Page 6 of Love By the Book
I’d only arranged to use an office space during my break to continue my research. This was supposed to be a break. A slower pace. Not filling my hours doing the tedious work better suited to graduate assistants armed with coffee and a fear of disappointing their advisors.
My brain, which can recite entire passages from obscure Welsh mythological texts at academic conferences, has apparently gone offline. It's always like this—an impromptu conversation short-circuits my ability to form basic sentences. I can deliver a flawless three-hour lecture on comparative folklore traditions, but ask me to make small talk about the weather without preparation and suddenly I'm linguistically challenged.
The words I need are scattered somewhere in the fog between my academic vocabulary and basic human communication. I should decline politely. Set boundaries. Explain that my plan is for focused research, not inventory management.
Instead, I find myself nodding. Agreeing. Smiling even.
"Your expertise in determining which volumes might be valuable will be indispensable," Maria adds, her eyes bright with enthusiasm. "And your protection wards! Your department chair mentioned they're some of the strongest she's seen in academic circles."
"I, I look forward to examining them," I manage to say, my voice steadier than I feel. A professional mask sliding into place despite the internal panic.
"Excellent!” A warm smile spreads across her face. “I've prepared a preliminary list of the texts we're most concerned about. Some are showing signs of deterioration despite our best efforts, and we suspect a few might have significant historical value. Michael in acquisitions can show you to your office once you're ready. He’s working today if you want to pop by.”
A familiar tightness grips my chest. This wasn't the plan. Today was meticulously scheduled: unpack boxes 15 through 18—containing my reference materials on Welsh mythology and more obscure book collections—organize my desk according to the diagram I'd sketched last week, and begin preliminary research on local Whitlock connections. I'd even allotted a precise forty-five minutes for lunch.
Now my carefully constructed day has collapsed like a house of cards. The thought of improvising a new schedule sends tendrils of anxiety curling through my stomach. My fingers itch to pull out my planner and frantically rework things.
But isn't this exactly why I came here? To break free from the rigid framework I've built around myself? To step into theunknown without a safety net of schedules and contingency plans?
I take a deep breath, forcing my shoulders to relax. The boxes will still be there tomorrow. The desk can wait. Perhaps this unexpected detour will lead somewhere interesting—or at the very least, prove I can survive an unplanned afternoon without dissolving into a puddle of anxiety.
“I’ll do that, then.”
Maria beams, clearly delighted. "Wonderful! I won't keep you any longer—I know how scholars value their time. But please let me know if you need anything at all to make your work more comfortable."
As she sweeps out of the café with the same efficiency with which she arrived, I sink back into my chair, disappointment settling over me like a heavy cloak. So much for my grand transformation. Not even a full day in Magnolia Cove, and I'm already falling back into my old patterns—taking on responsibilities I didn’t seek, organizing my space exactly as it was before, and barely managing social interactions without sounding like a malfunctioning audiobook.
At this rate, I might as well have stayed in Misty Pines. What was the point of moving if I was just going to recreate my old life in a new location?
I think of Mark again—his meticulous office, his carefully ordered life, the way he worked through dinner most nights. He was reliable, steady Mark. And look where that got him. No one even noticed he was missing until I came looking for a book he'd borrowed.
I came here for a reason and swore to myself three bold choices. I've already made the first by moving. The second will be whatever opportunity I see next that scares the hell out of me. No backing down, no pros and cons list, no careful deliberation. The next terrifying chance that presents itself, I'm taking it. No matter what. Because if I don't push myself now,I'll slip right back into the comfortable patterns that led me nowhere.
Gathering my bag, I finish the last of my now-lukewarm coffee—which really was excellent—and head toward the library. Outside, the morning sun warms the cobblestones, a light breeze carrying the scent of something sweet from a nearby bakery. A wind chime tinkles from a porch as I pass, and a few locals exchange cheerful greetings on their way down the street.
The library appears ahead, its weathered brick facade softened by climbing ivy. Stained glass windows catch the sunlight and send glimmers of light dancing over a massive oak tree. I pause just inside the entrance, taking in the comforting smell of books and the warm, well-lit atmosphere. Even the library's foyer feels like home.
A large cork board has a dozen flyers on it advertising a children's 'read to the dogs' library program, the town's upcoming Blue Moon Festival, and a variety of book clubs that meet around the town.
I'm about to turn and walk into the main entrance when another flyer catches my eye.
It's fluorescent pink and sparkly. Some glitter has fallen off it to dust the surrounding pages. The wordsMagnolia Cove Matchmaking Serviceare splashed across the top in a whimsical font beneath an even more flourished title,Love by the Book. Below, it reads:Let our town's very own Cupid find your perfect match! Ask for Rhianna at the circulation desk.
My stomach drops and I feel like I might throw up despite the lack of food. I can't imagine anything more horrifying than working with a matchmaker. No, actually I can. Working with a matchmaker in a new town when I'm trying to establish myself as a professional and reasonable person.
It's horrifying, but it's also... bold.
No, no, I won't. It's too terrible. I'll sign up for a submarinedive or that thing where people crawl through caves with those awful headlamps. I'll do anything else. My challenge is private anyway. No one will know if I skip this one. I won’t be letting anyone down. I can just... walk away. Pretend I never saw it.
Except Ididsee it. And now it’s glittering at me like it knows something I don’t.
A sigh pushes past my lips. The door opens, and someone walks past me but I don't even look at them. I'm standing like a statue staring at a multi-colored poster with my hands in my slacks’ pockets like if I focus enough, it'll disappear. Or maybe I will.
But it doesn't. And neither do I.
A particularly large piece of gold glitter on the flyer catches the light when the door opens again and twinkles at me like it's privy to some cosmic joke. I can almost hear Piper's voice in my head: "Where's your courage at, Brubba?"
Fine. This is all an experiment, anyway. Three bold moves, a wild search for the mythical signed Whitlock books, then I can revert to my previous, boring life and let all these horrifying decisions fade into distant memory. Just another chapter in the tale of my life, one I can quietly close and never revisit.
