Chapter 15
15
Josie
I can’t stop staring at the message from RJ.
RJ.Reads: Would you ever be interested in meeting in real life?
He sent it late last night, but I haven’t figured out how to respond.
Georgia is sitting next to me, behind the counter at Tabula—but she’s working on something useful, a paper for class. Me? I’m freaking out.
I know it’s silly, but it’s almost like I forgot that RJ isn’t a fictional character. He’s a fully formed human with his own motivations and expectations. All I know of him is his avatar (a hand holding a small, leather-bound book) and his brief bio: Bookseller x 14 yrs. He/Him. Good endings matter. He could live anywhere in the country. He could be seventy years old or twenty. I’d bet money that we’re similar ages, though—within five or ten years—based on his word choices, abbreviations, and references. Somehow, that’s even more intimidating.
The thought of stepping out of the safety of our online world, of confronting the unpredictable reality of this individual I know nothing about—it terrifies me. What if I can’t be the person I am on the screen? What if I’m a disappointment? What if he is?
BookshopGirl: Sorry, I don’t think that’s a good idea.
I press send and immediately regret it.
“What’s that look on your face?” Georgia asks, and I close my laptop.
“Nothing. How’s your paper coming?”
She leans back in her chair and sighs. “Stuff like this makes me wonder why I decided to go to grad school. Maybe you had the right idea—you figured out what you wanted to do and didn’t waste time in college.”
My muscles tighten. I never wanted to make Georgia feel guilty when none of it was her fault, so I’ve always told her it was my decision to leave college. And that I’ve never regretted it.
Georgia returns to her paper, and my mind drifts back to my conversation with RJ about this very thing. It’s like he helped me revise the story I’ve had in my mind all these years. My version isn’t gone, but he’s written in some edits, crossed out some lines, added an asterisk.
You showed strength and resilience in the face of adversity.
But if we met in real life, I’d know that he knows the most secret, shameful parts of my past. It was hard enough to share that under the cover of anonymity; I’m not sure I can handle that level of vulnerability in person.
Still, I hate the thought of hurting his feelings, so I type a follow-up message.
BookshopGirl: Hi again. Just want to say that the last thing I want is to stop chatting with you here. But I’m going through some complicated stuff and I need the rest of my life to stay as uncomplicated as possible. Is it OK if we keep things the way they are?
It’s a cop-out, but it’s all I can do right now.
“Question,” I say to Georgia, wanting something else to focus on. “Could you cover for me when I go to IBNE? It’s the last weekend in August, and it’s in Boston this year.”
The Independent Booksellers of New England conference is one of my favorite events of the year—a chance to mingle with colleagues, meet publishers, and learn more about industry trends. I submitted an application to be on a panel—I’ve applied for the past three years but haven’t ever made it. It’s a huge honor to be chosen, and another one of my life goals.
“You mean I- BONE ?” Georgia says, grinning. “Sure. Happy to.”
I roll my eyes, smiling. “I won’t be boning anyone, sorry.”
Although it’s true a significant amount of hooking up does happen—hence the nickname. Bring a bunch of socially awkward book nerds together, add free books and a bar, and sparks fly.
“Why not?” Georgia says. “You deserve a hot one-night stand with a brawny bibliophile.”
Laughing, I shake my head, but my brain takes this opportunity to remind me of something: Ryan will probably be at IBNE.
Not that we’ll be boning. Not that I even want to bone him (my inconvenient attraction to him notwithstanding). But after he helped save my books the other day, I thought we had a moment, a breakthrough; that maybe we could set down our weapons and figure out how to be civil to each other.
Except he reacted so bizarrely to seeing I was reading The Princess Bride .
Compounding my confusion is the fact that he did another nice thing: bringing a customer over and hand-selling one of my books. The man ended up buying four other titles, too—a huge sale. It’s such a switch from our prior interactions that I can’t help wondering why.
Xander’s voice echoes in my mind: Unfortunately, you’re slightly behind Ryan.
Ryan must know that, too. Does he feel bad for me now? Does he want to prove that he’s a “good guy” as he crushes me?
Unless he actually is a good guy?
That thought sends an uncomfortable twinge through my chest. Regardless of his motivations, I owe him, big-time.
I glance again at my laptop to see if RJ has replied. He hasn’t. I tell myself he’s just busy.
But as the hours pass, he still doesn’t respond, and I feel a growing sense of unease.
After closing the store, I know I ought to head home, but if I do, I’ll just ruminate on all my uncomfortable thoughts: the lack of response from RJ, the weird obligation I now feel toward Ryan.
Eddie brought me leftover pastries before he left, so I grab one and head over to Happy Endings. Maybe if I give it to Ryan, that’ll assuage some of my discomfort.
There’s a book club tonight—a group, mostly women, seated in a circle, talking and laughing—but I immediately spot Ryan in the back corner.
He’s sprawled in a purple-and-yellow floral armchair, his broad shoulders and long legs making the chair look comically small. The white cat is in his lap, and the black one is snoozing on top of the chairback. As usual, he’s wearing a cardigan (navy blue) and glasses (tortoiseshell), and the effect is very Hot Mr. Rogers meets Adorable Cat Dad. He also looks tired. The specific, bone-deep fatigue from a long day working in retail, your feet aching from standing, your face tight from smiling.
I can almost see the invisible weight he carries as manager, a weight I know too well, and again I feel a strange tug of solidarity.
I walk toward him. He glances up and sees me, then stiffens.
“I made sure your store would be closed,” he says quickly.
It takes me a moment to understand. He thinks I’m here to complain about the noise.
“No, that’s not—” I hold out the pastry. “I brought you something.”
He looks confused, peering over the top of his glasses at me. “Why?”
“It’s not poisoned, if that’s what you’re wondering,” I say.
He sighs. “Sorry, I’m feeling a little…Never mind.” He takes the pastry but doesn’t eat it. “Do you, I don’t know—want to stay for a bit?”
To my surprise, I do. I tell myself it’s so I can spy on his operations and figure out how to pull ahead. But I have a sneaking suspicion it has something to do with this peculiar interest I feel toward him—and not just physically. The common ground we share despite our differences.
I can’t allow myself to feel that way, though. He’s currently beating me, and maybe he actually isn’t all that nice. Maybe it was the water in my eyes and the panic in my veins, and now that I’m dried out and calmed down, I’ll see that he really is the arrogant, uncouth jerk I’ve imagined him to be.
Tentatively, I settle into the red-and-blue plaid chair next to Ryan and listen as the book club finishes their discussion. The women in the glittery pink shirts are here—the Book Club Sluts, Ryan called them. They’re in their element, making inappropriate comments that make everyone laugh.
As the conversation turns to the themes and characters, I find myself getting pulled in. A few years ago, I was invited to join a friend’s book club; I was so excited for my first meeting, I created a color-coded, annotated list of discussion points about the book—only to find out that no one else had read it, and the purpose of the gathering was to drink wine and chat. Which is great! Except that I felt like a total nerd.
But these readers? They’re just as book obsessed as I am, even if their “favorites” shelf may look different from mine. And I have to hand it to Ryan: he’s created an inclusive, supportive atmosphere here.
After the book club ends, I hang around for reasons I do not allow myself to examine too closely. Wanting something to do to keep busy, I grab one of the chairs and start moving it back into place.
Ryan comes over and takes it from me (lifting it more easily than I did). “I’ve got these. You can sit down.”
“What, I’m not capable of handling your chairs?” I’m trying for a teasing tone, but it comes out sounding peevish.
“I’m afraid you’re going to sabotage them somehow. Stick thumbtacks on the seats, maybe.” He frowns as he carries the chairs back to their places. “Sit, Josie.”
Instead, I find a broom and start sweeping the floor. When he returns, he takes that from me, too.
“How can I possibly sabotage you by sweeping?” I ask.
“You’ll figure something out,” he mutters.
While he sweeps, I go behind the counter and start taking out the trash. But he’s right behind me again, grabbing the trash bag from my hand and giving me a confused look.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m trying to repay you!” I say, frustrated. “You’ve done two nice things for me, and I’ve been uncomfortable ever since.”
“I—what?” He looks bewildered. “Why?”
I bite my lip, then let it out: “I hate being in anyone’s debt, especially yours.”
“Because I’m your nemesis.” He says the words flatly, almost distastefully.
“Exactly,” I say, latching on to that because I desperately need to keep him in that category despite the thoughts I’ve been having lately. “It’s eating me alive. I can’t handle it.”
His expression darkens. “Well, then…as your nemesis, I ought to let you stay in your discomfort for a while longer, don’t you think?” He ties a knot in the trash bag and tosses it into the back room. “So, uh, what did you think about your first romance book club?”
This is the first time we’ve had an actual conversation, rather than an argument. I lean against the counter and say slowly, “It was…unexpected.”
“You thought it would be a bunch of girlies squealing about their new book boyfriend?”
I stiffen at his tone: teasing, but with a hint of defensiveness—and maybe some judgement, too. “You know, you make a lot of assumptions about me.”
He blinks. “What do you mean?”
“Just because I don’t read romance doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a good discussion.” There’s a messy basket of crocheted objects next to the register, and I start organizing it so I have something to focus on. I can’t tell what they are—brown and pink, I don’t know…vegetables? Flowers?
When Ryan sees what I’m doing, his eyes widen and he rushes over, whisking the basket out of my reach. Bewildered, I put my hands on my hips. “Why can’t I do anything to help?”
He hands me a jumbled pile of bookmarks. “You want to organize something? Organize these.”
My fingers brush his as I take them, and goose bumps prickle down my arm. I take a quick step away and focus on the bookmarks, sorting them by type. I Don’t Watch Porn, I Read It Like a F*cking Lady , one reads.
“So what is your deal with romance novels, then?” he asks.
“My deal ?”
“Why won’t you read them?”
“It’s not that I won’t, it’s…”
My mind conjures an image of my mother, curled in bed with a book, lost in a world that wasn’t ours. I don’t blame the books, of course—it’s not their fault my mom couldn’t cope with reality—so what is it? Maybe I resent them, for capturing her attention when her daughters needed her. When I needed her.
But there’s no way I’m telling Ryan that.
Instead, I shrug. “They’re too predictable. You always know how the story will end: happily ever after, wedding bells, heart-eyes. Why bother reading?”
I know it’s a lazy take on the genre. But it feels easier than admitting there’s something deeper underneath.
“Because it’s about the journey, not the destination,” Ryan says. “You’re willing to follow these characters to the darkest depths because you know everything will be all right in the end.”
“But that’s not how the world works.” I’m aware of how cliché I sound: the cynic who doesn’t believe in love. “Why don’t people write about messy, complicated love affairs that end in tragedy or devastation?”
He narrows his eyes, but there’s laughter hiding there, too. “You’re kidding, right? There are plenty of books like that— Anna Karenina ? The Song of Achilles ? Call Me by Your Name ? I could go on…”
“Okay, okay.”
“By definition, a romance novel is about lovers falling in love. Kind of like how mystery novels are about solving a mystery. Fantasy novels take place in a fantastical world; historical fiction is set in the past; literary fiction features purple prose and depressing endings—”
“Come on,” I say, rolling my eyes as an unexpected grin pulls at my lips. “If you think that’s true, you haven’t read much literary fiction.”
“And you haven’t read much romance.”
He knocks his shoulder into mine—well, his upper arm into my shoulder—and the contact sends a zap of electricity through me.
I really need to get out of here.
His phone vibrates on the counter between us, and I take that as my cue to go.
“One second,” he says as he picks it up. “Don’t leave yet, okay? I—I need to talk to you about something.”
I nod, confused, and wait, looking at the Blind Date with a Book display while trying not to eavesdrop. But Ryan’s voice is loud, and it’s hard not to overhear.
“Yes, of course,” he’s saying. “Before the cake cutting. I promise.”
A wedding? He doesn’t sound thrilled.
The person on the phone says something—a woman’s voice, though I can’t make out the words—and he sighs. “The answer is still no. and I’m fine—I got a room at the Star Inn.”
Another pause, and when he speaks again, his voice is softer, the voice I imagine he reserves for people he knows well. People he loves. “Of course I’m excited. Uh-huh. See you soon. Love you, too.”
He ends the call, and I turn away to hide my burning cheeks. Maybe his girlfriend? I bet she’s easygoing and sweet. She probably adores Hallmark movies and gets her nails done every week so she’s prepared for when Ryan proposes?
“Sorry about that,” he says to me. “My parents are having a party for their fiftieth anniversary this weekend—my mom is firming up the details.”
“That was your…mom?”
So maybe he’s single. Not that I care.
He nods. “She thought that maybe if she asked for the fifteenth time, the answer would change and I’d be bringing a date.”
“Ah,” I say. “The mom-pressure—my sister and I get that, too. Why are they obsessed with their children’s dating lives?”
“My parents have this epic love story…” He shakes his head. “Anyway, my mom wants that for her sons, and I’m the only unmarried one, so she’s obsessed with my romantic prospects. Talks about it constantly. Makes it awkward at family functions.”
The rush of sympathy I feel surprises me—I understand the pain of feeling uncomfortable around your own mom. “Would it be easier if you had someone with you?”
The words are out of my mouth before I realize what I’ve said.
His eyebrows shoot up. “Are you offering to come?”
“Of course not,” I say quickly.
“It sounded like you were.” His expression is serious, but there’s laughter dancing in those honey-brown eyes. “Like you’re dying to live out a Fake Dating trope at my parents’ party.”
“Ha,” I scoff, strangely flustered. “Right.”
He leans closer, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “You could play the part of a loving girlfriend, hold my hand, dance with me. Help convince everyone I’m not pathetically single. Sounds right up your alley.”
He’s messing with me, of course. But for some inexplicable reason, my mind conjures up an image of being pressed against him on the dance floor, his hand firm against my low back, my cheek resting on his chest. An overwhelming sensation of yearning rushes through me.
I blink; what the hell is wrong with me? He’s scrambled my brain. Rattled me so thoroughly that I’m having fantasies of dancing with him. The ultimate form of sabotage.
Maybe I can flip the tables on him. Throw him off his guard.
“Sure,” I say, looking up at him through my lashes. “We could even try for a steamy kiss in front of everyone, just to really sell it.”
The laughter fades from his expression and his eyes crackle with heat. Suddenly, I can imagine it: his hand coming up to cup my jaw, pulling my mouth to his. We wouldn’t be tentative, not with all these weeks of tension between us—his kiss would be punishing, almost vicious, drawing me closer, then pushing me away, leaving me breathless and aching in front of his entire family.
There’s no way in hell I’d ever do that.
And yet, when he says, “Is that what you want?” in a low, smoky voice—
I hear myself whispering, “Yes.”
He holds my gaze. “Great. It’s in Maine, so we’d have to stay overnight.”
My stomach clenches; this is spiraling out of control. Now I’m seeing images of Ryan, shirtless, tossing me onto a bed, pinning me down, devouring me.
I take a step back, shaking my head. “I was kidding, Ryan.”
“Were you?” He’s still holding my gaze, intense and focused. I shiver involuntarily. “I didn’t think Josie Klein was the type to back out of a commitment.”
“I didn’t commit to anything!” I protest.
“You sounded pretty committed to me. We’ll leave tomorrow after work and come home on Saturday. Or are you going to chicken out?”
We’re in a standoff, facing each other like two dueling cowboys. Who’s going to flinch first? Not me.
“ If I come with you to this party,” I say, putting my hands on my hips, “I won’t be in your debt anymore. Agree?”
I’m simply calling his bluff. Nothing to do with this bizarre pull I feel toward him, the insistent whisper nagging me to figure out what makes him tick. And definitely nothing whatsoever to do with the way my body reacts to him.
“Fine, whatever,” he says. He takes his glasses off and rests his forearms on the counter, leaning down to study me, as if the information he’s looking for is somewhere on my face. “But this could get messy. Are you sure?”
He’s giving me an out, like he knows I don’t have the guts to follow through. And it’s true: the thought of going to a huge party where the only person I know happens to hate me…makes me want to curl up in a ball and hide.
But there’s nothing I despise more than being underestimated.
I force myself to think through the logistics. It’s July 4th weekend—the store will be closed anyway. Boston goes crazy over Independence Day, fireworks and concerts and crowds, and I wouldn’t mind getting away. Other than the car ride, I just need to hang out at the party with Ryan for a couple hours. I can get my own room at that inn he mentioned.
Meanwhile, I’ll use this opportunity to gather useful information on him. Convince him that I’m not a threat, learn his secrets, and when we return—swoop in and crush him.
“Positive,” I say.
His eyes narrow. “You’re plotting my death. You’re going to slip poison into my drink. Suffocate me in my sleep.”
“That’s always a risk,” I say, cocking an eyebrow, trying to look confident and a little devious—rather than flustered and confused.
He huffs a half laugh; apparently he doesn’t think I’m a threat. “What happens when it’s all over? We go back to trying to destroy each other’s prospects for the future?”
“Exactly.”
A strange expression crosses his face—almost like sadness. Then he shakes his head, like he’s still bewildered by this whole turn of events. I know I am.
“Okay. Fine,” he says. “I’ll book you a room at the inn—”
“You don’t have to—”
“I’m getting you your own room, Josie.”
His voice is stiff, and my face flushes. That is not what I meant. “Thanks,” I whisper, unable to meet his eyes.
“Meet me here tomorrow afternoon at four,” he says. “And pack a dress you can dance in.”