Chapter 20 Rhianna
Rhianna
The Library Comes Alive event is a roaring success.
So many kids fill the library’s main area that I can’t even count them all.
We’ve transformed each section into a different storybook world, complete with twinkling lights and more than a little magical enhancement (though the tourists just think we’re great at special effects).
Claire’s White Witch holds court in the winter wonderland we’ve created in the Reference section, complete with fluffy snow we’ll have to vacuum up for weeks. She’s also arrived with her promised Turkish Delight. (I’m so curious to see if any kids actually eat the stuff.)
In Fantasy, Michael’s Mad Hatter leads tea parties every half hour with delicacies purchased from The Whimsical Whisk.
The Mystery section has become a Victorian London street where kids can follow clues to solve cases with a certain consulting detective who looks unfairly handsome in his deerstalker cap—no, I’m not thinking about that right now.
I’ve transformed the circulation desk into Number Seventeen Cherry Tree Lane, complete with a painted London skyline.
“Spit spot!” I announce in my crispest British accent to my crowd of wide-eyed visitors. “Who’s ready to see what’s in my carpet bag?”
I reach in, grateful that the Council allowed me this bit of magic for the night.
The children gasp as I pull out an impossibly large umbrella, then a potted plant that shouldn’t fit through the opening, and finally—for the grand finale—a coat rack that I sit beside me.
The children whisper among themselves, trying to figure out how I managed it.
To the non-magical parents, it looks like a clever sleight of hand.
They’re certain I have a hole in the table the bag rests on.
To the magical folks, their smirks give away their true understanding.
From the back of the room, Eli watches. He’s devastating in his Sherlock Holmes getup—the cap casting shadows across his cheekbones, giving them sharp angles.
The fitted coat makes it seem like he stepped straight out of a Victorian novel.
The sight of him sends an ache through my chest so fierce I nearly fumble and drop my bag.
“Miss Wilder!” Jasper bounds up, his Lorax mustache slightly askew. “Can you pull a Truffula tree from your bag next?”
I force a smile. This should be one of the best nights of the year.
I’ve spent months planning and organizing it.
Yet, here I am, my heart weighing heavier than all the books in my carpet bag combined.
I’m trying to focus on the kids but my mind keeps remembering Eli’s wonky star doodles, him singing Fleetwood Mac without reserve, him kissing me beneath starlight. His voice getting low and shaky as he—
“I’m afraid Truffula trees are strictly outside my jurisdiction,” I tell Jasper as I reach into my bag. “However…” I produce an orange feather boa that matches his costume. “Perhaps this will suffice?”
His eyes double as I drape it around his neck, and for a minute I’m reminded why I love this job, this life, and even this town. Then I notice Eli again, his expression unreadable, and the weight settles back into my chest.
Some things even Mary Poppins can’t fix with a spoonful of sugar.
“And now,” I announce to my gathered crowd, channeling every ounce of the beloved British nanny that I can muster, “I believe it’s time for us to solve a mystery! Inspector Holmes is waiting for you on Baker Street to help our young detective crack a most curious case.”
I usher the children toward the Mystery section. Gaslight-style lamps cast a warm glow over cobblestone paths crafted from carefully painted cardboard. Eli stands beneath a light, his tall frame casting long shadows across the fake street.
“Gather round young detectives,” he greets them, his voice dropping into a perfect British accent that makes my treacherous heart skip.
It’s strange how he can fumble over small talk and get flustered ordering coffee when they don’t have his usual, but put him on a karaoke stage or in front of these kids and he transforms. Like he knows exactly who he’s supposed to be in those moments. I wish I had that confidence.
“We have a most peculiar case before us,” he continues. “The library’s rarest book has gone missing, and only the keenest observers among you can help locate it.”
He kneels down to the children’s level, and I try not to notice how the motion pulls his coat across his shoulders, how his eyes spark with enthusiasm behind his glasses.
I try not to think about how I’ve seen those shoulders bare beneath moonlight, or how those eyes lit up in different ways when we were alone—softer, darker, full of promises I’m too afraid to embrace.
I feel like I’ve betrayed him. We had a deal based on no commitments, just an exploration. A summer of fun and possibilities. And when I said it’s over, it’s over. No strings. No regrets.
But all week, I’ve avoided him. All week, I’ve been quietly pulling away while telling myself it’s for his own good.
Telling myself he deserves better than a girl who can’t bear the vulnerability.
And that’s the whole problem. He does deserve better.
He deserves someone who won’t flinch at ‘I love you’s’ and long to run the moment serious conversations begin.
Instead, he got me.
And now I’m going to break his heart. Not because I want to, but because I was too selfish to act sooner.
Too scared to tell the truth. Too cowardly to face the conversation we said we’d have.
I’ve told myself I was sparing him. But really?
I think I was just sparing myself. And somehow, that makes me feel worse than if he’d been the one to leave.
Eli explains the clues the children need to look for, then before setting them off he says, “Remember, in every mystery, the truth is often hiding in plain sight. We just have to know where to look.”
A lump forms in my throat. Because he’s right.
And maybe the truth about us has been right there all along.
He’s a man brimming with love to give, with a steady heart and a hunger for commitment.
And I’m a woman whose heart didn’t heal right after it shattered, someone too afraid to try again, too unsure she can ever do justice to love as big and generous as his.
The children scatter like autumn leaves in a breeze, their excited squeals echoing around as they begin their hunt.
They weave between fake lamp posts, magnifying glasses held close to their faces.
Their joy should be infectious—usually it is—but tonight it just reminds me of how temporary everything is.
Tomorrow I’ll have to clean all of this up and only fleeting memories will remain. Just like this relationship.
I take a step back. I should check on the other stations. Make sure Claire’s snow isn’t getting out of control. See if Michael needs more tea cups. I have an entire event to run, after all.
“Rhianna?” Eli steps up beside me, his voice soft but urgent. “Can we talk?”
He’s intent, his facade washed away. It’s just Eli’s haunted expression looking at me from beneath that cap.
This isn’t how tonight is supposed to go.
We’re supposed to be Inspector Holmes and Mary Poppins, delighting children with our mysteries and magic.
Not… whatever this ache between us has become.
“Right now?” I whisper. The kids are all still distracted, their parents following along behind and helping in the search.
“I’ve tried to speak with you all week,” he says, and the edge of frustration in his voice makes me flinch. “You’re always busy, or with a patron, or going out with Alex.”
Of course I am. Because I can’t bear to do what needs to happen.
I can’t stand the thought of breaking this man’s heart—of watching the light in his eyes dim when I say the words I’ve been dreading.
But I’m also not brave enough to try. Not brave enough to risk everything for a love that might leave me shattered again.
This is my problem, not Eli’s. But he’s the one who’s going to pay the price for it.
Like my namesake, I don’t know how to let myself be caught.
The first man I ever slowed down for left me wounded in a way I’ve never fully healed from—left me skittish and wary, always scanning for the next escape route.
And I don’t think I know how to stop again.
Not without shattering.
“We have to focus on this event right now.” I gesture to my Mary Poppins outfit—the navy dress and daisy covered hat. I even added some smudges of makeup across my nose for soot.
“I know.” Eli runs a hand through his bangs, dislodging the deerstalker hat.
He looks different tonight—sharp edged and mysterious.
He’s devastatingly handsome as Sherlock Holmes, which is entirely unfair because it’s hard enough dealing with regular Eli breaking my heart.
This version of him, all brooding detective with his collar turned up against imaginary London fog, is just cruel and unusual punishment. “But we need to—”
“Miss Wilder!” Jasper bounds up with a pack of other kids brandishing a pocket watch triumphantly. “Look what we found! And it’s got weird numbers on it!”
“Excellent work, young detective! Keep searching for another clue.”
He nods firmly and runs back onto Baker Street. I’m turning to escape, but before I can Eli’s hand catches my elbow. “Please,” he whispers. “Just five minutes.”
Behind us, a child shrieks with delight at finding another clue. The sound echoes off the library’s high ceiling, a stark contrast to the heavy silence between us.
A few parents have lifted their faces in our direction. One woman frowns, probably wondering why we’re having a lover’s quarrel in the middle of a children’s event.
“Follow me,” I whisper, leading him to the shadowy Reference section. The children’s gleeful laughter feels distant here, like we’re in our own pocket universe of pain.