Page 55 of Love By the Book
The silence stretches between us, thick with unspoken words and possibilities that will never come to pass. A whoop goes up in the distance, followed by the sound of children cheering—they’ve solved the final clue.
“It sounds like Holmes is needed,” I say.
Eli adjusts his deerstalker cap with shaking fingers. “Goodbye, Rhianna,” he says, his voice steady but just barely. He turns to walk away, his shoulders rigid like he’s holding himself together by sheer force of will.
I smooth down my skirt and fix my hat, willing my own hands to stop trembling. This was the right choice. The responsible choice. The only choice I could live with. The only one that wouldn’t hurt worse later. But as I turn to rejoin thefestivities, to become Mary Poppins again with her knowing smile and perfect posture, a sob catches in my throat.
I step out of the shadows and a little girl in a Belle costume waves at me. I wave back. Mary Poppins wouldn’t let a child see her unhappy. Mary Poppins is practically perfect in every way.
I make it halfway across the library before the tears fall. A little boy tugs at my skirt. “You okay, Ms. Poppins?”
I try to smile, to say something about the rain in London, but the words catch.
“I’m so sorry.” I’m not sure if I’m apologizing to the boy or to Eli or to myself. “Forgive me. I’m afraid the wind has changed.”
Eli
The hill looks different without stars.
I trace my fingers over the damp grass where we once sat together watching meteors streak across the sky. Everything felt possible then—the world crackling with potential and magic. She’d dragged me up here with no warning, no plan, just a couple flashlights and her infectious enthusiasm.
Trust me,she’d said, and I did. I, Eli Lancaster—who tracks ISBN editions for fun and once timed how long it takes my tea to steep for optimal flavor—followed her into a dark forest without hesitation.
Now there’s just darkness, heavy clouds blocking even the faintest glimmer of light. The air is thick, oppressive, nothing like the electric anticipation of that night when everything felt magical because I was sharing the same air as her. The sparkle of possibility. The warmth of her hand finding mine in the shadows, her touch making my carefully constructed world tilt on its axis in the best possible way.
“I’m an idiot,” I mumble as I pull out the Cyrus Whitlock book she gave me. After all, everything she said was true. She only agreed to this when I promised it would end.I set theterms.I shouldn’t feel this broken over it. It followed the ending that was foreshadowed from the very beginning.
The leather shows little wear considering its age. Even in the flashlight’s dim beam, the pristine condition is obvious. I trace over the gilt edges and remember her expression when she handed it to me. The way her eyes danced with excitement. How she bit her lower lip trying to contain her smile.
For someone who’s spent his life studying stories, you’d think I’d have recognized the story here. The temporary nature of summer romance, the inevitable parting at the season’s end. That has to be a romance trope. Or maybe not. Rhianna said romances always end with happily ever afters.
I guess I thought we were writing a love story. Turns out, I was the only one who believed the ending.
The leather is soft beneath my thumb as I brush over the title’s raised letters. I can be logical about this. That’s what I do, isn’t it? Analyze, categorize, make sense of chaos. If I had my notepad with me, I could write it down. As it is, a mental list will have to do.
1. She’s planning to leave—has been since before we met.
2. She hinted at it during our first dinner together.
3. She obviously didn’t want to talk about the future on the beach.
4. I was the one who said just for the summer. I told her—if she ever said she was done, I’d let her go. And she said she was done.
5. She’s afraid. Not just of love, but of being loved—fully, honestly, in a way she doesn’t think she deserves. And I can’t fight that fear without breaking the promise I made.
6. She believes ending things now will hurt less than ending them later. And maybe she’s right.
My hand stills and I close my eyes. Logic isn’t working somehow. It feels hollow. Like trying to analyze the technical aspects of a poem while missing its heart entirely.
Because, damn it, logic aside I’m in love with Rhianna Wilder.
Unrequited love.
Talk about a trope.
I came here to shake up my life, to do bold things, to actually live after being reminded how quickly everything could end. I never expected to find someone who made being bold feel natural. Who made mewantto be spontaneous. Who made color-coding a calendar seem unnecessary because every moment with her was worth rearranging any plan.
I tilt my head back, searching for even one star through the clouds. Just one point of light to prove that magic still exists. That the feeling I had that night wasn’t just because of her—her laugh, her soft hand in mine, her smile that seemed brighter than any star. That maybe I can take even a drop of that joy home with me.
