Chapter 7
7
Josie
Knitting and Knotting? Gross. Ridiculous. Idiotic.
Intriguing?
Nope. I shut the thought down as I head out the door of Beans. This is exactly why I don’t read romance. It’s not—as one ex-boyfriend suggested—that I’m boring and closed off when it comes to sex (he was just bad at it). And it’s not—as my mother suggested—that I hate love and don’t believe in relationships (she was just bad at them).
Nor is it because I look down on the genre, as Ryan seems to think. I firmly believe there’s a book for every reader and a reader for every book—it’s just that romance doesn’t speak to me. I love literary fiction because it’s gritty, raw, and complicated, like real human experiences. No guarantees, no tidy conclusions.
No false hopes, either.
I’m shaking my head as I walk back into my store, where Georgia has arrived to help me set up for tomorrow’s event. She’s dressed like a seventies flower child thrust into the modern world—wavy hair parted down the middle, round pink glasses, flowy sundress with no bra, Birkenstocks, and of course, her bedazzled pink cane.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, pushing her glasses up onto her head. “Your face is all red and blotchy.”
I pick up the sign I made to advertise tomorrow’s event. “What do you think?”
She knows I’m changing the subject, but she allows it. “The Literary Collective,” she reads. “A.k.a., the book club for people who believe the best novels are the ones that only make sense after being read three times.”
“Ha ha. At least it isn’t Knitting and Knotting, like at Happy Endings.”
She coughs out a laugh. “Like, that kind of knotting?”
I eye her. “You know what it is?”
Her cheeks turn deep crimson. “I may have wandered through the Omegaverse on occasion.”
“George!”
“But not lately, given that I’m swamped with classes. Remind me again why I wanted to take summer term?”
She grabs a broom and I grab a dustpan, and together we start cleaning up the bits of drywall and dust left behind by the construction crew.
“To get your degree faster,” I say. “I told you to enjoy your last summer of freedom, but you didn’t listen.”
“I should have. I keep thinking back to when we were kids during summer break. Remember how we’d go to the pool at the JCC—”
“And the park.”
“And the library!” She smiles. “Your favorite.”
She’s right; our city library was a half mile from our apartment, and we’d walk there together. We’d each take a backpack and check out the limit—fifteen books each.
“You’d get all those big chapter books, then go home and read for hours,” she says. “I loved when you read to me.”
I’m happy to hear that; I’m not sure she fully understands why I did it, though. Each book was a doorway to another world, transporting us away from the chaos at home. Reading wasn’t just an escape; it was a lifeline.
“You know who else could read for hours and hours?” Georgia says, leaning on the broom. “Mom.”
I stiffen at the comparison.
“The difference is that she’d lose herself for days at a time and forget she had two daughters,” I say. Meanwhile, I always made sure Georgia was taken care of.
Georgia sighs. “I know.”
“Instead of facing her responsibilities like a grown-up, she wanted her Prince Charming to swoop in and turn life into a fantasy—just like in those books she read.” I try to keep my voice steady, but it’s not easy. “I don’t need a degree in psychology to know that isn’t healthy.”
It happened after every bad breakup: Mom would pull out her paperback romances, the ones with clinch covers featuring bare-chested men embracing women with heaving bosoms, and she’d hole up in her room for days at a time like they were an escape hatch from reality.
It was terrifying, but I had to pull myself together for Georgia’s sake. I’d make meals, walk her to school, do our laundry—even when I was barely big enough to reach into the washing machine in the basement of our building. Mom was fired from her job more times than I could count. Sometimes we ran out of food and I’d have nothing to feed Georgia but stale saltine crackers and cream of chicken soup. Once, Mom forgot to pay the gas bill and we spent a frigid night in January wearing three layers of clothes and shivering in bed.
After a while, Mom would emerge, thin and pale, and declare that she was “ready to find love again.” Soon enough, she’d have “met someone real nice,” a man that would treat her “better than those other awful guys.”
And the cycle would start all over again.
“She’s doing better now,” Georgia says, her voice tentative.
“You’ve been talking to her?” I say, horrified. I stopped returning Mom’s calls a couple years ago, when the drama became too much to handle. As far as I knew, Georgia had done the same.
“No—well, a little.” Georgia shrugs. “She called me a few months ago, and I picked up…She’s working as a receptionist at a dentist’s office. I helped her find a therapist, and she’s moved into a new apartment and…”
I fold my arms. “And?”
“And she’s dating someone—”
“George!” I burst out.
“He sounds nice.”
“They always do.”
My sister turns, looking at me with mournful eyes. The same way she looked at me when I came rushing home from college after her accident, because our mom had taken off after her latest boyfriend.
“I wish you’d give her a chance,” Georgia says quietly.
My throat tightens. I know she wants to believe our mother can change, and I love that about her. Unfortunately, it’s never going to happen, and the last thing I want is for my sister to get hurt again. So many popular novels showcase big, sweeping character arcs—but that’s the author’s imagination. Fictional.
In real life, people don’t change, not enough to make a difference.
“I—I need to unpack some boxes,” I say, and head into the back room.
—
That night, as I’m closing the register, my mind drifts back to that conversation. Not about giving our mom a chance, but Georgia’s comments about how I used to read as a kid. When I’d get sucked into a book so thoroughly, hours would feel like minutes. And when I put the book down, reentering reality would feel like surfacing from underwater.
On a whim, I grab my phone and pull up my chat with RJ.Reads.
BookshopGirl: Do you read for fun?
His username lights up. Maybe he has an alert set for my messages, like I do for his. The thought makes me smile.
RJ.Reads: Of course. Is there any other way?
BookshopGirl: I remember reading for pure enjoyment as a kid. It hasn’t felt the same as an adult, though.
RJ.Reads: What did you read as a kid?
This is the first time we’ve discussed something other than book recommendations, book pet peeves, or reviews. It’s still book related, but it seems more personal.
BookshopGirl: Anything I could get my hands on. Harry Potter, of course. Percy Jackson. Anne of Green Gables. Old Nancy Drew books. Newbery Medal winners, like Tuck Everlasting, The Westing Game.
RJ.Reads: And now?
BookshopGirl: Well, I read upcoming and new releases in order to recommend them to customers, or if I’m asked to blurb something. I try to keep up with the broader literary conversation, you know? Buzzy books, bestsellers, award winners.
RJ.Reads: To be honest, it kind of sounds like you think of reading as a job.
I sit back, stung. He’s right. Reading is still my favorite activity—but somewhere along my journey through adulthood, it’s started to feel more like a task on my to-do list than recreation.
RJ.Reads: Hey, sorry. There’s no right or wrong way to read, as long as you’re enjoying it.
BookshopGirl: No, it’s fine. That’s my point—since it IS my job, maybe that’s taken some of the joy away? I’m reading books I think I should read, not necessarily what I want to read.
RJ.Reads: Like forcing yourself to eat your vegetables because you know you need the vitamins and fiber.
BookshopGirl: Ugh. Am I the reader equivalent of the person at restaurants who orders a salad with dressing on the side, says no to the bread basket, and skips dessert? No one likes that person.
And I don’t want RJ to think of me as that person. Uptight; rigid. I’ve been called that before.
RJ.Reads: Not at all. I’m saying that any balanced diet should include desert.
RJ.Reads: *DESSERT. (Sigh. Why doesn’t this damn website have an edit feature??)
BookshopGirl: I knew what you meant ? . And I see your point.
I’m remembering the rugelach Georgia brought. The sugar crystallizing on my tongue, the sensation of comfort as it settled in my stomach.
When’s the last time I felt that way about a book? Not in years.
BookshopGirl: So do you have a rec for me? Something…well, fun?
No response. The minutes tick by, and I’m surprised at how disappointed I feel.
Which is silly. I’m sure RJ has plenty of other things to do.
After ten minutes, I head home, heat up a microwave dinner, and crack open a sparkling water. I eat my sad little meal while reading an ARC that arrived earlier today, but it’s not grabbing me, so I set it down and get ready for bed.
As I’m about to turn off the light, my phone chimes.
RJ.Reads: Sorry, took a while because I was brainstorming titles that would be “fun” for the one and only BookshopGirl. Something superlong (obviously), complex and layered, with thought-provoking themes, and a satisfying but not-too-neat ending. I finally settled on one of my brother’s favorite books that he made us all listen to on a road trip. It’s a backlist title, you can probably get it at the library. Are you ready?
BookshopGirl: After that introduction? I’m on pins and needles.
RJ.Reads: Ha. I’m sure.
BookshopGirl: So what’s the book???
RJ.Reads: 11/22/63.
I stare at his message, confused. Is that the pub date? I do a quick Google search.
BookshopGirl: By Stephen King? I’m not really a horror fan.
RJ.Reads: This isn’t horror, it’s a blend of science fiction and historical fiction. With an incredibly unique and intricate plot. And a protagonist you can root for. And a love story, but not a typical one. It’s like a fully balanced meal in one eight-hundred-page book—meat and potatoes, vegetables, and dessert.
A smile tugs at my lips.
BookshopGirl: Okay. I’ll give it a try.
—
The next morning is Saturday, which means it’s time for my inaugural meeting of the Literary Collective.
Today’s selection is a literary thriller about a small-town sheriff who’s secretly a serial killer investigating his own crimes. What makes it special is the spare, almost bleak prose, so devoid of emotion that it invites the reader to use their imagination to embroider events, heightening the sense of terror unfolding on the pages.
I loved it. (And so did PAW. She blurbed it.)
Judging by the discussion, so did many of our readers. About two dozen people attend, many of them familiar faces, though several have brought friends. There’s also a group of five middle-aged women wearing matching sparkly pink shirts. I’m pretty sure they’re in the wrong place, but it’s too late to let them know.
We’re discussing the main character, and Marc Stapleton—a fifty-something regular with a bushy brown beard—raises his hand. “I know the sheriff is a murderer, but experiencing the story through his eyes turns everything upside down. I started to doubt my own judgments about morality.”
“That’s fascinating,” I say. “Other thoughts from the group about the main character?”
In the back of the room, one of the women in pink raises her hand. “Did anyone else think he was kind of hot?”
Two people turn to stare at her, horrified. Georgia, who’s sitting in the front row to support me, stifles a smile.
“Well,” I say, my cheeks heating with embarrassment, “he murdered twenty-three people—”
“I could have changed him,” the woman sitting next to her says, and the women in her group dissolve into giggles.
The other customers shift their weight, clearly uncomfortable. I try to keep us on track, leading the discussion back into less unhinged territory, but the women in pink continue with the bizarre interjections. Georgia takes note of my panicked expression and slips to the back row. As one of my regulars talks about how the flashback scenes to the killer’s past build compassion for him, I overhear Georgia whispering to the women—introducing herself, asking where they’re from. Blessedly, this distracts them.
The rest of us carry on, but I’m having trouble concentrating. Then I hear one of the women whisper, “A bookseller over at Happy Endings told us about this, and we thought it would be fun to branch out of our usual genres.”
Ryan . He sent them to deliberately ruin my event.
My embarrassment flames into anger. Hands clenched into fists, I stand and head over to Georgia, whispering in her ear, “I’ll be right back—keep going.”
She nods, a confused look on her face, as I slip outside and past Beans, storming into Happy Endings, scanning the place for a giant man in a blah-colored cardigan with his hair flopped seductively over his eyes.
But when I get a few feet into the store, I stop short.
The place is a disaster. Overflowing shelves of various colors and styles fill the room; more books are stacked on the floor in messy piles. Mismatched chairs are wedged into every corner, with books spread face down over the arms (broken spines! I cringe). The entire back wall is ripped down to the studs, and the floor is partially removed in one corner, which contributes to the madhouse vibes. A candle is burning somewhere in the back, a floral scent that makes my throat itch—and gives me instant anxiety. An open flame around books?
Claustrophobia hits me in a wave. It’s too much like our apartment growing up. When I came home to help Georgia after the accident, the place was a safety hazard: spoiled food in the fridge, trash overflowing, junk everywhere. It took a week of decluttering and cleaning before Georgia could navigate her wheelchair from room to room.
My chest tightens, my breath coming in short, fast bursts.
“Can I help…” a voice calls.
Ryan. His smile drops when he spots me. “Oh. It’s you.”
My frustration flares again, and I march toward him, fighting the aggravating sensation that I’m shrinking as my eyes are forced up—way up—to meet his. He’s holding a grayish-white cat in his arms.
As I near him, I see a button on his lanyard that reads, It’s Not Smut, It’s Cliterature , and my face flushes.
“We said no sabotage!” I say.
He looks bewildered. “What are you talking about?”
“Those women you sent over to ruin my event! They’re asking ridiculous questions. ‘Did anyone else think the serial killer was hot?’ Complete lack of social propriety, no respect for the gravity of this novel.”
Slowly, understanding dawns on his face. “Oh. The Sluts.”
“Huh?”
“Five middle-aged women in matching pink T-shirts?”
“Yes.”
“Those are the Book Club Sluts—their name for themselves,” he adds hastily. “They join all the Boston book clubs. They’ve never come to your store before?”
“No.”
He shrugs, as if to say, Well, that’s kind of sad . “They were at Knitting and Knotting—they must’ve seen your sign advertising the event.”
“But that was just yesterday.” I pause, my frustration cooling. “Though I guess that explains the inappropriate questions—they didn’t even read the book.”
“They read fast. But they also pregame before most events. They’re probably tipsy.” The corners of his eyes crinkle, like we’re sharing a joke. It might be cute, on anyone else. On him, it looks like he’s mocking me.
“But it’s eleven a.m.!” I say.
“Mimosas at the Painted Burro,” a voice chimes in. It’s a middle-aged woman with cartoonishly bright red hair, emerging from the labyrinthine book stacks.
I blink at her, confused, then turn back to Ryan. “They said a bookseller at Happy Endings told them about my event.”
The red-haired woman stifles a laugh, and Ryan shoots her a surprised look. The cat wriggles in his arms, and he kisses the top of her head before setting her down. Again, cute—from anyone but him.
“Well, it wasn’t me,” he says, “though I bet those Sluts buy a hundred dollars’ worth of books each.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling somewhat better. But then I look around at the chaos, and claustrophobia hits me again. The words slip out under my breath: “How can anyone stand this place?”
Ryan’s expression turns rock hard. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I shift my weight uncomfortably. “Nothing. It’s just, it’s so…”
“Lowbrow? Unsophisticated?” His eyes flash.
“That’s not—”
“Just because we don’t cater to the ‘literary elite’ doesn’t mean we’re worthless or stupid or embarrassing, okay? At least my store isn’t cold and lifeless—”
“Lifeless?”
“Soulless. Joyless. Devoid of any warmth or magic.” He takes a step into my space, crowding me against an ornate purple bookshelf.
He’s so close I get a whiff of his scent, warm and masculine, and my knees nearly buckle. I’m acutely aware of our size difference, how he’s twice as broad as me and a foot taller, how easily he could pick me up and press me harder against this bookshelf and—
I clear my throat and sidestep away. “Just because my bookstore is clean and orderly doesn’t mean it’s boring and pretentious.”
“Just because my bookstore is cozy and homey doesn’t mean it’s dirty.”
“That’s not—” I fight the urge to scream. Two nearby customers have paused their browsing to watch our exchange. “Why do you take everything I say in the worst possible way?”
His jaw tightens. “You’re the one insulting my store—”
“I didn’t mean it like that!” I protest. “I like things neat! That’s all I’m saying!”
“And I’m saying that there are enough people out there who judge this store. We don’t need it from you, too.”
He folds his arms, staring me down like a bouncer. His outrage is ironic, coming from the guy who made rude comments about my bookstore to Eddie and Xander and probably plenty of other people, too.
“I think you should get back to your event,” he says. It’s clear from his tone that he means now.
Shaking my head, I move to the door. Near the exit, I notice a sign that reads, Thanks for Visiting! Your the Best .
My right eye twitches. Don’t do it , I tell myself. Just walk away. But it’s like an itch that’ll drive me bonkers if I don’t scratch it.
I whip the pen out of my bun and add an apostrophe and an E , so it reads You’re . When I look back, Ryan is still staring me down—but his cheeks are now flushed.
Without another word, I leave.