Chapter 10
10
Ryan
A basic run-of-the-mill asshole.
Even now, two days later, I can’t get over the banality of Josie’s insult. Or the memory of her grabbing my lanyard, her eyes glittering green fire. At that angle, I could see right down her shirt, and the image of Josie Klein’s cleavage cupped in a bloodred bra will forever be tattooed on my brain.
I’d think she was trying to screw with my head and get an advantage, but she looked as out of control as I felt. Like we’d been caught in some magnetic field and thrown together.
Until she broke the spell with that pathetic insult.
Simple as they were, her words stung. Maybe because she wasn’t wrong. Not about the asshole part—Josie is the only one who brings that out in me.
But I’ve spent my entire life trying not to be ordinary or run of the mill.
As the youngest Lawson brother, I got the leftovers of my parents’ DNA. I wasn’t a good athlete like my brother John, I wasn’t funny like Robert, and I didn’t get good grades like Paul. The start of every school year was always the same— when teachers realized I was one of those Lawsons, their expectations skyrocketed.
Which made their inevitable disappointment even worse.
For years, I tried to be athletic and academic, but around the time I became “friends” with those kids who dared me to shoplift a dirty book, I stopped. It was easier to give up than it was to keep failing.
If it hadn’t been for Elaine, I may have never found my calling. To run this bookstore, and—
“Boss, can you come hang this for us?”
—and be the tallest person in almost any room.
“Sure thing,” I say, heading over to hang the Mazel Tov banner. Love is in the air today, along with a never-ending shower of dust motes from the construction. But I’m focusing on the bright side.
Today we’re not just selling romance, we’re playing a part in one.
Barb and Eva have one of the best second-chance love stories I’ve ever heard. Both women are in their eighties; they fell in love when they were in college and had to keep their relationship a secret. In the decades since, they each got married, raised families, and lost their husbands. They reconnected last year, and now the world is ready to celebrate their love.
A proposal like this would be a big deal at any time—but especially now that our days could be numbered. If Josie wins, love will come here to wither and die, not blossom.
The bell on the front door chimes and Indira walks in, carrying a Tupperware container.
“What’ve you got there?” I ask, grateful for a distraction.
Indira blushes. “Kansar.” She opens the lid to show me what looks like sweet confetti. “It’s traditionally served at Indian weddings, but it’s supposed to be a good omen, and I thought…”
“Eva and Barb will love it. We’ve got a table set up in the back if you want to put it there.”
Indira smiles, and heads toward Cinderella, Eliza, and Nora, who are helping the couple’s friends find hiding spots around the store. When you’re loved by as many people as Barb and Eva are, it’s impossible to keep things small.
And it will be impossible to keep them quiet.
As if on cue, the door opens again, and Alan, Barb’s son, walks in, carrying his guitar. When Eva said he wanted to play a song for the couple, how could I say no?
The fact that it might cause a little disturbance for the meditation event Josie’s been hawking all week is unfortunate. Maybe those big bookshelves will mute the sound.
And if not? #SorryNotSorry.
I’m not sorry our customers were having so much fun the other night that they got a little loud and disrupted her and all of her…oh, wait. There weren’t any customers in her store. I’m also not sorry that I took so much joy watching Josie get all sweaty and breathless as she struggled with the shelves.
I am sorry that I stared at her ass (though it is an objectively gorgeous ass). Partly because it’s disrespectful, but mostly because I hate that she affects me so much. My dick has not gotten the memo that Josie isn’t someone we want to get closer to.
Maybe it’s a good thing she made that bookshelf barrier. Out of sight, out of mind. Except I’m still thinking about her.
My phone buzzes: Gretchen.
Gretchen: Hi, friend! It’s a beautiful day on the Cape!
The photo attached is a close-up shot of two men wearing very tight Speedos.
I reply with the laughing emoji, and Gretchen comes back with: Have you thought more about my offer?
I’m telling the truth when I say, Yes…
Gretchen’s “plan B” has been on my mind more than I’d like to admit. In the dark moments when I doubt myself—not just my ability to win the competition, but my ability to manage this entire bookstore if I do.
Gretchen: And…
So many ands: And Lawsons aren’t quitters. And Boston is my home. And Happy Endings isn’t just a bookstore that could be replaced or replicated. And…
I’m not ready to throw in the towel yet.
Gretchen: Fair. Don’t hate me if I check in again in a few weeks. You’re a hot commodity. xx
Before I have a chance to reply, another text comes in. This one is from Eva: they just got off the T and are on their way to “pick up a book” they preordered.
“They’re almost here!” I call out, and everyone hides.
“Hi, ladies,” I say when they walk in a few minutes later.
“I hear you’ve got bookmail for us,” Barb says.
Behind her, Eva catches my eye and grins—she’s curled her hair and is wearing a dress for the first time I can remember.
“The new Casey McQuiston,” I say, trying to tamp down my smile. “It’s in the back. And, Barb—there’s a new collection of poetry over there I think you might like.”
“Ooh!” Barb heads to the front of the store, unaware that a photographer friend is standing outside, ready to snap photos through the window.
I give Eva a good luck squeeze on the shoulder, then join Cinderella and Indira behind the Hot Priest/Rabbi shelf.
We hear Barb’s voice: “What in the—?”
And I know she’s turned to find Eva down on one knee.
“Barbie, my love,” Eva says, clearing her throat. “I haven’t stopped loving you since the day we met sixty years ago. I don’t regret the years we spent apart; they gave us our beautiful children…But now…now…I don’t want to go another minute without making our love official. I want to be your wife, and I want you to be mine. Will you marry me?”
I peek around the bookshelf to see Barb, now also down on her knees, kissing Eva as tears spill down their cheeks.
Tears fill my eyes, too, as I’m pulled back to a memory I’m usually able to suppress. Having grown up under the shadow of my parents’ love story, I went through high school and college with my eyes and my heart open, waiting for my own lightning-strike moment when I’d meet someone and know she was the one. It finally came on the day I moved into the dorms sophomore year.
Or so I thought.
For three wonderful years, Kate and I had a storybook romance. Until she dumped me for her chemistry class TA. I was blindsided: I’d already started saving for a ring. When I asked her why, what this guy had that I didn’t, she shrugged and said, “When you know, you know.”
Based on her Instagram, she did know. They’ve been married for seven years and have two adorable kids. Meanwhile, I have two bookstore cats—one of which doesn’t even like me—and a job I might be on the verge of losing.
But the most devastating part wasn’t losing Kate, it was losing trust in my own intuition. If I was wrong about something that felt so right, how could I ever trust that feeling again?
Which is why, over time, I’ve realized that my purpose isn’t to have my own love story, but to help other people find theirs.
“She said yes!” Eva calls out, and the room erupts in cheers as everyone jumps out to congratulate them. Cinderella pops a bottle of champagne, and I help the newly engaged couple back onto their feet. Kevin launches into a rousing rendition of Bruno Mars’s song “Marry You.”
It’s a moment of pure, unbridled joy—until it’s interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat. I turn to find Josie, her cheeks red, fallen tendrils of hair framing her face.
“Can I speak to you for a moment?” Her voice is flat, but her eyes are blazing. She’s pissed, and I’m not in the mood to get lectured.
“If you have something to say, you can say it right here.”
Josie surveys the scene, then huffs out an impatient breath. “I have twenty people over there trying to meditate.” Her voice wavers, and I realize her eyes aren’t shimmering from anger, but because she’s on the verge of tears. “I planned this event for when you were closed so this wouldn’t happen!”
Suddenly, I feel like the basic asshole she accused me of being. I knew her event was starting at seven; I could have asked Eva to plan the proposal for six instead.
“Josie, I’m—”
“I know you hate me,” she cuts in. “I know you hate my books and my store. But I thought a fellow bookseller would have some respect for my customers . They’re booklovers, just like the ones who come here.”
She’s right, and I feel a twinge of guilt. “Listen, I—”
“Not to mention the author leading the event has terrible social anxiety; he’s in the back room hyperventilating into a paper bag.” Josie breaks off, breathing heavily herself. It’s obvious how much she cares about her customers and the anxious author, just like I would.
I am definitely the asshole here.
I’m about to apologize when Cinderella bursts in: “We’re celebrating!” she says, lovably oblivious to the tension between us. “Here, have some champagne.”
Josie shakes her head and pushes away Cinderella’s hand. Champagne slops out of the glass and onto Cinderella’s shirt, and my assistant manager backs away as if she’s been slapped.
My protective instincts flare: Cinderella’s been putting on a brave face, but I know proposals make her think of her own broken vows; of the husband who left her in the most generic way possible: falling in love with his much younger secretary.
I turn back toward Josie, who has her hands on her hips, looking like a very beautiful, very rude nuisance. Still, I decide to be the bigger person and apologize.
“Josie,” I say, “I really—”
“Do you even have a liquor license?” she asks, somehow forgetting that she recently hosted an event with wine. “I could call the cops on you. Drunken and disorderly behavior and disturbing the peace!”
Any sympathy I have for Josie Klein and her stupid meditation event evaporates faster than the champagne on Cinderella’s shirt.
“Hey, Alan,” I say, keeping my eyes focused on Josie’s. “Why don’t you play another song. And make it loud.”