Chapter 19
19
Josie
Since returning from Maine last week, I’ve decided on a new rule: no more drinking around Ryan Lawson. And no more touching him.
I’ve never thought of myself as someone whose judgment is easily impaired, but the combination of alcohol and Ryan makes my head fuzzy. And no more getting so close that I can smell him, either.
I’ve done my best to be polite and distant whenever we run into each other at work. But every time I pass him at Beans, or in our now-combined back room, I get a whiff of his scent. And I’m catapulted back to that beach, to his mouth on mine, my hands shaking as I unbuckled his belt.
I keep imagining what would’ve happened if I’d reached out and touched him when we were in bed together. If he would’ve pulled me under him and finished what we started.
Hence the new rule.
I’ve just unlocked the front door of the store and flipped my sign from Closed to Open when my phone chimes.
RJ.Reads: Just thinking about you and wanted to say hello.
I grin, happy to see his message—and grateful for the distraction from my confusing feelings for my former nemesis turned…whatever Ryan is now.
Still my competition, I remind myself. And I might actually be beating him.
Freaking Xander.
BookshopGirl: Hi!
RJ.Reads: You’ll have to let me know when you’re ready for another book rec.
BookshopGirl: Ooh! I’m almost finished with the new Zadie Smith (so good btw) so now would be good. But is it one of YOUR favorites or your brothers’? ?
BookshopGirl: As reader commandment #3 says, Thou shalt share thy favorite books with thy trusted friends, for in doing so thou art baring thy soul and revealing the essence of thy heart.
I cringe; too much? I’m not exactly the “funny” type, and this was RJ’s joke to begin with.
Then his response appears, and I relax again.
RJ.Reads: Ha! Your right—don’t want to break the commandments. OK here it is: Romantic Comedy by Curtis Sittenfeld.
BookshopGirl: Read it and loved it! I grew up watching SNL and the behind-the-scenes glimpses were fascinating. And such an insightful evaluation of how conventionally unattractive men can date women “out of their league,” but it rarely happens the other way around.
RJ.Reads: Agree. (Also: *you’re* above, sorry.) And the chemistry and character development—it was my first book by her and I really enjoyed it. (Also also, I’m relieved you liked it! Otherwise I’d never be able to speak to you again.)
BookshopGirl: Oh I’m a huge fan. I’ve read all her books. I cannot WAIT to hear her speak at IBNE. (And please don’t stop talking to me! I’d be miserable.)
RJ.Reads: You’ll be at IBNE? Me too!
Heart sinking, I stare at the screen. The email about the panel selection is supposed to come today, so IBNE is on my mind—but I didn’t mean to let RJ know I’d be there. The thought of running into him sends panic racing through my body.
Fumbling with my phone, I type a quick response.
BookshopGirl: Forget you read that. Please?
RJ.Reads: But it could be great—we could meet naturally, no pressure. Just two online friends meeting IRL at a book conference.
He’s right, but my stomach twists. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I be normal and agree to a casual meetup with an online friend?
Because he’s more than a friend. The truth of it barrels down on me: I care about him. I care about his opinion of me, too. And I’m terrified that meeting him in person will strip away the carefully constructed layers I’ve built about myself, that I won’t live up to the version of me he’s come to know.
RJ.Reads: Hey, you still there?
BookshopGirl: Yeah. Sorry.
RJ.Reads: No, I’m the one who should apologize. You told me you weren’t interested in meeting, and I pushed it again. I’m sorry.
BookshopGirl: Please don’t apologize—like you said, it’s not strange for two people in the same industry to meet at a conference. I’m the one making it weird.
RJ.Reads: What if we’ve already met? Wouldn’t you want to know?
I assume he means we might have already met at IBNE, in prior years. And it’s true, we might have, but I didn’t know it was him. Is it so wrong that I don’t want things to change? Is it so terrible that I want to stay in this online bubble where I can choose my words, take my time, keep everything safe?
The thought of meeting him out there, in the real world—of being seen, really seen—makes my chest constrict. It’s suddenly hard to breathe.
BookshopGirl: No, I wouldn’t.
That sounds so harsh. Quickly, I type a new message.
BookshopGirl: All I mean is that I really love what we have right now and I don’t want to mess that up.
RJ.Reads: What if it didn’t mess it up, though? What if it made it even better?
And then it hits me: the only thing scarier than the possibility of losing my online friendship with RJ is the possibility of it turning into something more.
RJ.Reads: Sorry, I did it again. From now on, the ball is in your court (so to speak. I never played sports so that analogy doesn’t feel right. The library book is now checked out to your account? The bookshelf is yours to arrange?)
“Good morning, darling sister!” Georgia calls as she comes in the door.
I quickly type a response to RJ:
BookshopGirl: Thank you for understanding. I appreciate it.
“Hey! How were your exams?” I say, pocketing my phone.
Georgia’s been so busy studying we’ve hardly seen each other. But one look at her, and I know they must have gone well: she’s glowing, her dark hair in a loose braid, big hoop earrings swinging from her ears.
I wait for her to ask why I’m so flustered, but she’s not looking at me—she stops in the middle of the store and turns slowly, eyes widening. “Wow! The place looks great!”
“Really?” I say, grinning.
I’ve noticed that people spend more time in Ryan’s store compared to mine—despite the chaotic hodgepodge of mismatched bookcases and shelves. Or maybe even because of them. His customers stick around, hunting for the perfect title or discovering new ones. My customers don’t spend a ton of time browsing—they find what they need and head out.
So I’ve shifted a few bookcases out of their neat rows and made room for a reading area. I’ve also highlighted specific books to draw the eye along the shelves and hopefully keep people interested. I’m impressed at how such simple changes can have a big effect. Customers are spending more time here. Buying more, too.
“You’re going to kick Ryan’s big dumb ass,” Georgia says, reaching out her hand for a high five.
My smile fades, and I give her palm a half-hearted slap. “Yeah. That.”
“What? Do we not hate Ryan anymore?” Georgia leans her cane against the counter and plops into a chair. “You haven’t told me much about your trip to Kennebunkport.”
As if summoned, Ryan walks from his store to the counter at Beans. He’s framed in the gap between the two bookcases that form the wall. When he catches my eye, his entire face brightens. My stomach does a weird flip.
“Hi! Good morning!” he calls, brushing his hair off his forehead.
“Morning,” I say, smiling in a way that hopefully says, How do you do, fellow bookseller , and not I’m having filthy thoughts about what’s underneath your cardigan.
“See you later?”
“Sure.”
With another smile, he grabs his coffee-flavored milkshake and heads back to his store.
“Ohhhhh,” Georgia says.
I look up. “What?”
She’s staring at me knowingly. “Classic body language of attraction: Prolonged eye contact. Mirrored facial expressions. Preening gestures.”
“Preening?”
“He brushed his hair back. You licked your lips.” She leans forward. “Something happened between you two.”
I want to protest, to insist I’m not attracted to him , that we definitely still hate him. But there’s no use in lying to my psychologist-in-training sister.
“We, uh…may have made out on the beach after his parents’ party.”
Though I’ve never gotten so hot and bothered making out. I’m not sure I’ve had actual sex that got me so hot and bothered.
Georgia’s eyes widen. “My sister, making out with a guy on the beach ? Like, in the sand?”
“Yeah,” I say, grimacing. “It was…gritty.”
I decide not to tell her about the sharing-a-bed part. That feels like something I want to keep for myself.
“He is so not the kind of guy you go for. You usually go for men who look like sickly Victorian orphans.”
This is true; my MFA-candidate boyfriend had a birdlike bone structure and skin so pale it was nearly translucent. And everyone I’ve dated since college has been a smaller guy, not much taller than me, which is fine—though for the first time, I wonder why. Maybe because I hate being looked down on.
“Do you like him?” Georgia prods.
I wave my hand dismissively. “I’d had a bunch of champagne.”
Her body stiffens. “He took advantage of you?”
“Of course not. Ryan would never do something like that.”
Georgia grins, triumphant. “You defended him! You do like him.” Then she pauses. “But a week ago you loathed him?”
“We got caught up in the moment,” I say, which isn’t an answer, but if I analyze this too much, I may not like what I discover. “We kissed. It won’t happen again. Okay?”
“I mean, you’re both adults. And he’s cute, in a bumbling giant kind of way, and he likes books…”
She raises her eyebrows at me, then turns thoughtful. “But you’re right, it’s not a good idea to get involved with the competition. At the end of the summer, only one of you can win.”
A customer walks in then, saving me from the conversation. But Georgia’s comment sticks in my brain.
Before last weekend, the idea of me winning and Ryan skulking off in shame would have made me giddy with excitement. Now it leaves me unsettled.
Maybe because I know there’s a solid chance I could lose—Xander lied to both of us, so who knows who’s really ahead. Or maybe because I now understand how much Ryan loves what he does—and how protective he is of his staff and customers.
And all that nice-guy behavior? It’s not an act. He actually is a good human. It’s terrible news for me; a complete disaster. Humanizing your enemy makes it difficult to destroy him.
Plus, there’s the undeniable fact that I’m attracted to him. Intensely.
Ryan’s laugh echoes through the store, and I sneak a look between my bookcases. He’s helping a tiny, white-haired woman reach something on a top shelf marked Kissing and Kilts . The top of her head is level with his elbow, and when he hands the paperback to her, she beams up at him. Then he holds out an arm and leads her toward his register.
As they disappear from view, his laugh booms through the air again. My eyes unexpectedly fill with tears.
Again, Georgia’s comment echoes in my mind: Only one of you can win.
I want that winner to be me, of course. But for the first time, I realize that I don’t want Ryan to lose.
That’s how this stupid competition works, I remind myself. Xander wants to see which manager can make him the most money, and I doubt he’ll be amenable to the winner hiring the loser when his entire goal is to increase his profits.
Unless…
An idea sparks, and I pull open my laptop and start brainstorming.
—
A couple hours later, I’m in the back room heating up my dinner and working through this potential plan. My phone buzzes with an alert: an email from the organizers of IBNE.
Dear Ms. Klein, we’re delighted to offer you a spot on a panel…
I jump in the air, whooping and fist pumping. I did it! My first impulse is to tell RJ—which I stifle immediately. He could figure out who I am by looking at the conference schedule.
“Are you okay?” It’s Ryan, in the storage room behind me. “I heard you shouting?”
I clear my throat and face him. “Yeah, I…” I shrug and hold out my phone. “I just got word that I’ll be on a panel at IBNE.”
His face bursts into a grin like sunshine. “What? Josie! That’s amazing. Congratulations!”
He takes a step forward, like he’s going to scoop me up in a hug, then seems to think better of it and stays put. Probably a good thing.
“What’s the topic of the panel?” he asks.
“I don’t know yet—they’ll let me know soon. But I’m excited. I’ve been applying for years, and I’ve never made it.”
“We should celebrate,” he says. “We could get drinks—”
“I can’t.” That would be breaking all the rules. “I, uh…need to run some errands after closing. But thanks for being excited for me.”
His eyes track across my face. “Of course. Congrats again.”
Someone calls his name, and he disappears. I pull out my phone to read the rest of the email about the panel, but then he’s back with one of his employees—a dark-haired woman wearing all black.
“Hey,” Ryan says, sticking his hands in his pockets.
“Ask her,” the woman whispers, poking him.
“I am,” he mutters to her, then turns to me again. “So, uh, I have a question for you.”
My curiosity is piqued. “Okay…?”
“Do you…” He brushes his hair from his face, then mumbles something under his breath about going on a date.
I blink. A flicker of warmth lights in my chest, like a candle being lit. “A…date?”
“Not with me,” he says quickly, and the candle is snuffed out. “We’re hosting a speed-dating night, and Indira”—he motions to the woman in black—“just told me that one of the women canceled.”
Oh. Not with him, obviously. Not that I even want that. Totally against my new rule. So why do I feel…disappointed?
“We can’t have an odd number,” Indira adds. “It’ll mess everything up.”
“You can’t do it?” I ask Indira. There is nothing I’d rather do less than struggle through a bunch of conversations with strange men.
“I’m in charge of the event, and I have a girlfriend,” she says, shaking her head.
“I’m sorry, I really can’t,” I say to Ryan. “I have to run the store.”
“I’ll watch it for you,” Ryan says.
I bark out a laugh. “You can’t be serious.”
He makes a face like, Excuse me? I didn’t mean he’s incapable of watching my store; I meant, You really want me to meet a bunch of other men? If the situations were reversed, if Ryan was joining a speed-dating event while I had to sit a few yards away and listen…
I wouldn’t be so eager. In fact, the thought makes me queasy.
But apparently, it doesn’t bother him one bit. Good to know.
“Fine,” I say eventually. “But now you owe me .”
I follow Indira over to Happy Endings, and as I sit down with my first date, a knot tightens in my stomach. I force it down and muster a smile. But I can’t stop wondering:
Why did Ryan ask me to do this?
And why does it bother me so much that he did?