Chapter 3 #2
“Dad!” I exclaim, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with the faint smell of chalk that always seems to cling to him. “You’re home early.”
He squeezes me tight before releasing me and grinning at Mom. “Now, what’s this about Rhianna being like me?”
Mom laughs and gives him a kiss which causes him to sweep her into a dip.
I finish my cookie and turn away. That’s the thing about my parents—they’re still in love.
They married before social media existed and they still slow dance in the kitchen.
Come to think of it, this is probably why Gavin and I have yet to find someone.
When you grow up with the perfect relationship on display, it makes everything else feel subpar.
When Mom is back on her feet, her eyes dart to me again. “Rhianna was just deflecting from talking about the new man in town.”
I groan. “Mom, there’s no ‘new man.’ He’s just a new coworker. At the library. Where I work. Professionally.”
Dad leans toward me conspiratorially. “Fresh blood? What’s his thoughts on William Carlos Williams?”
“Not sure yet.” I give side-eye to Mom. “I’ve barely spoken with him.”
“A book man, though? Not from the island?”
“Dad,” I whine. “Not you too! He’s a professor like you, but that’s not the point. The point is—”
“The point is,” Mom interjects with a sly smile, “that our daughter is getting all flustered over a man who apparently knows his 70s rock bands and looks good in a pair of black glasses.”
I splutter, looking between my parents in disbelief.
They’re acting like I’m sixteen again and crushing on the boy who worked with me at the ice-cream shop.
“I am not flustered! I’m just… glad to have a fresh conversational option, okay?
It’s been the same three faces at the water cooler for years. ”
“Mhm.” Mom pats my arm. “I have one more client before I can call it quits today. Rich, honey, dinner is on you tonight.”
“You’ve got it, love.” As soon as Mom walks out, he turns to me. “So, which pizza shop should we patronize?”
I laugh. Mom definitely meant for him to cook. Maybe she’s right that I’m just like my father. “Love you, Dad.”
“You too, chicken.” His hand is already inside the cookie jar.
I dart up the stairs two at a time until I reach the safety of my room. The family cat, Mr. Whiskers, sprawls across my bed, sunning himself in a patch of late afternoon light. I yank a book off an overstuffed shelf, intent on escaping into someone else’s story for an hour.
But when I lay down on my bed, my eyes dart to the Fleetwood Mac poster that I’d taped over the floral wallpaper as a teen.
Then I’m thinking of him again. Of his hazel eyes that changed colors as different light hit them.
Of the richness of his laughter and our easy banter.
Of his sharp jawline and the curl of his lips.
The way my magic seemed to reach for his without permission. Like it recognized something in him. Something that fit. A little too perfectly and—
I jump to my feet, toss the book onto my side table, and march myself to my mirror.
I give myself the sternest look I can muster.
“Listen here, Rhianna Wilder. You are not, I repeat, NOT interested in Eli Lancaster. Mom is just putting that into your head. He’s a client and a coworker.
A very handsome, intelligent, book-loving coworker who probably smells like old parchment and— No!
Stop that! Focus on your work. On your savings goals.
On your grand adventure around the world.
You’re not falling for someone again. Not seriously.
” I pause and give myself a firm look. “You know how that ends. Got it?”
I point two fingers at my eyes then back at my reflection. She gives me a nod that looks more convinced than I feel.
Beside the mirror, I’d taped a savings chart when I moved back in—after a few years working as a librarian post-grad, stacking up experience while quietly plotting my grand escape.
Two more years and I’ll have enough. The hard part is almost done and now it’s just the fun planning—and a few more years of living with my parents who quietly hate the entire idea.
At the bottom of the chart, I’d taped a birthday card from Grandma Ida so I could always see her loopy signature and remember her last words to me. If I close my eyes, I can hear them as clearly as the day she said them from her hospital bed.
"Promise me, Rhianna." Her once-powerful voice had turned into a whisper. "Promise me you’ll take that trip we always talked about. Even if I can’t make it.”
Her frail hand gripped mine with surprising strength, and I hiccuped a breath, fighting the sting of tears.
“Paris, Buenos Aires, Cairo,” she murmured. “We planned it for so long. I used to fill journals with the places we’d go, the stories we’d collect.” A weary smile ghosted her lips. “But now... it’s your turn. Don’t wait for the perfect time. Go. See it all—for both of us.”
The lump in my throat thickened. “It won’t be the same without you.”
“Promise me you’ll go,” she whispered. “Really go. And when you do… you’ll find me there. In the sea spray, in the café music, in the pages of your travel journal. I’ll be with you. Always.”
I nodded and attempted to fight tears that streamed down my cheeks. The savings chart is nearly half colored now. Grandma Ida would be so proud. I run my fingers over it and remember the pain in her eyes.
Jacob thought the way I grieved my grandmother was…
too much. Like it was strange to hurt that deeply over someone who wasn’t a parent or a partner.
But Grandma Ida wasn’t just my grandmother—she was my best friend.
When you’re an awkward kid who struggles to fit in—even on an island full of magical people—having someone who walks to the beat of the same odd drum you thought only you could hear…
that kind of connection changes everything.
We snuck candy into matinee movies. We swam in the ocean under the moonlight. We made a vow to see the world together, one grand adventure at a time.
But then she got sick.
And she left before we could.
With a determined huff, I plop down at my desk and pull out a new notebook I’d purchased for the matchmaking service. Enough of the moping. Enough of the what-ifs and whispered memories.
Time to brainstorm potential matches for Eli.
Someone who’s not me and doesn’t have relationship non-compatible plans.
Someone perfect for him. Someone who likes charmingly nerdy men with a passion for books, surprisingly good music taste, and the ability to banter like he stepped out of a Jane Austen novel and… and…
Someone who isn’t terrified of loving someone again.
Because Mom’s right. I do avoid love. She knows it. I know it. It’s the unspoken elephant in every conversation we have.
And no matter how much the energy sparked between Eli and me—because yes, of course I felt how our magic practically hummed in the air together—Eli seems like a good guy. The kind who’s steady and genuine and open-hearted. And he doesn’t deserve someone like me.
Someone who builds walls and calls them boundaries.
Someone who learned the hard way that vulnerability doesn’t guarantee closeness—it can be the very thing that pushes people away. I’ve kept things light, surface-level, safe.
It’s easier to help other people fall in love than to risk showing someone the mess underneath and being abandoned all over again.
Because once was enough.
Once was too much.
So I pick up my pen, pretend the flutter in my chest means nothing, and start planning the perfect match—anyone but me.
The scent of fresh coffee wafts into my room, followed by a gentle knock. Dad pokes his head in, two steaming mugs in hand, his reading glasses perched on his nose and a well-worn poetry journal tucked under his arm.
"Early bird gets the coffee," he says, padding into my room in his worn leather slippers. I’m already at my desk, notebook open, pen in hand—because apparently my brain decided to wake up at dawn, buzzing with matchmaking ideas and, fine, maybe a few lingering thoughts about Eli.
Strictly professional ones, of course. Totally reasonable. Completely manageable.
Just don’t ask me to say that out loud.
"You're my favorite father," I say, making grabby hands at the coffee. He gives me a mug—the one with little books printed all over it that Mom got me for Christmas—and settles into my reading chair, the one by the window that used to be Grandma Ida's.
"I brought you something else too." He pulls a glossy brochure from his back pocket. "A colleague mentioned this at yesterday's faculty meeting. It took a bit of digging but I managed to find some information.”
The brochure's title makes me set my cup down with a clink against my desk. The World Library Tour Fellowship. My heart thunders as I scan the details. Six months. Twenty-four destinations. Libraries around the world.
It's like someone reached into mine and Grandma Ida’s dreams and turned them into a real opportunity.
"Dad..." My voice comes out all wobbly.
"I know you’ve been saving," he whispers. “But this seemed like a perfect opportunity—libraries and worldwide travel. And it would keep you from dipping into your savings. Maybe you can spend that on your next adventure.”
“Next adventure?”
Even for me, that feels like a lot. I won’t lie, I love to take massive, oversized, regret-everything bites… but one gigantically ambitious idea at a time, please.