Chapter 14
14
Ryan
Josie Klein is BookshopGirl. BookshopGirl is Josie Klein.
My brain is short-circuiting. I can’t believe it—I don’t want to believe it. No way my smart, interesting, funny, kind friend on the internet is the ice queen herself. My nemesis. The woman who, if she wins, will erase everything I care about.
I’m dizzy and disoriented, like I’ve stepped through a portal. The store feels claustrophobic, so I close up and start walking. The sidewalks are nearly empty because of the rain, but I hardly notice it. My mind is reeling.
That couldn’t have been a coincidence, Josie reading The Princess Bride .
Oh god, I hope it’s a coincidence.
Somehow, I’ve ended up in Harvard Square. I duck into the Dunkin’ to dry off and recalibrate. As I scroll through my messages with BookshopGirl, my stomach turns to lead. There are countless clues I should have picked up on. Like how BookshopGirl and Josie both have a habit of saying “technically speaking.” Only when BSG says it, the phrase comes off as charming and cute. Unlike Josie, who uses the words as if she’s looking down on everyone who isn’t as smart as she is.
Then there’s the whole Kenneth Michael Rutherford ordeal. It should have been obvious that BSG posted about the ableist prick the same night he spoke at the Tab. And of course, the story of her sister’s accident—she must be the woman with the cane I’ve seen helping Josie.
And BSG mentioned that her job is tenuous.
Fuck.
I have no doubt it’s true, but I can’t merge the two people in my mind. One is kind where the other is callous; one is funny, the other pretentious; one is my friend, and the other is my sworn enemy.
When we talked last night, BookshopGirl was so vulnerable; that couldn’t have been an act.
Could it?
Desperate to escape my swirling thoughts, I get up and keep walking, hoping I’ll tire out my feet and my mind.
—
The next day, I’m no closer to figuring this out. I’ve been going through my work tasks in a daze, trying to avoid Josie at all costs.
Because the other question I’m wrestling with is: What do I do now that I know?
I hate lying. Plus, I have no poker face. The next time I see Josie, she’ll probably see the truth written all over me.
“For god’s sake, spit it out already!”
I look up to see Nora, deceptively dressed like a sweet grandma, holding a basket of crochet projects in her arm.
“Spit what out?”
She tsks. “You’ve been moping around all day, staring at your phone like a lovesick girl waiting for someone to slide into her DMs.”
“What do you know about sliding into people’s DMs?”
Nora makes a sour face—nothing pisses her off more than someone implying she isn’t hip.
“Is it that girl you’ve been texting?” she asks, taking a seat at the other end of the couch.
My eyes widen. I try to keep my messaging with BSG to nonworking hours, but a few times—okay, a lot of times—we had really good banter going, like, Emily Henry–level banter, and I couldn’t wait to reply.
“Oh, don’t get your panties in a bunch,” Nora says. “I didn’t see anything. But there’s clearly someone.”
When I don’t respond, she shrugs and hands me a small, stuffed crocheted item.
“What do you think?” She smiles up at me, all sweetness.
“It’s…” I turn the object over, trying to figure out what it is. When Nora said she’d make romance-themed crochet projects to sell here, I assumed she meant more of the little animals she makes for her grandkids. Maybe this is some kind of sea cucumber? It’s light brown and oblong with two round—
“It’s a ween,” Nora says.
My hand yanks back, and it falls on the carpet.
“Good lord, don’t be such a prude.” Nora stoops to pick it up, but I reach down and grab it for her. “Now, if you don’t like it…”
She sounds hurt, and I realize that the entire basket is full of them, all different sizes and shades, from light tan to dark brown. These must have taken hours to make.
“They’re great!” I say, my voice high pitched. “So great! I really, really think they’re great.”
She gives me a skeptical look. “Well, I tried my best to showcase a range of styles. Cut and uncut, large and small, some a little curved—”
“There is someone,” I blurt out, holding up my phone.
Nora’s painted eyebrows start dancing. “I knew it! Who is she? How’d you meet?”
I wasn’t planning on talking about this with anyone, much less my septuagenarian employee, but it’s better than hearing a detailed description of the crocheted dongs I’ve apparently agreed to sell in the store.
“I don’t actually know who she is,” I say, which was true just yesterday. “And we met on BookFriends.”
“You mean Book More-Than-Friends,” she says with a wink.
“Just friends.” Although I felt more of a spark for BookshopGirl than I have for any of the women I’ve gone out with in the last…well, since college. “But I’m not sure we can even be that anymore.”
Nora frowns. “What happened?”
I shrug. “It turns out she’s someone I know in real life. A person I don’t like. Someone who’s completely different from the woman I thought I knew.”
“Ah,” Nora says. “And you’re not sure which version is real.”
“That about sums it up,” I say, slumping back onto the couch.
“The internet is a tricky place,” Nora says after a moment. “It’s easy to pretend you’re someone you’re not. All those catfishers. And the trolls, saying things they’d never have the balls to say to your face. But for most people, I think the truth is somewhere in the middle.”
“Between a catfish and a troll?”
Nora nods solemnly. “People want to be seen as the best version of themselves. So maybe they pretend they’re nicer or taller or richer—but it’s still them, deep down. I’d say that’s true for your book friend, too. I mean, what reason does she have to lie?”
One of our conversations comes back to me, when BSG said she’s worked so hard to make something of herself, to turn her life around. Maybe Josie’s icy exterior is just armor, protecting the part of her that still believes she’s a failure. Hiding the warm, generous, tender soul I’ve come to know online.
“Give her a chance,” Nora says, squeezing my shoulder. “If you don’t, you’ll never know what you could be missing.”
She’s got a point, although I can’t imagine a world where Josie Klein and I are friends, let alone anything more.
“Now,” she says, pulling her basket back on her lap. “I found some patterns for vulvas…”
—
Later that afternoon, the store is bustling with the after-school book club. Eliza’s running a thoughtful discussion on Alyssa Cole’s latest. I thought it might be too racy for the under-eighteen crowd, but Eliza insisted that it showcases healthy sexuality, and I agree that’s important. She also called me a hypocrite and a prude.
I’m up front, handling the register, when the front bell chimes. The man responsible for the sound freezes, like he’s been busted for being somewhere he isn’t supposed to be. Judging by his neatly trimmed hair, pleated khakis, and button-down shirt, he’s one of two things: a romance-curious man who wrongly thinks his interest says something about his masculinity, or a man on a mission to buy a gift.
“Welcome to Happy Endings,” I say, smiling. “Can I help you?”
“I hope so.” He sounds forlorn. “I’m looking for a birthday gift.”
“Great—what kind of books do they like?”
The man blanches. “She. And we’ve only been dating a few weeks.”
“We have gift cards…” Although it could have a short redemption window if I don’t figure out a way to get our profits even higher.
“She thinks they’re lazy gifts,” the man says.
“Okay, then,” I say. “What books do you like? Sharing a favorite book with a partner can be a very intimate experience.”
Which makes me wonder: Would Josie have taken my book suggestions if she’d known I was the one making them?
“I don’t read romance,” the man says with the air of someone who looks down on the genre even though they’ve never read it. “My taste skews more literary.”
This is a challenge I like. As much as I’d love to convince him to buy something spicy—he could benefit from his girlfriend reading a book like that—I know he’s trusting me to help him choose something that will make him look good, and I don’t want to disappoint. I flip through the card catalog in my mind, trying to think of a romance that leans literary. More of a love story than a traditional genre romance…
“How do you feel about cherry farms in Michigan?”
A few minutes later, I’m leading the man—his name is Brad—across the invisible barrier that used to separate Happy Endings from Beans and around the bookshelf barrier into Tabula Inscripta.
Josie’s eyes widen when she sees me. It’s moments like this that make me wish I wasn’t such a goddamn giant. I know my size can be intimidating, but I wouldn’t hurt a cat. Not even Hades when he’s acting like the devil he was named after.
“Can I…help you?” Josie’s the epitome of a buttoned-up retail professional today: hair slicked back in a long, dark ponytail; crisp blouse and pencil skirt; glossy red lips that match her high heels. A new image comes barreling into my mind: Josie Klein in nothing but those shoes and a red lacy bra and panties, ordering me to get on my knees.
Flushing, I shove that thought away and try to picture BookshopGirl dressing like Josie. I can’t—I’ve always imagined her as a soft, sweet woman who wears flowy skirts and cozy sweaters, her hair in a messy bun, ink smudges on her fingers.
But like Nora said, there’s no reason for BookshopGirl to be anyone other than her real self online, whereas Josie has plenty of reasons for treating me the way she has. Not that they’re valid. Still, maybe BookshopGirl is there, underneath all that ice…
“Did you need something?” Josie asks in a wary voice.
“Yeah, sorry,” I say, shaking myself. “My friend Brad here is looking for a special gift for a special lady—any chance you have Tom Lake in stock?”
Josie’s dark eyebrows draw together slowly, creating two tiny lines between them.
“Follow me,” she says after a beat, but she still looks suspicious.
She leads us to a shelf at the front of the store, on the opposite side of the offending pipe—which I see has been patched up. I think back to the surprise in Josie’s eyes when I came to help her, and the suspicion, like she was waiting for me to say or do something mean.
How would she have reacted if it had been RJ who came to help her?
“Ann Patchett…” Josie says, trailing her long, delicate fingers across the row of spines. Her nails are painted pale pink, the color so close to natural I didn’t think she was wearing polish at all. My eyes, and my mind, drift down, and I wonder what color her panties are.
Stop it, asshole. I cough and mentally smack myself. I’m already turned inside out; I don’t need these damn intrusive thoughts about Josie Klein’s lingerie making me even more mixed up.
“Here you go!” Josie says to Brad, her voice brighter than it’s ever been when she’s talked to me.
Sure enough, there’s the bluish-green cover, dotted with flowers. I’m impressed she managed to find the exact book she was looking for in less than thirty seconds. Maybe there is something to how organized her store is. Efficient, if not exactly inspiring.
“She’s going to love it,” Josie tells Brad. And then she smiles at him. It’s the first time I’ve seen a real smile from her—open and easy, with a hidden dimple popping in her right cheek—and I’m stunned. The way her eyes are shining, she’s radiating light. She is the sun, and for the first time, I can see a glimpse of my book friend.
Too bad she hates my guts.
—
That night, I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, considering my options. If I tell Josie what I know, she won’t want to keep chatting with me, and the thought of losing my friendship with BookshopGirl makes my chest feel hollow.
But continuing to talk without telling her? That feels dishonest, a lie by omission. A betrayal.
I pull up BookFriends and read the latest message from BookshopGirl, sent after I didn’t reply to her this morning.
BookshopGirl: Hey, you must have had a super busy day! I did, too—but in a good way. Anyway, just saying hi, and I hope all is well. Goodnight! Chat tomorrow?
I stare at the screen, trying once again to merge my mental images. Josie Klein, sitting at her kitchen table and messaging me while eating breakfast; Josie Klein, asking for my book recommendations; Josie Klein, opening up to me about the worst experience of her life.
Josie Klein, sending me one last message before turning off the light and going to bed.
If there’s even a chance the warm and lovely BookshopGirl could be hiding beneath Josie’s cold exterior, isn’t it worth the risk? Getting to know the real her, and letting her get to know the real me?
Only one way to find out.
RJ.Reads: Sorry, it’s been busy. And weird. I’m glad yours was the good kind of busy, though. So, I’ve been thinking, and I hope this isn’t unwelcome, but I can’t stop thinking about it so here goes: Would you ever be interested in meeting in real life?
After pressing send, I remember that she doesn’t know I’m also in Boston. I shake my head and write another message.
RJ.Reads: I mean, in person depending on if we live in the same city, which we don’t know for sure, right? Ha. Or we could talk on FaceTime or Zoom? Or a phone call?
Shit, I sound desperate. Just one more message.
RJ.Reads: No pressure, though. Let me know. Goodnight