Chapter 18 Eli
Eli
I pause at the corner of Main Street and Oak, checking my reflection in the window of A Novel Idea.
My collar sits slightly crooked, and my fingers tremble as I adjust it.
The butterflies in my stomach are doing aerial acrobatics that would put circus performers to shame.
Meeting the parents. It's a big deal, right?
Has to be. Especially since Rhianna's barely dated anyone in years, according to pretty much everyone in town.
The evening air is thick with the scent of salt and blooming jasmine as I make my way down the brick sidewalk, past the warmly lit shop windows and the usual evening crowd heading to The Hungry Gull.
The bottle of wine from The Market Basket & Vine’s surprisingly excellent collection grows slick in my palm.
I've walked this street a hundred times since moving here, but tonight every step feels weighted with possibility.
Piper would laugh if she could see me now—her always logical big brother, the one who plans every detail of his life down to color-coded semester schedules, now following his heart like the protagonist in one of Rhianna’s beloved romance novels.
But here’s the thing: for the first time in my life throwing logic to the wind feels absolutely right.
When I think about teaching virtually this upcoming semester, about maybe looking for a permanent position at a college here, about building a life in Magnolia Cove…
my usual anxiety about major changes doesn’t surface.
Instead, I feel that same thrill of rightness I got the first time Rhianna laughed at my terrible puns.
I’m even going to have to buy a new planner—something that would normally set me into a tailspin of anxiety.
I’ve filled the current one out through December with my return timelines and teaching schedule back in Misty Pines, all written in different colored inks for various commitments.
The idea of crossing all that out when I wrote it would have been unthinkable.
Now? Now I’m actually excited about it. About rewriting my future, even if it means using white-out on my carefully laid plans.
Yesterday’s eight-hour round trip to examine what was supposed to be a first-edition Cyrus Whitlock turned out to be a clever reproduction—something that would have devastated me a month ago.
Today, though, I barely care. Knowing that Rhianna’s smile—and the way she lights up when she sees me—is waiting for me matters more than any book ever could.
My whole life, I’ve approached every decision with care.
Pros and cons lists. Five-year plans. Risk assessments.
But Rhianna? She makes me want to skip all that and just leap.
Maybe that’s what real love is supposed to feel like—like all your carefully constructed rules don’t matter anymore because you’ve found something better than being right.
Something real. Something Mark never got the chance to find.
His death was the push that set everything in motion, the move, the bold choices.
I’d like to think he’d be proud of that.
I reach the end of the street and take a deep breath before walking up the pathway.
The Wilder house is exactly what I pictured—a beautiful Victorian painted in shades of sage green and cream, with a wraparound porch that practically begs for summer evenings with lemonade and books.
Flower boxes overflow with vibrant blooms, and wind chimes tinkle softly in the evening breeze.
It's the kind of house that would make you believe in magic even if you didn't know it was real.
I head up the steps. Before I can knock, the door swings open to reveal Rhianna, stunning in a flowing dress covered in tiny yellow flowers.
Her smile seems a bit too large, forced.
Her eyes twinkle but not with happiness.
It hits me in the gut, that flicker of something off.
Before I can analyze it, she's pulling me inside.
"Mom! Dad! Gavin! The book nerd has arrived!
" she calls out, her voice echoing through the house.
The interior is even more magical than the outside—every surface seems to tell a story.
Colorful rugs with patterns from around the world layer over the hardwood floors, and an eclectic mix of artwork covers the walls.
Books are everywhere, which makes my heart sing.
This is what happens when generations of professors and artists live in one place.
"Finally!" A tall man with dark hair and a cleft chin, who can only be Rhianna's brother, Gavin, emerges from what I assume is the kitchen. "I was starting to think she'd made you up. It's been what, four years since you've brought anyone home, Rhi?"
My heart warms until it fills my entire chest. This is significant.
Four years. She’s been so careful with her heart, just like me, and yet here I am, standing in her family home, about to share a meal with the people she loves most. Maybe we’re both ready to stop being so careful.
Maybe sometimes the most terrifying, emotionally driven choices are actually the correct ones.
I’ve heard the whispers around town—about the man who left her when she was already grieving. I don’t know his name. But some small, uncharitable part of me would very much like to find him, hand him a copy of How Not to Be A Coward, and throw it at his face.
I don’t claim to be an expert on love, but I’m pretty sure the ‘in sickness and in health’ part isn’t just for wedding vows—it’s the whole point. Being there when your partner is hurting… that’s the line between loving someone and just enjoying their light.
And now, Rhianna’s invited me in—to her family, her history, her heart. She’s giving me a chance to be the one who stays.
"Ignore him," Rhianna says, but there's something forced in her laugh. I want to pause the moment, reach for her, and ask what’s wrong. Because something is. Maybe it’s just the fear of going this deep again—of letting someone all the way in.
But before I can, she smirks at her brother.
“He thinks being the older sibling gives him teasing rights. "
"It absolutely does," Gavin grins, extending his hand. "Welcome to the madhouse."
Dinner is... perfect. Almost too perfect.
Mr. Wilder—“Please, call me Richard”—keeps me engaged in a fascinating discussion about the evolution of poetry through the ages, from ancient oral traditions to modern experimental forms. His eyes light up the same way Rhianna's do when she’s passionate about something.
Mrs. Wilder—Alma—is quieter but razor-sharp, offering occasional insights that make everyone laugh.
Even Gavin and I click instantly when he mentions his current reading obsession with Norse mythology.
Sure, I spend most of my time with Celtic and Arthurian texts, but soon we're deep in a friendly debate about the parallels between Odin’s sacrifice on Yggdrasil and other mythological trees of knowledge, while Rhianna rolls her eyes fondly.
This feels like home. Like family. Like forever.
I can already picture Piper here, trading quips with Gavin and commiserating with Alma about their shared concern and love of the children they work with. Mom would absolutely adore Richard—they’d probably spend hours debating poetry while Dad and Alma bond over their shared love of abstract art.
I can see summer barbecues on the back patio, lazy Sunday brunches, Christmas mornings with the banister wrapped in garland, stockings hung by the fireplace.
It would be chaos with Piper trying to organize everyone into her infamous family photo shoots while our parents compete to plan the most elaborate family vacations.
The thought makes my chest ache with how much I want it.
"Eli?" Richard's voice pulls me from my reverie. "Would you like to see my study? I have a few older books you might appreciate."
I follow him down a hallway lined with black and white photographs—generations of Wilders, I assume. His study is everything I dreamed of having someday: floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a well-worn leather chair, the smell of aged paper and wisdom.
“I have to say…” Richard chuckles, running his fingers along a shelf of poetry collections, “It’s nice to finally have someone over who appreciates these old things.
Rhianna loves books, of course, but she’s more interested in where they can take her than where they’ve been.
Gavin tolerates my collecting habit, but you”—he gives me a knowing look—“you understand the magic in the binding itself, don’t you? ”
I can’t help but grin. It’s exactly how I tried to explain it to Piper last week when she called my collection fancy dust-gatherers.
“There’s something about holding a piece of history in your hands.
Each crack in the spine, each dog-eared page tells its own story.
And part of me—sacrilegious as it feels to admit—wants to peek beneath those covers, to touch wooden book boards from trees growing during the Renaissance.
To imagine connecting with a tree that could have been a sapling when Shakespeare penned his plays. ”
“Now that’s poetry,” Richard says. “The way you talk about books—it reminds me of how my students react when they first discover Wordsworth isn’t as stuffy as they assumed. When they really feel the words for the first time.”
“That is exactly what drew me to teaching.”
Richard nods, then reaches for a book off a shelf.
“You know, Rhianna’s been different lately.
More content, even with all her big plans brewing.
Usually she’s moving from one thing to another at a pace I can’t keep up with, but these past few weeks…
” He smiles. “It’s nice to see her happy again, like she’s finally finding the perfect balance. ”