Page 11 of Love By the Book
At the bottom of the chart, I’d taped a birthday card from Grandma Ida so I could always see her loopy signature and remember her last words to me. If I close my eyes, I can hear them as clearly as the day she said them from her hospital bed.
"Promise me, Rhianna." Her once-powerful voice had turned into a whisper. "Promise me you’ll take that trip we always talked about. Even if I can’t make it.”
Her frail hand gripped mine with surprising strength, and I hiccuped a breath, fighting the sting of tears.
“Paris, Buenos Aires, Cairo,” she murmured. “We planned it for so long. I used to fill journals with the places we’d go, the stories we’d collect.” A weary smile ghosted her lips. “But now... it’s your turn. Don’t wait for the perfect time. Go. See it all—for both of us.”
The lump in my throat thickened. “It won’t be the same without you.”
“Promise me you’ll go,” she whispered. “Really go. And when you do… you’ll find me there. In the sea spray, in the café music, in the pages of your travel journal. I’ll be with you. Always.”
I nodded and attempted to fight tears that streamed down my cheeks. The savings chart is nearly half colored now. Grandma Ida would be so proud. I run my fingers over it and remember the pain in her eyes.
Jacob thought the way I grieved my grandmother was… too much. Like it was strange to hurt that deeply over someone who wasn’t a parent or a partner. But Grandma Ida wasn’t just my grandmother—she was my best friend. When you’re an awkward kid who struggles to fit in—even on an island full of magical people—having someone who walks to the beat of the same odd drum you thought only you could hear… that kind of connection changes everything.
We snuck candy into matinee movies. We swam in theocean under the moonlight. We made a vow to see the world together, one grand adventure at a time.
But then she got sick.
And she left before we could.
With a determined huff, I plop down at my desk and pull out a new notebook I’d purchased for the matchmaking service. Enough of the moping. Enough of the what-ifs and whispered memories.
Time to brainstorm potential matches for Eli. Someone who’s not me and doesn’t have relationship non-compatible plans. Someone perfect for him. Someone who likes charmingly nerdy men with a passion for books, surprisingly good music taste, and the ability to banter like he stepped out of a Jane Austen novel and… and…
Someone who isn’t terrified of loving someone again.
Because Mom’s right. I do avoid love. She knows it. I know it. It’s the unspoken elephant in every conversation we have.
And no matter how much the energy sparked between Eli and me—because yes, of course I felt how our magic practically hummed in the air together—Eli seems like a good guy. The kind who’s steady and genuine and open-hearted. And he doesn’t deserve someone like me.
Someone who builds walls and calls them boundaries.
Someone who learned the hard way that vulnerability doesn’t guarantee closeness—it can be the very thing that pushes people away. I’ve kept things light, surface-level, safe.
It’s easier to help other people fall in love than to risk showing someone the mess underneath and being abandoned all over again.
Because once was enough.
Once wastoo much.
So I pick up my pen, pretend the flutter in my chestmeans nothing, and start planning the perfect match—anyone but me.
The scent of fresh coffee wafts into my room, followed by a gentle knock. Dad pokes his head in, two steaming mugs in hand, his reading glasses perched on his nose and a well-worn poetry journal tucked under his arm.
"Early bird gets the coffee," he says, padding into my room in his worn leather slippers. I’m already at my desk, notebook open, pen in hand—because apparently my brain decided to wake up at dawn, buzzing with matchmaking ideas and, fine, maybe a few lingering thoughts about Eli. Strictly professional ones, of course. Totally reasonable. Completely manageable.
Just don’t ask me to say that out loud.
"You're my favorite father," I say, making grabby hands at the coffee. He gives me a mug—the one with little books printed all over it that Mom got me for Christmas—and settles into my reading chair, the one by the window that used to be Grandma Ida's.
"I brought you something else too." He pulls a glossy brochure from his back pocket. "A colleague mentioned this at yesterday's faculty meeting. It took a bit of digging but I managed to find some information.”
The brochure's title makes me set my cup down with a clink against my desk. TheWorld Library Tour Fellowship.My heart thunders as I scan the details. Six months. Twenty-four destinations. Libraries around the world.
It's like someone reached into mine and Grandma Ida’s dreams and turned them into a real opportunity.
"Dad..." My voice comes out all wobbly.
