Page 18 of Love By the Book
“Great. I’m looking forward to… analyzing things with you.” He digs back into his cinnamon roll.
As we part ways, I can’t help but wonder what I’ve gotten myself into. I’m the world’s most unprofessional matchmaker—not that I’d ever admit it to my friends or family. My first client and I have a big, sappy, sixteen-year-old-me-laying-on-my-bedroom-floor-singing-Everywhere crush on him. Ugh.
And the worst part? I swore I wouldn’t do this again. That I wouldn’t fall. That if someoneevermade me feel that vulnerable again, I’d bolt.
But as I watch Eli walk away, something in me starts to hope. And hope is the most dangerous feeling of all. It’s the one that tries to convince you that maybe this time… someone might stay.
Eli
The bell aboveVinyl & Versestinkles as I push open the door, and the scent of old books and vinyl hits me like a welcome embrace. It's exactly the kind of shop that makes small towns magical—shelves crammed with books reaching toward the ceiling, vintage album covers decorating the walls, and that indefinable atmosphere of possibility that comes with places where treasures wait to be discovered.
I’ve spent a good portion of my adult life seeking stores like this along the East Coast. It’s how I’ve found a few of the gems in my book collection. Most small shops don’t differentiate between dusty over-printed classics and the rare, forgotten treasures tucked into back shelves. A bit of digging and knowing what to look for, though, and you’re suddenly holding a first edition, or a copy with penciled notes from a professor who is now as famous as the original author. Those are the finds that make it worth the hunt—books with their own stories woven in, waiting to be discovered.
I run my fingers along spines, scanning titles methodically. My colleagues back at the university would call this a fool's errand.No one's ever found one.I hear Dr. Chen’s voice again.But I know better. Cyrus Whitlock spent a decade in Magnolia Cove. There has to be something here, some trace he left behind.
The shop owner, a woman with silver-streaked hair and kind eyes, points me toward the folklore section when I ask about Whitlock's works. "Good luck," she says. "That's a popular shelf."
I lose track of time as I search, carefully examining each book. My fingers are dusty, but I don't care. This methodical work, this treasure hunt—it’s what drives me. Or at least, it was until recently. Lately, though, everything’s shifted. Mark’s death has a way of echoing even in quiet rooms. This three bold moves idea was supposed to shake something loose.
But it’s not the books pulling me anymore.
It’s Rhianna.
Rhianna Wilder, with her sticker-covered journals, her impossible laugh, and her maddening ability to make me start questioning everything I thought I wanted.
My attention drifts to the vinyl section visible through the gap in the shelves. Just a quick browse, I tell myself. Five minutes, tops. But the moment I step into the music area, time slips away again. There's something meditative about flipping through albums, the soft whisper of cardboard against cardboard, each cover a piece of art in itself.
My fingers pause on a pristine copy of Queen'sA Night at the Opera. The corners are barely worn, the sleeve still crisp. I carefully slide it from between its neighbors, examining the cover with the reverence it deserves. Getting lost in record stores was my salvation during grad school—the one place where precision and passion met perfectly.
The bell chimes again, and familiar laughter floods the shop. I peek around the corner of a bookshelf, and my heart does that strange stutter-step it's started doing whenever I see Rhianna. She's with Zoe from the bakery and another womanI don't recognize, her hands animated as she talks, familiar quirky pins on her cloth bag catching the light. Today's say, "Reading is Lit" and "Bookworm & Proud."
I should focus on my search. I have a date tomorrow with Claire, after all. A date I agreed to because... well, because Rhianna suggested it, which in hindsight was the worst reason to say yes. But watching Rhianna wander into the shop, pulling out an earbud—she’s probably listening to some carefully curated Spotify playlist even while hanging out with friends—it's impossible to look away.
The group breezes in together and it’s exactly the friends I’d imagine Rhianna having—Zoe with striking purple-streaked hair and tattooed arms, the other laughing uninhibitedly at something Rhianna whispered, completely unbothered by the fact that she’s wearing an oversized cardigan during summer. I wish I could have heard whatever Rhianna said, could catch that easy warmth that seems to follow her. They’re all talking at once, gesturing animatedly, practically vibrating with energy.
They’re the kind of people who make playlists called things likeSummer VibesorMain Character Energy.The kind of people who probably go to music festivals and could understand the slang my students speak.
The kind of people who would find my methodically organized record collection—and me—absolutely horrifying.
Rhianna’s gaze flits around the shop and she drifts away from her friends before she disappears behind a row of shelves. I glimpse her through the gaps—pausing here, tilting her head at something there, her lips parting slightly as she studies something that’s caught her attention.
When she finally reemerges, it’s as if she’s in her own world, her fingers trailing along the record spines in a slow, deliberate way that makes my pulse kick up. There’s a gentle intensity in her movements, and I can’t help but follow theline of her hand, the delicate curl of her fingers. It’s impossible not to notice her, or to ignore the way my gaze keeps returning to her, like she’s a mystery I suddenly, desperately want to solve.
“Found anything good?” Her voice snaps me back, and I startle. I hadn’t even realized she’d spotted me.
"Just browsing." I hold up the Queen album, trying to look casual despite the way my pulse picks up when she moves closer.
"Queen?" She peers at the cover. "And in a vintage format. Very hipster of you."
I can't help but laugh. "There's nothing hipster about appreciating classic rock in its original format."
"If you say so." She's grinning now, reaching for the album. She flips it over and scans the song list. “Now this is the real Queen. Not like that 80s stuff you went on about.”
"You're joking." The words come out more horrified than I intend. “Have you ever heard ‘Another One Bites the Dust’? ‘Under Pressure’?”
She hums the chorus of their iconic duet with David Bowie then does a little shoulder shimmy like it’s the most natural thing in the world. "Those make excellent commercial jingles.”
“First, how dare you.” We both laugh, and it hits me again just how easy this is—how easysheis to talk to.
