Page 14 of Firefly Nights

"Because you fell in love with him?"

My breath catches. "I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to." Hazel reaches for my hand. "It's written all over your face every time he walks into a room. The same way it's written all over his when he looks at you."

"Then why is he leaving?"

"Maybe for the same reason you hide in your books. Because sometimes the scariest stories are the ones we have to live through ourselves."

I trace the familiar pattern on Hazel's tablecloth, thinking of all the afternoons I spent here as a child, finding comfort in her quiet wisdom. "In books, you know how things will end. The hard parts have purpose. The pain leads somewhere."

"And you think real love doesn't?"

"Real love leaves. Real love changes things. Real love?—"

"Real love is worth the risk." Hazel squeezes my hand. "Your stories don't just teach escape, Grace. They teach courage. Hope. The belief that something beautiful is worth fighting for."

"Nathan thinks I use them to hide from reality."

"And what do you think?"

I'm quiet for a long moment, remembering the way Nathan's eyes lit up when he showed me his plans for the reading corner. How he always seems to know exactly what the library needs before I can find the words to ask.

"I think..." My voice wavers. "I think maybe we're both hiding. Me in my books, him in his constant motion. Both too scared to believe that sometimes reality can be better than fiction."

"Then maybe that's what you need to tell him."

"It's not that simple."

"Of course it's not." Hazel stands and moves to put the kettle on. "The best stories never are. That’s what makes them worth telling."

I watch her measure tea leaves into her favorite pot—the one with tiny roses that she's had as long as I can remember. "What if he doesn't want to hear it?"

"What if he does?" She turns, eyes twinkling. "You're not the only one who's been acting out of character lately. I saw him reading poetry in the park yesterday."

Despite everything, a smile tugs at my lips. "Really?"

"Frost, I believe. Something about roads not taken."

The kettle whistles, its familiar sound filling the kitchen with warmth. As Hazel pours the water, the scent of bergamot rises between us.

"You know," she says thoughtfully, "some of the best love stories I know started with two people who were afraid to believe in happy endings."

I wrap my hands around the warm cup, letting its heat seep into my bones. Outside, spring sunshine paints the world in possibilities, and somewhere in town, a practical man is reading poetry.

Pride and Prejudicelies open on my desk, but for the first time in my life, Elizabeth's witty banter with Mr. Darcy isn't enough to quiet my racing thoughts. Hazel's words keep echoing in my head:The best stories are worth telling.

"I just need to focus," I mutter, reaching for my planner. Maybe if I organize my thoughts, sort through my feelings with the same precision I apply to?—

I freeze, staring at the neat rows of ink on the page before me. There, in my own careful handwriting, is next week's schedule. I've already adjusted the summer reading program timeline, noted alternate contractors to consult about the ongoing renovations, left margin space for contingency plans.

All because I assumed Nathan would be gone.

Just like I've left margin space in every plan, every schedule, every part of my life. Always making room for the possibility—no, the expectation—that people will leave.

My gaze drifts back toPride and Prejudice, to Elizabeth's journey from judgment to understanding. How many times have I read this book, cheering her on as she confronts her own prejudices? And here I am, just as guilty of letting past hurts blind me to present possibilities.

"'Till this moment, I never knew myself,'" I whisper, quoting Elizabeth's famous line of self-realization.

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