Chapter 12
12
Ryan
I’m sitting in my second-favorite nook before the store opens, about to push play on an audiobook, when my phone rings. It’s Xander.
“Lawson,” he says, and I cringe. I hate the machismo bro-y vibe of the whole last-name thing, and the fact that it implies some level of history or friendship. Xander Laing and I are not friends. “Sorry I had to jet yesterday,” he says. “You know how it is.”
“I do,” I say, even though I don’t.
“Listen,” Xander says, getting right down to business. “Your profits are up compared to last June. I’m impressed.”
“Thank you,” I say, sitting up a little taller at the unexpected compliment. “I can’t take all the credit. My team has been—”
“Unfortunately,” Xander cuts in, “you’re slightly behind Josie.”
“Oh,” I say, my face falling. I’m such an idiot—of course my numbers being higher than normal doesn’t mean anything compared to hers.
“It’s going to be close,” he says, giving me a tiny spark of hope. “So you’ll have to pull out your A game if you want to keep your job. Hopefully that’ll motivate your staff, too.”
I try to swallow, but my throat’s gone dry. “Their jobs will be safe either way, right? The profits are only going to determine the manager job.”
“That’ll be up to whoever’s managing the store.” There’s noise on the other end of the line, then I hear Xander talking to someone else. “Gotta run,” he says, back to me. “Keep up the good work.”
I hang up and try to blink away an unsettling mental picture of the future: Josie handing out pink slips or making things so difficult my staff quits on their own. I have to figure out some way to get ahead.
Even still, I find myself pulling up this morning’s message from Gretchen.
Greetings from your plan B! Any update?
I hesitate, chewing on my lip, then type: Can I call you later? No decision yet, but I’d love to hear more details.
Gretchen texts back immediately: OMG! Really?! Yes of course—call anytime.
Their enthusiasm is gratifying, especially after Xander’s news. At least someone thinks I have something useful to offer.
I slump back against the couch and open the Libro.fm app. I wish I was listening to a comfort read, something with a guaranteed happy ending. But right now, I’m listening to a book that I know won’t end happily—after BookshopGirl mentioned the best way to get to know someone is to read their favorite books, I put a few from her Favorite Reads shelf on my Tbr list, including this one— Atlas Shrugged . I was going to buy the hardcover, but it’s more than a thousand pages. The audiobook is sixty hours, but still easier for my mind to digest.
I’m about to hit play when a message from BookshopGirl comes in.
BookshopGirl: Good morning! Guess what? I started The Princess Bride after we finished chatting last night.
RJ.Reads: And…
BookshopGirl: And the one I got is apparently abridged. Do you know where I can get a copy of the original? It’s OK if it’s longer. When we read Les Misérables for English in 11th grade, our teacher assigned us the abridged version, but I read the original even though it’s 1,463 pages.
A laugh bursts out of me, startling Persephone, who just got comfortable on my lap. She gives me an annoyed side-eye before falling back asleep.
RJ.Reads: There isn’t an unabridged version.
BookshopGirl: Yes, there is, the author says right at the beginning that the original was written by S. Morgenstern. Maybe I should try a vintage retailer.
RJ.Reads: Did you google S. Morgenstern?
BookshopGirl loves unique structures, so I figured she’d get a kick out of this one—but maybe I should’ve just come out and told her. The last thing I want is to make her feel stupid for not knowing.
But that’s the genius of the book. The author (William Goldman, a legendary screenwriter) frames the entire novel as the “good parts” of the original history written by the fictional S. Morgenstern.
The longer I wait for a reply, the more nervous I get. She’s probably rolling her eyes and promising herself she’ll never ask me for recs again. Good thing I didn’t suggest one of my favorite books—I wasn’t kidding when I said I couldn’t handle it if she hated it.
I’m about to give up when my phone pings again.
BookshopGirl: WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK.
BookshopGirl: ARE YOU SERIOUS??
My stomach sinks.
BookshopGirl: This author is either a genius or a total nutjob. Either way, I’m hooked.
A huge smile spreads across my face as I lean my head back against the chair, relieved.
RJ.Reads: I’d never steer you wrong.
BookshopGirl: Thank you. Really—it’s just what I needed. It’s been a rough few weeks, which is another reason why last night hit extra hard.
BookshopGirl: Got to go. Chat soon!
“ Holy fuckin’ shit! ” I hear Eddie say ten minutes later. The whir of his espresso machine has almost blurred into white noise, but Eddie’s voice—especially at its most dramatic—can cut through anything.
I glance up, less than half interested until I see the person he’s talking to.
The warm and fuzzy feelings from my conversation with BookshopGirl evaporate, replaced by the irritation I always feel around Josie. I don’t care what’s going on with her. I shouldn’t. But my curiosity—okay, my nosiness—gets the best of me.
I lift Persephone off my lap. “Sorry, sweet girl,” I say, giving the soft spot between her ears a nuzzle before stepping into Beans. I’ve already had my morning frappe, but there’s always room for another.
As far as guilty pleasures go, mine isn’t that bad. I wonder what BookshopGirl’s is, if she has one. And just like that, I’m back to thinking about her.
Is it possible to have a crush on someone when you don’t know their real name or what they look like? Except I’m pretty sure BookshopGirl is beautiful. Smart, thoughtful, funny, and beautiful.
“Fuckin’ hell, Ry—you won’t believe what Josie just told me,” Eddie says.
Josie’s back is to me, and her shoulders stiffen. She’s in full ice-queen mode today: tight bun, black pencil skirt that hugs her curves, and sky-high heels that make her legs look endless. She gives me a brief glance, then looks away—but not before I see her expression. Totally sour, like she’s sucked on a lemon. Hard to believe that a week ago she had me backed against a bookcase, staring at my lips like she wanted to suck on them.
“It’s no big deal,” Josie says.
“Come on, it’s a huge deal,” Eddie says, before looking at me and adding, “The usual?”
He raises an eyebrow and I gulp, hoping my “usual” doesn’t include a wad of spit. I’ve been on good behavior around him—unless Josie told him about the bookshelves…
“It’s fine,” Josie says to Eddie. As if she can’t be bothered to have this conversation with me. “I just had a situation at my event last night.”
“No one showed up?” I ask, unable to miss the chance to razz her. I know she had a full house; I was here working late, filling more than a hundred Book and a Vibe subscription boxes.
“No,” Josie hisses, sounding not unlike Hades. “The event was sold out, thank you very much.”
“Then what was the problem?” I’ll have to ask Cinderella if Mercury is in retrograde—what are the chances that Josie and BSG both had bad events last night?
“The guest author was a racist-ableist-eugenicist asshat,” Eddie says to me.
Josie’s shoulders slump as she mumbles, “I really fucked up.”
I’m not sure she meant for me to hear that last part; it’s unlike her to show any sign of weakness. But I also can’t imagine Josie Klein inviting a guy like that to her store. Just last week I saw her dress down a customer at Beans who made a nasty comment about her sister’s cane.
“Why would you host him?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“His last novel was nominated for the National Book Award,” Josie says, before quickly adding, “and I didn’t read the new book first.”
“Ah man, been there, done that,” I say, remembering when a local author gave off subtle pedophilia vibes at one book launch we hosted. “Just say no if an author named G. T. Offman comes knocking…”
“Same goes with Kenneth Michael Rutherford,” Josie says, a bite in her tone.
“Wait, you brought that guy into your store?”
Rutherford was trending on BookFriends last night. The Literary forums aren’t usually my jam, but I came across the post since it was started by BookshopGirl. The things people were saying about this guy…
Josie presses her palms against her eyes as if she’s trying to block out the memory.
“I hope you kicked him out on his ass,” I say.
I would have liked to see that, someone else being on the receiving end of Josie Klein’s death glare.
“She couldn’t kick him out,” Eddie says, shaking his head. “The crowd was all white guys—no offense.”
“None taken,” I say, confused by why that matters.
But then I remember that someone on BookFriends said Rutherford has been linked to a bunch of violent, bigoted organizations, and it makes sense. Josie nearly always works alone—of course she wouldn’t feel comfortable standing up to Rutherford and his fans without any support or backup.
“She was afraid for her safety,” Eddie continues, putting a hand over his heart. “I wish I’d been here to help you, Josie.”
“Me too,” Josie says quietly.
“I was here,” I tell them both. “I could have helped.” I feel a twinge of guilt, even though I had no idea what was going on.
Josie scoffs and turns to look at me for the first time this entire conversation. There’s that death glare again. “Oh, come on. You wouldn’t have helped me.”
“Of course I would have,” I insist.
“Would not.”
“Would so,” I volley back, cursing Josie Klein for luring me into this childish game.
“Give me a break, Brayden,” Josie says, and her intentional use of another wrong name grates on my last nerve. “You would have just stood there and watched me struggle.”
“That’s not—”
“That’s exactly what you did the other day with the bookshelves,” she says, her voice rising an octave.
That twinge of guilt turns into a gut punch; she’s right. I was an asshole. But the circumstances were completely different.
“Your life wasn’t in danger!” I say, my voice matching hers in volume and intensity. “Eddie, tell her I would have saved her if she was really in trouble.”
Josie lets out a bitter laugh. “Eddie, tell him to get over his hero complex. Not all women need to be rescued.”
Ouch. Her words hit a nerve; it’s not the first time the word “hero” has been used to describe me in a less-than-flattering way. Is it my fault that I like to help people?
Hell, Josie is mad at me for not helping her. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.
“Ryan,” Eddie says, drawing out my name and looking at me somberly. “The next time you see a bunch of scary-ass white guys over at Josie’s, go help her.” He turns toward Josie. “Josie, the next time you see a bunch of white guys over at Ryan’s…call me.”
He laughs at his own joke, defusing the tension.
Josie looks like she’s on the verge of laughing, too, until Mabel walks over and attempts to hand her my drink. “Here’s your frappe,” she says.
Josie’s expression goes blank, but her ears turn even more pink.
“That. Is not. My drink.” Her tone is deceptively flat, but her eyes are that fiery green color I’ve become familiar with.
I can’t look away, my own eyes drifting across her face: the faint freckles on her nose, the curve of her lips, the clench of her jaw. A few strands of dark, curly hair have come loose from her bun, tickling the nape of her neck, where the skin is a creamy shade of peach. I imagine how it would feel to press my lips right there.
I feel weirdly hot. Claustrophobic. And when she turns on her heel and walks back to her side of the store, I can’t decide if I’m disappointed or relieved.
“I would have helped her,” I tell Eddie once she’s gone.
“I know,” Eddie says solemnly. Then his lips curve in a suggestive smile, and he shakes his head. “Oh, I know, Ryan.”
Beneath her layers of anger and hurt, I hope Josie knows it, too. This guy she’s made me out to be—her enemy—he’s not me. I don’t even like sports because someone has to lose. I run a romance bookstore, for Pete’s sake. I’m not a bad guy.
But deep down, I know it’s not all Josie’s fault that she sees me this way. I should have helped her with those damn bookshelves. Of course, if I had, she probably would’ve accused me of upholding the patriarchy. No matter what I do, I can’t win.
But I can’t lose, either.
Not this competition, and not my store.
—
Later that night, I’m doing dishes and listening to my audiobook when my phone chimes.
BookshopGirl: Hey, how was your day?
I sigh; I’m still bothered by that argument with Josie—I hate that she thinks of me as that kind of guy. And that I’ve been acting like that kind of guy.
RJ.Reads: I’ve had better.
BookshopGirl: What happened?
I don’t really want to get into it, but for some reason, I find myself sharing a little.
RJ.Reads: Remember our conversation about wounds? Well, someone said something today that pricked at one of mine. Basically implying that I’m not a good person. I’ve always thought of myself as a good guy. But around THIS person, I’m not, and it sucked to realize that.
BookshopGirl: If it’s just around this specific person, I doubt it’s your fault. It’s probably theirs.
Maybe, maybe not. And blaming my behavior on Josie isn’t the mature thing to do, even if she does needle me like no one else.
RJ.Reads: I have objectively not treated this person all that great. But I’m not sure if I can do anything to change our dynamic.
BookshopGirl: Maybe you can’t. But my little sister (she’s in grad school to become a psychologist) would say that if you can’t directly make amends with this person, consider doing something kind for someone else. It won’t erase what happened, but it can help shift your energy in a positive direction.
BookshopGirl: I know that sounds hokey. I’m not sure I believe it, but maybe it’s worth a try?
Interesting. Though I have no idea how I’d do anything like that.
RJ.Reads: Huh. I’m willing to give it a shoot.
I read my message and shake my head, irritated at myself, the way mistakes sneak in despite my best efforts.
RJ.Reads: *shot
RJ.Reads: So…can I do anything for you? ;)
BookshopGirl: Ha. Idk. Like what?
RJ.Reads: My helpfulness is limited over chat, but…anything you want to talk about?
BookshopGirl: Maybe? Ever since our conversation the other day, I’ve been thinking about what I told you—how I dropped out of college. And I realized that I haven’t ever talked about it. Like, ever.
Warmth creeps through me, and I leave the dishes to go sit on the couch.
RJ.Reads: If you think it’d help to talk about it, then I’d be honored to listen. And I mean that truthfully. Not just to shift the energy.
BookshopGirl: Okay. Well. During fall semester of my senior year, my sister was in an accident—hit by a car while walking home from school. She broke eleven different bones in her body.
My stomach drops to the floor; she’s sounded so protective when talking about her sister. Now it makes sense.
RJ.Reads: Oh my god. That’s terrifying.
BookshopGirl: It was. At first, they weren’t sure she’d make it. I hardly left her side during the two weeks she was in the hospital. Then she went home and I went back to school. I thought she was doing okay until my mom took off.
RJ.Reads: Wait, what? Your mom left?
It gets worse. BookshopGirl tells me the whole story: apparently, this was something her mom did a lot, chasing some guy, forgetting she had daughters to care for. In this case, she was dating an asshole who got fed up with the fact that BSG’s mom was “distracted” caring for her injured daughter. So her mom left, leaving her young, wheelchair-bound daughter home alone.
BSG went home to help her sister, which doesn’t surprise me at all. What does surprise me is what she tells me next, how she blames herself for the way it affected her schooling.
BookshopGirl: I should have been able to keep up—I was an English major, so all I had to do was read and write. I could do that from anywhere.
RJ.Reads: Except you were overwhelmed and scared. I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that your mom took off. You were just a kid yourself.
BookshopGirl: Technically speaking, I was an adult. And I’ve spent my whole life taking care of my sister, so I’m used to that.
BookshopGirl: Anyway, I tried to make it work, but I failed two classes and lost my scholarship.
RJ.Reads: Didn’t anyone at school reach out to you? Try and support you?
BookshopGirl: Yes, but by the time the next semester started, my mom had been dumped by that guy and wasn’t functional even though she was technically home. My sister needed me, so I just…never went back.
BookshopGirl: It’s fine. I’ve had to live with that ever since: the knowledge that I’m the kind of person who gives up.
Shaking my head, I type the words I wish I could say to her in real life:
RJ.Reads: No, you’re the kind of person who sacrificed her future to care for her little sister when no one else would. Your mom failed you. You did not fail. You showed strength and resilience in the face of adversity.
BookshopGirl: My sister is the one who showed strength and resilience. She deals with the effects of that accident every day—and she hasn’t let that stop her.
RJ.Reads: Neither have you! You’ve worked your way up to be the manager of your store. That’s impressive.
BookshopGirl: Right now I’m only managing myself.
RJ.Reads: Doesn’t matter. Bookselling is important work, BSG. I know you know that.
BookshopGirl: Of course I do. But it’s not just the job, you know? It’s about what it represents—a sense of purpose, of accomplishment. Things at work are a little tenuous right now, and if I lose my job? I don’t know what I’ll do.
I understand completely. Interesting that we’re both facing the possibility of losing our jobs—though I suppose that’s probably true for lots of indie booksellers.
RJ.Reads: If that happens, you’ll get through it the same way you got through the situation in college.
BookshopGirl: By giving up?
RJ.Reads: No, by finding a new path, by adapting and persevering. You’re more capable and resilient than you give yourself credit for.
There’s a long pause, and I start to worry that maybe I said too much. But then three dots appear, followed by her reply.
BookshopGirl: You’re a good person, RJ. I know you said you grew up feeling below average, but everything I’ve seen is top tier. You’re an excellent listener, a thoughtful bookseller, and a wonderful friend. I know that for sure.
I stare at her words, wondering how she’s turned this around so that she’s complimenting and comforting me. But after my run-in with Josie earlier, I needed to hear this, to remind me of the kind of person I want to be. The kind of person I know I can be, if I’m honest with myself about my behavior and make some changes.
RJ.Reads: I appreciate that. More than you know. Chat tomorrow?
BookshopGirl: Of course. The best parts of my days are chatting with you.
RJ.Reads: Same.