Page 15 of Firefly Nights

With trembling fingers, I flip through my planner. There it is, on every page—evidence of a life lived in anticipation ofgoodbye. Empty spaces where hope should be. Backup plans for backup plans.

I'm not just hiding in fiction. I'm hiding in a story I've written for myself, one where everyone leaves so there's no point in asking them to stay.

No wonder Nathan thinks I live in a fantasy world. I've been so busy preparing for endings that I've never really let anything begin.

The book on my desk catches the last rays of evening sun, its familiar pages promising the comfort of a well-worn path. But for once, I don't want to know how the story ends. I don't want to hide in someone else's carefully crafted world.

I want to write my own story.

My chair scrapes against the floor as I stand. Outside, twilight paints the sky in shades of possibility, and somewhere in this small town, a practical man who carves stars in reading corners is planning his escape.

Unless I give him a reason to stay.

I close my planner, leaving it behind with its careful margins and backup plans.Pride and PrejudiceI return to its shelf. Some stories you have to live instead of read.

"'In vain have I struggled,'" I whisper to the empty library, quoting Mr. Darcy's first confession of love. "'It will not do.'"

But unlike Elizabeth, I'm not waiting until the last chapter to admit what I feel. Some declarations shouldn't wait for perfect moments or perfect words.

Sometimes you have to step out of the safety of your library and into the uncertain beauty of a firefly-lit evening, ready to fight for your own happy ending.

Or better yet—ready to fight for a real beginning.

Chapter Eight

Nathan

The first firefly of the evening blinks to life as I stand in the middle of the meadow, trying to convince myself this is the right decision. Burlington. A fresh start. It's what I've always done, what I'm good at.

So why does it feel like I'm demolishing something that could have been beautiful?

"For someone who claims to prefer reality, you're awfully good at running from it."

Grace's voice cuts through the twilight. She stands at the edge of the meadow, silhouetted against the deepening purple sky. She's still wearing her librarian clothes, but her hair has come loose from its usual neat arrangement.

"Someone else can handle the rest of the renovation," I say, the words tasting like sawdust. "The structure's sound now."

"Is that what you tell yourself?" She takes a step closer. "That everything's fixed, so it's okay to leave?"

"Grace—"

"No." Another step. "You don't get to 'Grace' me in that careful voice. Not when you're running away."

"I'm not running. It's a job. It's what I do."

"Is it? Or is it just easier than admitting you're scared?"

A firefly drifts between us, its light reflecting in her eyes. "Pretty bold accusation from someone who lives in fiction."

"You're right." Her quiet admission catches me off guard. "I do hide in my books. I plan every detail of my life around the possibility of people leaving. But at least I'm finally admitting it."

Something in my chest tightens. "What do you want from me?"

"I want you to tell me the truth. Not about the job, or the practical reasons, or whatever excuse you've built up in that renovation-focused brain of yours." She moves closer, close enough that I can smell the familiar hint of old books and lavender. "Tell me why you're really leaving."

"Because this isn't my story!" The words burst out before I can stop them. "Happy endings, true love, fairy tale moments in firefly-lit meadows. That's your world, Grace. Not mine."

"You think this is about happy endings?" She laughs, but it's not her usual soft sound. "This is about the fact that you've spent months showing me how to trust reality over fiction, but the second something real happens between us, you pack up and run."

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