Page 9 of Love By the Book
Mom grabs a stack of envelopes from the mail basket and shuffles through them. “Mhmm, Grammie Rae told me about your newest venture. Do you think this reflects an inner desire, Rhi?”
I groan. “Mom, we’ve talked about this. You can’t do the therapist thing on me.”
We’ve been having this conversation since I moved back home, all broken pieces and stubborn pride. I wasn’t ready to be fixed then—especially after Jacob left. I’m not sure I am now.
Jacob and I met in college—he played guitar, I did theater. We showed up to each other’s performances, stayed out too late, danced in dorm hallways, laughed like the world was always going to be golden. When we were still together a year after graduation, it felt like maybe we’d outrun the odds. Like maybe we had the kind of love that could last.
He said he loved me. And maybe he did.
But maybe there are different kinds of love. There’s sunshine love—the kind that only blooms when everything is bright and easy. There’s snowflake love too—likewhat I had with my grandmother, who lived with us when I was a kid. Delicate and rare and beautiful in a way that stays with you long after it melts.
But what I needed most was storm-season love. The kind that sits with you through the downpour and doesn’t flinch. Jacob didn’t have that kind. He wanted the girl who laughed through the sunny days, not the one crying on the floor in a tangle of grief and Grandma Ida’s old scarves.
So he left. Not just me—he left Magnolia Cove.
And maybe he was right. Maybe my storms were too long. Too loud. Too much.
Maybe I am.
I haven’t let anyone get that close since.
And my mother hasn’t let me forget it. She’s gentle about it—mostly. But with every passing year, her nudges have gotten less subtle and more determined. She wants to see me happy, dang it. And she’ll cheer, scheme, or strong-arm the universe into making it happen.
What she doesn’t see—what no one sees—is that deep down, I’m not built for the kind of love that stays. I burn too hot in the highs, sink too deep in the lows. Even the good ones get tired of weathering that kind of intensity. Some people are meant to go it alone. I think I’m one of them.
Mom drops the mail and puts both hands on her hips, a mock look of offense raising her brows. “Is it ‘doing the therapy thing’ if I ask about your life?”
“Yes, if you say ‘reflection of inner desires’ it is. I’m happy single. I have my big trip in the works.”
But of course, she gives me that look—the one that says she’s a coon hound who’s just treed a squirrel and she’s not backing down until I admit I’ve got feelings.
The worst part? She’s usually right. Annoyingly, frustratingly, magically right.
I inherited my energy-reading magic from her, after all.She just uses hers for art therapy and emotional breakthroughs, while I use mine to match people with their perfect book and to occasionally avoid my own emotional growth. Balance.
She calls it mother’s intuition. I call it magical meddling. But deep down, I know she sees right through me—especially when it comes to my commitment issues, which she brings up approximately once a week, always with a gentle smile and a not-so-subtle raised eyebrow.
She walks up and presses a kiss on my cheek and surprisingly lets the subject fade. “I heard there’s a new employee at the library as well.”
“Oh, Eli Lancaster. He’s not actually an employee, he’s just helping the library with managing and warding our backlog of ancient texts. He’s a professor and a rare book curator, though—don’t you think that’s a fascinating job?”
“Your father certainly would.” We exchange chuckles. “Did you get to meet him?”
“I did! He’s actually hilarious and knows 70s rock bands which is an immediate point in anyone’s favor.” I pause and shove another bite of cookie into my mouth. I’m sounding a bit too enthusiastic. And I don’t do enthusiastic about potential romantic interests.
Even if Eli has kind eyes, a voice made for poetry readings, and the kind of slow-burn banter that could melt the spine off a first edition. Still. I’ve read this story before, and I know how it ends. “You know, I mean it’s nice to have someone new around who appreciates good music.”
Mom’s eyebrow arches in a way that means she’s shifted into therapist-mode again. “Oh? Tell me more about this Eli?”
I try to keep my voice casual, but it’s like trying to keep Grammie Rae away from gossip—nearly impossible. “I don’t know. He’s got this whole understated-but-sophisticated vibe going on. Like, he’s the type that could pull off a sweatervest and not make you cringe. He also wears these black-rimmed glasses but somehow they set off his eyes and make him look intellectual, you know?”
Mom stares at me, and a flush warms my cheeks. I’m gushing like a romance novel heroine. But, come on, can you blame me? Eli’s got this unassuming yet quietly charismatic presence that practically screams ‘intelligent hottie who probably knows the Dewey Decimal System by heart.’ All of that to say, he’s going to make an excellent matchmaking client.
Because that’s all I’m interested in with him. Truly. Strictly professional. Even if he makes my heart do that ridiculous flutter-patter thing when he looked at me like I was more interesting than his favorite footnote. And even though my magic hummed toward his like a needle finding true north. It doesn’t mean anything. I learned the hard way what happens when you let someone in too deep—when you let yourselflovesomeone like that. It breaks you. And I promised myself I wouldn’t open myself up to that again.
“Anyway, he seems nice. Professional. A good addition to the community.”
“A good addition to the community,” mom repeats in the same tone of voice that I mimicked her therapy-talk. “Are you going to be working closely with him?”
