Page 4 of Love By the Book
"And I had to hear about you moving fromMom?" I chuckle which apparently acts as tinder to Piper's irritation. Her voice grows sharp. "I called her a liar, Eli. To her face."
"Well, that was rude." The call breaks up again, and I pause, waiting for the connection to return.
"—never—" Piper's voice fades in and out before suddenly coming through with surprising clarity. A scoff blares over the line. "—not once in the history of our entire life done something impulsive. Even as a kid you returned library books early and waited for walk signals at crosswalks even if there wasn't a car in sight."
"Notice we never paid late fees or got hit by a car. You're welcome." I pause at the corner, letting a family with small children pass. The town's morning bustle has a different rhythm than what I'm used to—less frantic, more meandering. Like everyone knows exactly where they're going but sees no reason to rush.
She sighs dramatically. I'm pretty sure she's pressing her mouth close to the phone so the sound comes through loud and clear. "You're impossible. Why did you move? Did something happen?"
I pause, the memory of Mark slumped over his desk flashing through my mind, unbidden. He was a dozen years older than me, but he’d become the first colleague I truly considered a friend.
And then he was gone. Two days before anyone noticed. Except me.
"Let's just say I needed a change. It's only for summer, anyway. I'm taking a break."
"You? A change?" There's a sloshing—creamer hitting coffee if I know my sister.
"I just felt like trying something new and the springsemester ended early this year. Plus, Magnolia Cove was once home to Cyrus Whitlock.”
Even as the words leave my mouth, I can feel their hollowness. How could I explain that watching Mark slumped over his desk, gone for two days before anyone noticed, had shattered everything I thought I knew? That finding my colleague—my mirror image in so many ways—had forced me to confront the terrifying possibility that I too could disappear without leaving a ripple. That a life spent meticulously organizing books and thoughts and schedules might add up to nothing more than an empty office and a brief mention in the department newsletter.
The truth felt too raw, too vulnerable to share. That I'd spent that night staring at my own perfectly ordered bookshelves, my color-coded planner, my carefully curated life, and for the first time saw not achievement but a prison of my own making. That I'd set myself a challenge—because of course I needed structure even in spontaneity—to make three bold choices. Not planned in advance, but recognized when the moment arose. Moving to Magnolia Cove had been the first, a decision made almost overnight. Two more undefined acts of courage waited, opportunities to feel something real before I returned to the life that was waiting for me.
No, that wasn't casual conversation material. Better to let them think this was just a whim, a Cyrus-Whitlock-signature-chasing adventure, than admit I was running from the ghost of what I might become.
The call drops completely for a moment before reconnecting with a burst of static. I switch the phone to my other ear and make a mental note to only take calls from my apartment when I’m on Wi-Fi—lesson learned.
"Oh my god, you're STILL obsessed with finding that signed Whitlock book? Brubba, I should've known!" Piper laughs through the phone. "And here I thought you'd actuallydone something wild for once. There's always a perfectly logical explanation with you, isn't there?"
“That’s me. Mr. Logical.”
The words taste flat, almost bitter on my tongue. For the first time in my life, I'm hoping to escape myself—to outrun the carefully constructed framework that's defined every decision I've ever made. To find something that doesn't fit neatly into the boxes I've drawn around my existence.
I reach for the door ofSinclair's Sips & Savories, the scent of freshly ground coffee beans greeting me as I step inside. The interior is even more surprising than the outside—exposed brick contrasting with polished steel fixtures, Edison bulbs hanging from industrial ceiling pipes, and a sprawling espresso machine that looks like it belongs in a science laboratory sits on the counter. It's sleek, modern, and utterly foreign to the island's aesthetic, yet buzzing with people. And somehow, the clatter of mugs and low hum of conversation wraps around the sleek space like a quilt, softening every sharp edge with small-town charm.
I’m suddenly grateful I stuck to my usual habit of arriving early. I enjoy having a moment to take everything in before things start—scoping out the space, settling my nerves, and not walking in mid-chaos.
It's a trick I've relied on since childhood—arriving fifteen minutes before any appointment, class, or social gathering. Giving myself time to breathe. Organize. Prepare. My therapist in graduate school called it an adaptive coping mechanism for anxiety. I've always preferred to think of it as simple efficiency.
But lately, I've started wondering if my careful organization—my color-coded tabs and alphabetized bookcase and precisely timed morning routine—is less about managing anxiety and more about avoiding life altogether. If I've been sobusy constructing the perfect framework that I've forgotten to fill it with anything meaningful.
"I’ve always loved the logical, predictable you,” Piper says in that singsong voice she uses whenever she’s half-teasing, half-sentimental.
I scan the menu board written in impeccably stylized chalk lettering. “Yeah, sure you do.”
I step up to the counter where a barista with bright red lips and a name tag reading ‘Kasey’ smiles at me. "What can I get for you today, handsome?"
"I, uh—" I fumble, unprepared for the casual flirtation. Of course this would happen the one time I didn’t rehearse my coffee order in advance. My ears burn and I stutter, "J-just a medium coffee, I guess. Um, black. Please."
This is exactly why I detest unexpected social interactions. No matter how many degrees I accumulate, how many academic papers I publish, or how precisely I organize my life, I still freeze like a first-year undergraduate when caught off guard. It's embarrassing. If I had a dollar for every time my tongue has tied itself into knots during an unscripted conversation, I could fund an entire library wing.
My dissertation advisor once told me I had "the most brilliant mind and the most awkward social presence" he'd ever encountered. He meant it as a compliment. I think.
So much for my grand self-reinvention. One hint of unexpected social interaction and I'm reduced to fragmented sentences. The barista's friendly smile doesn't waver as she waits for me to elaborate on my order, which only increases my discomfort. I can feel sweat forming at my hairline. Why didn't I anticipate this? I should have practiced ordering at an unfamiliar coffee shop. Should have considered the variables. Should have?—
"Brubba,” Piper's voice is smug in my ear. “Please tell meyou didn’t just black-coffee your way through a flirtation opportunity.”
I turn slightly away from the counter, lowering my voice. "I'm fine, Pipes."
