Chapter 16
16
Ryan
Josie—BookshopGirl—left ten minutes ago. Having her here, bustling around my personal space under the guise of helping, was unsettling.
How many times did I wish my online crush would walk in the front door of Happy Endings, giving me a secret smile that would somehow let me know it was her? She’d tell me her name—something literary and classic like Emma or Jane or Anne—and I’d buy her a coffee at Beans (something sweet, like her), and we’d sit and talk for hours.
I’d be able to open up and tell her the things I haven’t been able to talk about with anyone: That even if I get the manager job, I’m terrified the store will change so much it won’t be recognizable. Or worse, that I don’t have the ability to manage a bookstore that sells other genres. How angry I am at Xander for putting us in this position, for forcing me to be so competitive and cutthroat.
Of course, in my fantasy, BookshopGirl was not the manager of the Tab. Oh, how quickly a dream can become a nightmare.
I could still tell Josie not to come this weekend, pull out one of a million excuses: That it’s too late to change my RSVP; that there are no rooms left at the hotel. That I’m harboring a secret—I’m the same guy she’s been chatting with online.
It would be so easy to tell her the truth, just reply to the message that’s gone unanswered all day. But BookshopGirl wants to keep things the way they are, which is the one thing I don’t know if I can do.
With my fingers poised over the keyboard, I consider confessing my identity. She’ll be as torn and confused as I am, and there’s no way she’ll still want to go on the trip.
And yet…
Before I can change my mind again, I type out a quick reply and hit send.
RJ.Reads: Okay. If that’s what you want.
I know it’s the coward’s way out. I also know that, deep down, it’s what I want, too; to go back to the way things were before I knew.
The best I can hope for is that this trip will show me once and for all who Josie Klein is. If she’s the ice queen, or the woman I thought I was developing real feelings for.
—
“You’ve got a lot of stuff in here,” Josie says.
It’s the next afternoon and I’m parked in front of Happy Endings, getting ready to head out—twenty minutes behind schedule. I appreciate that Josie’s attempting to keep the judgment out of her voice, even if she’s not entirely successful.
I’m cleaning out my car—which I had every intention of doing before work, but I slept through my alarm, then got stuck on a call with my mom, who is “ absolutely tickled ” to hear I’m bringing a date, even though I stressed that Josie’s just a friend. If that.
“Hey, you never know when you’re going to need a…” I stop when I see Josie holding a pink satin eye mask that says, Dreaming of My Hea , from an author event last week.
“What’s a he-ah?” she asks.
“H-E-A,” I tell her. “Happily Ever After. Surely you’ve heard of those, even if they don’t exist in your big literary tomes.”
Josie’s cheeks flush. She breaks eye contact, and I catalog another difference between the two women. Where BookshopGirl seems eternally curious, excited to learn about new things, Josie can’t handle looking like anything less than the smartest person in any room.
My mind flicks back to the story she told me about losing her scholarship and dropping out of college. The deep shame she still carries. Maybe I’ve been misreading her; what if it’s not about wanting to look smarter, but she’s genuinely insecure? My heart gives a teeny, tiny squeeze of sympathy.
Until she lets out an exasperated sigh and gathers the ARCs sitting in the passenger seat. Like it’s such a burden to pick up a few books—I left them there so I wouldn’t forget to bring them home for my mom and sisters-in-law, before I knew someone would be riding shotgun all the way to Maine.
Wordlessly, Josie carries the books to the open trunk. I bet she’s cringing at the clutter—which makes my jaw tighten with irritation. Rushing back, I take the books from her arms and toss them inside, closing the trunk before she can get a good look. I don’t want to have to explain the boxes of vibrators, ready to be sorted for next month’s subscription box.
“I think we’re all set—just need to grab your bag,” I say, spotting the small duffel resting on the sidewalk.
Before I can reach for it, Josie has it in her arms.
“I’ve got it,” she says. The edge of defensiveness in her voice makes my own defenses rise.
“Listen,” I tell her, “you don’t have to come. We can find another way for you to balance the scales, or whatever.”
“I said I was going, so let’s go.”
This is going to be the longest two-hour drive of my life.
—
We’re both quiet as we head out of Davis Square, toward 93. Traffic is crawling, but I’m hopeful it will pick up once we get to the highway. Thanks to the late start, we’re going to be cutting it close.
I steal a glance at Josie, who has her duffel bag resting on her lap. She’s hugging it to her chest like it’s a stuffed animal. I can’t tell if she’s uncomfortable or afraid her bag will get dirty.
The song on the radio ends and the DJ comes on the air. “That was ‘Shut It Down,’ by Marley Greene. Now for the traffic report, brought to you by Tabula Inscripta—where Boston gets lit. As in literature.”
Josie looks from the radio to me, excited—until she realizes that her competition is behind the wheel.
“You ran ads?” I ask, even though she obviously did.
Josie shrugs. “Sometimes you’ve got to spend money to make money.”
“Smart,” I say, wishing I’d thought of that. No wonder she’s winning.
We fall quiet again, and luckily the traffic dies down past Medford. I’m cruising at a respectable five miles over the speed limit as the trees blur past our windows.
“We should probably get to know each other,” Josie says, out of the blue. “Otherwise, your parents will think you picked me up off the street like a stray.”
“I was planning to tell them you were a hitchhiker.”
I can feel Josie’s fiery eyes on me, but I don’t give her the satisfaction of acknowledging her glare. Safety first—gotta keep my eyes on the road.
“Please tell me your parents know I’m coming.”
“They know I’m bringing someone,” I say. “A friend.”
“Friends know things about each other.”
“ Wellll , I know you’ve been working at Tabula Inscripta for about five years; that you have one sister; that you drink triple Americanos, you always wear your hair up, and you have a penchant for big books.”
Now I steal a glance, and judging by how wide her eyes are, she’s shocked at my astute observational skills.
“What do you know about me?” I ask, remembering how just a month ago she didn’t know my name.
“I know you have a very loud laugh; you have two cats you can’t control, a ridiculous sweet tooth when it comes to your beverages, and a lot of stuff.”
I choose to ignore the thinly veiled insults. Mostly because I’m surprised that she actually has been paying attention to me.
“How about we fill in the blanks?” I suggest. “Where did you grow up?”
“Newburyport—but not the nice part. How about you?”
“Winchester. The nice part,” I admit.
“Not Maine?”
I shake my head. “We vacationed in Kennebunkport when I was a kid, and my parents bought a place there once they became empty nesters. How about siblings? One sister, right?”
“Georgia.” Josie’s love for her sister is apparent in the way she says her name, like it’s precious. Like she’s precious. Understandably so, after the accident BookshopGirl told me about.
“And you?” she asks. “Any brothers or sisters?”
“Three brothers; I’m the baby.”
“Ahhh,” she says, as if that explains something—but I know enough about birth order to know I’m not as outgoing or free spirited as youngest children tend to be.
On the other hand, I would have known Josie was the oldest even without my conversations with BookshopGirl. She’s a textbook firstborn—a hardworking, high-achieving perfectionist who believes it’s her duty to take care of her sibling.
Again, I feel that reluctant squeeze of sympathy. I still can’t believe her mother left her sister alone, forcing Josie to leave school. Even worse, it sounds like that was a pattern their whole lives. It’s hard to imagine a parent doing that. Mine have always been there for me, even if I sometimes wish my mom would back off a little.
“So, what’d you do before working at the Tab?” I ask. “Where’d you go to college?”
And just like that, Josie shuts down, her body stiffening, her expression flattening. I curse myself for bringing up a taboo topic and putting an end to our conversational volley. It had been going pretty well.
She answers, a single word, devoid of emotion: “Emerson.”
I can tell she’s bracing herself for the inevitable next questions: what did you major in or when did you graduate. But I’m not going there.
Before I can think of a way to pivot, Josie says, “I love this song,” and turns up the radio.
She doesn’t seem like the type to love Flo Rida, but I let it go.
—
An hour and twenty minutes later, I’m waiting in the lobby of the Star Inn, my foot tapping with nerves and impatience. We’re late.
As soon as we arrived, Josie went upstairs to change in her room, which is actually my room. The hotel was full when I called, so I gave her mine. I changed in the lobby bathroom, and I’ll crash at my parents’ after the party. My complicated feelings can’t handle an “only one bed” situation.
I’m checking my watch for the twentieth time when the elevator dings, and I look up.
“Wow,” I accidentally say out loud.
Josie’s hair, freed from that constricting bun, cascades in waves down to her lower back. She’s wearing a dark blue dress that hugs her curves in all the right places. The full skirt looks made for twirling on the dance floor, and the halter top dips low enough to reveal more than a hint of her cleavage.
My mouth goes dry, and I get a flash of myself loosening the tie behind her neck, watching the dress fall to the floor.
The moment—and my view—is interrupted when the elevator doors start to close. Josie squeaks and sticks her hand out, stopping them. Then she hurries over, biting her lip as she looks up at me. The unexpected vulnerability in her expression hits my chest in a strange way. It’s like I’m getting a glimpse of BookshopGirl.
“No cardigan tonight?” she asks.
“My mom wanted all her boys in suits,” I say. “But what’s wrong with cardigans?”
“Nothing. If you’re a spinster librarian.”
And now she’s back to Josie.
“I’m not the one who wears a bun every day to work,” I say. Her dimple pops, as if she’s trying not to smile, almost like she’s pleased that I fired back. “Shall we?”
The inn is close enough to the venue that we could walk, but Josie’s heels are high, and it’ll be faster to catch a ride in one of the electric golf carts my parents hired.
The ride is short, and I try not to notice the way Josie’s hair blows in the breeze, releasing a scent of lavender and warm honey.
“I forgot to ask,” she says. “What are your parents’ names?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Lawson.” Josie turns to me, an odd expression on her face. “Just kidding. They’re Merrie and Jim.”
Josie nods, her lips moving as she repeats their names, committing them to memory. It’s oddly endearing. “And your brothers?”
“John is the oldest. Then Paul, Robert, and me. Ryan. Or Brian, if you prefer.”
Josie shoots me a “don’t mess with me” look. “And they’re all married?”
I nod. “John married his college sweetheart, Michelle; they’re both lawyers like my parents, with two boys and a girl. Paul’s wife is Anna; he’s a surgeon, she’s a pediatrician, and they have two daughters. Robert and Sandra got married a year ago, and she’s expecting their first baby. He’s a nuclear engineer, she’s a history professor.”
Josie whistles. “Damn. No pressure there.”
“Tell me about it,” I say. “Now add in that all three of my brothers were college athletes.”
She glances at me. “You didn’t play sports? Not even basketball?”
I stiffen; I’ve heard this before. Thankfully, the golf cart pulls up in front of the Boathouse. “We’re here,” I say, stepping off the cart and offering Josie my arm.
When she takes it, her hand brushes mine, and her skin is so soft my dick jumps to half-mast. I wonder if she’s this soft everywhere.
“Well,” she says with a hint of impatience—or is it nerves? “Are we staying out in the parking lot all night?”
I shake my head and take a steadying breath, preparing myself for the onslaught.
The door opens, revealing a party in full swing. My parents went all out in honor of this milestone. A half century together. I can’t imagine. Even if I found someone now and got married within a year, I’d have to live well past eighty to make it to fifty years.
I spot them on the dance floor, looking as spry and starry eyed as I imagine they were on the day they got married, fresh out of college. Mom sees me first—her face lights up, and she tugs Dad off the dance floor and over to where we’re standing.
“Son,” my dad says, giving me an aggressive pat on the back as my mom launches herself into my arms. “It is so good to see you, RJ—”
I squeeze her tighter, hoping to muffle the sound of my old nickname. Josie cannot hear her call me that. Not until I figure out how I’m going to handle this.
“Hi, Mom,” I say, releasing her and glancing at Josie. She doesn’t seem to have heard.
Mom beams at her. “Now introduce me to your stunning date!”
“Mom, Dad, this is Josie.”
“It’s so nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Lawson,” Josie says.
“Josie!” Mom exclaims, ignoring her outstretched hand and wrapping her in a hug. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes. Please, call me Mom.”
Josie flinches and gives me a wide-eyed look over my mom’s shoulder.
“Mother,” I warn. “Let’s take it easy on Josie, okay? We don’t want to scare her away, now, do we?”
“No, we do not,” my mom says, shaking her head for emphasis.
“Merrie! Jim!” someone calls.
“Go, have fun,” I say, and they head back to the dance floor, where I spot my brothers with their wives and kids—all looking like they’re having a blast.
The next two hours pass in a blur of hors d’oeuvres, champagne and cake, teasing from my brothers and sisters-in-law, hugs from my nieces and nephews, and versions of the same conversation with dozens of my parents’ old friends.
Ryan, good to see you! You are so tall!
You aren’t still working at that bookstore, are you?
Do people even read books anymore?
Looks like you finally found your own love story! Your poor mom must be so relieved.
You really are tall, aren’t you? Shame you never played basketball.
At half past ten, I scan the room for Josie—we got separated when my sisters-in-law dragged her off to dance to “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.”
“She fits right in,” Robert says, nudging me, and he’s right: Josie has been wonderful with my family. At one point, she even had my two-year-old niece in her arms. Now I spot her on the dance floor with Uncle Frank, my dad’s pervy old college roommate. And his hands are drifting dangerously close to Josie’s butt.
A surprising bolt of anger runs through me, and I head over, pushing my way through the crowd.
“Uncle Frank,” I say, resting a hand on his shoulder.
“I’m busy, kid,” he says, tightening his hold on Josie.
“Not anymore, you’re not.” I add pressure to my grip, and Uncle Frank sighs in defeat, but not before planting a sloppy kiss on Josie’s cheek.
“Oh, thank god,” Josie says, once she’s safely in my arms. The relief in her voice makes me stand up straighter, and I find myself pulling her closer. To my surprise, she lets me, her body relaxing as she sighs, a sound that makes my collar feel tight.
This is the first time we’ve been on the dance floor together all night, and I wonder why I waited so long. Swaying back and forth with Josie in my arms is a hell of a lot better than schmoozing with my parents’ friends.
Nearby, my parents are dancing, too, and Mom’s beaming as she watches me and Josie. Two of my brothers and their wives are over at the bar, openly staring at us. I discreetly shake my head and return my attention to Josie. The material of her dress feels as soft as her skin, and I find myself mindlessly running my hand up and down her back, trying not to think of what’s underneath.
Someone clangs a fork against a glass, and I’m disappointed when Josie releases my hand as my mom steps up to the front of the room.
“Hello, party people!” my mom shouts into the microphone. She’s clearly been overserved but is having the time of her life. My dad chuckles and takes the mic from her hands.
“Thank you all for being here to celebrate our golden anniversary,” he says. “Fifty years of marriage teaches you a lot about love, patience, and most importantly, the art of pretending to listen. Just kidding, babe.”
The crowd laughs as my mom playfully elbows my dad. She looks at him with such love and adoration, even after all these years. They set the bar impossibly high, I’m afraid.
“Despite a few questionable decisions, like that mustache in the eighties, my gut hasn’t steered me wrong.” Dad pats his slight beer belly, and the guests laugh again. “Like they say, when you know, you know—and the moment I saw Merrie in our high school cafeteria with her golden hair and that yellow dress…” He pauses and looks down at my mom like he’s still seeing that girl. “It was like the rest of the world faded to black and white, and she was the only thing in color. I knew that very moment she was the one.”
There’s a collective aww from the crowd. They all know, like I know, that the love my dad has for my mom is as authentic as it gets. None of this is for show.
“And just look at where that love has led us. We have four wonderful sons and three wonderful daughters-in-law.” I inwardly cringe at this mathematical proof that I don’t measure up. The youngest Lawson boy, still a disappointment. “Five grandchildren, with another on the way, and more friends than we can count.”
Dad’s voice cracks, and he pauses. My mom steps in to take the mic, and I marvel at the way they instinctively know what the other one needs. My chest tightens with the longing I try so hard to ignore—to have what they have. To know like they know.
“What my Jimmy is trying to say is that we love you all like crazy. Thank you for being on this ride with us. Now let’s get back to dancing. DJ, hit it!”
The DJ starts playing “This Magic Moment.” Mom throws her arms around Dad’s shoulders, and they kiss as they sway to the beat. Other couples join in, and soon the dance floor is filled.
As wonderful as the moment is, it feels like too much. I lean down to Josie and whisper in her ear, “What do you say we get out of here?”