here I am, suddenly aware of the subtle floral scent of her perfume, the graceful way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.
Somehow I find my voice. “Well, there’s also the one cemented forever in song form.”
Her full lips part in an even larger grin. “I spell my name differently than that one, but I concur. It’s only the very best song that’s ever existed, after all.”
“I’m afraid you’re incorrect on that,” my voice is a tease. And who the hell is this version of Eli Lancaster? I don’t know, but YOLO or whatever it is that Piper says all the time.
The words flow out of me with an ease that's startling. I'm bantering. I'm teasing. With a complete stranger. Without rehearsing or weighing each potential response for its risk of awkwardness. The realization is almost dizzying—this isn't me, or at least, it hasn't been me for as long as I can remember.
“Please.” Rhianna rolls her eyes playfully. “Fine, name one that’s better.”
“Dreams, also by Fleetwood Mac.”
She pauses, her smile dropping and her eyes going wide. “Oh my gosh, you’re right.”
Heat creeps up my neck but I shrug. “Fleetwood Mac is the best soft rock band of all time, though. Full stop.”
“As much as it pains me, I do have questions.” She leans on her arms, close to me, like she’s about to whisper a secret. “Like, first of all, how dare you relegate Fleetwood Mac to ‘soft rock’ as if they weren’t producing revolutionary music that spanned a dozen genres.” Her smile is infectious and I find myself mirroring it. “Second of all, what about The Eagles? Or Bread?”
I can’t contain my laughter. “Bread? I mean, they’re good… but they have nothing on Stevie Nicks.”
“Just because they don’t have Stevie’s notoriety,”—she pauses and crosses herself, then presses her hands together for a moment of silence—“doesn’t mean they weren’t excellent. I suppose we can at least agree that the 70s were the best era for rock.”
“What about the 80s?” I can’t resist asking. “I mean, some of the best Queen and AC/DC music came out in that decade.” It amazes me how easily the words are flowing. Music and books are my two safest topics—familiar ground I can usually count on, even if I still stumble through them in group settings or with new people. But with Rhianna, it feels easy. Natural. Like we’ve been having this conversation for years.
She gasps in mock horror. “Sir, I’m sorry, but I’m going to need to ask you to leave the library.”
We both dissolve into laughter, and I’m struck again by how simple this feels. It’s been a long time since I’ve connected with anyone like this. Too long, if I’m being honest.
Most of my conversations are structured, predictable—intellectual sparring in academic settings, polite small talk over catered university dinners, surface-level exchanges with acquaintances who don’t really know me beyond my credentials. Even my last relationship, steady and reasonable as it was, had a rhythm to it. Safe. Comfortable.
But this?
This is something else entirely. It’s effortless, like stepping into a conversation that’s already been happening, like finding a melody I somehow know the words to before the chorus even begins.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
