Chapter 23
23
Josie
A week into Operation Save Our Jobs, working with Ryan feels natural—maybe too natural. It’s becoming more difficult to remember why I was so insistent on keeping things professional .
Each morning before we open, we meet at the newly renovated Beans. Whoever arrives first puts in our orders, then we sit at one of the tables and discuss that day’s game plan (while Eddie sneaks glances at us, smiling).
After that, we separate to open our doors and start the day. But our stores are feeling less and less separate—the “wall” of bookcases I put between us is gone (Ryan moved them, and this time, I watched). We’re constantly bumping into each other in the back room, eating lunch together, sharing ideas about how to prove to Xander that we both deserve to stay.
And yet…it’s been a struggle.
Every night, I lie in bed and relive our interactions. The whiff of Ryan’s scent I caught when he reached above me to grab something in the back room; the way his eyes dip down my body when he thinks I’m not looking; the glimpses of his hands, his mouth, his ass. If I’m being honest, my mind wanders like a naughty child to a few specific memories: his body over mine at the beach; his hand touching mine at the library; my foot sliding up his leg at the bar.
And if I’m being really honest, my vibrator has been getting plenty of use as I replay those memories. Over and over again.
Tonight, thankfully, I have something else to focus on: we’re hosting our inaugural Bookstore Date Night. For a fee, couples can rent out the store after closing for a romantic evening.
Tonight’s couple, newlyweds Brigitte and Sam, are celebrating their one-month anniversary. Ryan and I have been setting up all afternoon. We arranged a cozy table for two on the Happy Endings side, and I went back to my apartment earlier to fetch table settings. Ryan picked up the wine and some candles. A delivery guy dropped off the meal Sam ordered, and Ryan plated the food while I lit the candles in time for the couple to arrive.
As they walk inside, Brigitte gasps and jumps into Sam’s arms. There is much embracing and kissing, and Ryan and I fade into the back room.
“So…now what?” I ask. We can’t go far—we’ll need to clean and lock up when they’re done.
“We could go on a walk?” Ryan suggests. “Maybe stop by J.P. Licks?”
“I could go for a scoop,” I say, smiling.
We stroll while we eat. I got a cone with two scoops—salted caramel and cookies and cream—while Ryan got a giant waffle sundae made with an actual waffle. It’s a sticky, warm evening, bikes zipping by, crowds gathered in front of bars and restaurants, couples walking hand in hand.
“Random question,” he says. “What does Tabula Inscripta mean? Or is it just Latin words designed to make everyone else feel dumb?”
I laugh as he grins over at me, eyes twinkling, and I’m struck by how things have changed between us since that first meeting with Xander, when he made similar comments with a completely different tone.
“No, it’s a reference to another Latin phrase, tabula rasa , which means ‘blank slate,’?” I say. “The original owner—Jerome—told me that it’s a theory that we’re born without any built-in knowledge, and all our experiences shape who we become.”
“So I’m guessing inscripta means something like ‘inscribed’?” he says.
I nod. “Jerome wanted to capture how every book leaves its mark on us, constantly adding new ideas, stories, and insights. A mind continually in progress, he said, with infinitely more to be added.”
“I like that. And now that I know it”—he flashes me a smirk—“I can feel intellectually superior to everyone who doesn’t.”
I laugh again and take a bite of my ice cream. “Tell me about the original owner of your store. Elaine, right?”
His face lights up. “Oh, she was great. She opened the store back when most bookshops kept romances to one shelf in the back, like they were a dirty little secret—even though they’d been keeping the publishing industry afloat for decades.”
I nod, remembering the first bookstore I ever worked in, in Newburyport. Like Ryan’s saying, the romances were shelved in the far corner.
“Back then,” Ryan goes on, “Elaine mostly stocked ‘mainstream’ romance, heteronormative relationships written by white authors. It’s not that she wasn’t supportive of diversity, but that’s what was available then.”
“What changed?” I asked. “Because it’s definitely more diverse now. Your store and your clientele.”
“Um. It’s kind of a long story.”
“Brigitte and Sam have the store for two more hours, so we have time.” I nudge him. “Go on.”
“Well, the industry changed, for one thing. But for me, it’s more personal.” He hesitates, then goes on, telling me about his best friend growing up, JR, who was gay. “His parents were really religious, and he grew up feeling like a fundamental part of himself was unacceptable. Unwanted.”
“So he inspired you to stock more diverse reads?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“He must be proud,” I say.
Ryan hesitates, looking at the ground. “I hope he would be. He died when we were seniors in high school.” He pauses. “An overdose on prescription medication—his parents said it was an accident, but…”
My heart sinks. “But you think it was intentional?”
He blows out a long breath. “I don’t know. I don’t think he could imagine a positive future for himself. Maybe it’s trite, but if he could have seen one example of a happy, healthy gay relationship, even a fictional one—maybe he’d still be here.”
I take his hand, lacing our fingers together. In contrast to the hand touching that happened at the library, this feels natural, comfortable, fingers interlocking, palm against palm.
“I’m sorry about JR,” I say.
“Yeah. Me too.” He clears his throat. “Anyway. If I can help other people who feel like they don’t fit in see themselves in a love story…I think it matters.”
“It does matter,” I say. “You’re doing good work.”
He squeezes my hand. “Thanks. That means a lot coming from you.”
“Why—because I’m usually such an uptight bitch?” I soften my words with a smile, but this is a sore spot for me, and he’s accidentally pressed on it with his thumb.
Ryan stops, tugging on my hand to make me face him. “Josie, absolutely not.” His expression is dead serious. “Because you’re good at what you do—I’m in awe. You’re deliberate about every decision you make in your store. You’re wicked smart, and I could watch you for a year and learn something new every day. So when you tell me I’m doing good work—it means a lot. More than you understand.”
I’m momentarily speechless.
“Thank you,” I say softly.
He turns and we start walking again, our conversation drifting to other topics, a peculiar feeling unfurling inside me. It’s as warm and comforting as Ryan’s hand in mine; as sweet and irresistible as the ice cream melting on my tongue. I’d call it friendship …except I never think about friends while reaching for my vibrator. I’d call it attraction , except he has absolutely nothing in common with anyone I’ve ever been attracted to before.
Maybe I’m just confused. I’m in a state of heightened stress, my job on the line, and here’s this big, kindhearted man who listens to my ideas and says lovely things and treats me like I’m not just a college dropout who spends her days unpacking boxes and ringing up purchases and trying to prove that she’s made something of herself while battling the ever-present fear that she hasn’t.
—
We return to the store an hour later, and I let us in the door to my side so we won’t disrupt Brigitte and Sam. Music is playing, and as we slip into the back room, I catch a glimpse of them, dancing in the flickering candlelight, gazing into each other’s eyes.
“Dance with me?” Ryan asks, and I look up to see him holding out a hand.
There’s no way I can resist. I take his hand, allowing him to fold me against him. God , he’s warm. Just a sturdy wall of gentleness. And every time I inhale, my nose is filled with that scent I can’t describe other than Ryan Ryan Ryan. I think back to dancing at his parents’ party, the strangeness of being close to him after weeks of animosity. This is different: being held by him is like coming home after a long day, kicking off your shoes, and falling into bed with your favorite book.
My cheek presses against his chest, and his chin rests on top of my head, my hair rustling slightly with each breath. Persephone slinks between our legs, purring, and I spot Hades up on a shelf, peering down at us suspiciously. I close my eyes.
One of Ryan’s hands spreads wide across my back, the other holding my hand as he rocks us back and forth. His heart is a drumbeat against my ear, and there’s definitely something stirring below his belt. I make sure to keep hold of his hand because that’s my lifeline right now, my proof that I’m not plastering myself against Ryan Lawson because I want him so fiercely I’m having trouble breathing.
We’re just dancing.
A noise out in the store distracts me—a low groan. I lean away from Ryan to peek through the partially open door into Happy Endings.
“Oh my god,” I whisper. “I think they’re—”
“What?” Ryan says, and we’re now cheek to cheek, two Peeping Toms gazing into the store.
Sam’s in an armchair, Brigitte straddling his lap, his mouth on her neck and her hands in his hair. Quickly, I pull us both into the back room. Now Ryan and I are inches apart in the darkness, staring at each other with wide, shocked eyes.
“You told them the security cameras were running, right?” he whispers.
I nod. “I guess…they don’t care.”
We wait, scarcely daring to breathe, until another sound makes us jump: the squeak of something heavy being shoved across the floor. I reach out to shut the door and accidentally get another glance: Sam’s got Brigitte up against a bookcase, her dress around her hips. A tiny, scandalized squeak comes out of me, and I put my hands over my face.
“What?” Ryan whispers, alarmed.
I open my fingers and peek at him between them. “I’m pretty sure they’re doing it.”
“Here? Now?” He scrubs a hand through his messy hair. “What do we do? This has to be against some kind of health code. Right?”
“I’m not going to interrupt,” I say, holding up my hands. “Are you?”
He shakes his head. “I guess we…wait it out?”
And that’s what we do, both of us putting our hands over our ears when the moaning gets louder. For someone who was so willing to have me read a sex scene out loud, Ryan is remarkably flustered by an actual sex scene. I can’t help wondering what he’d be like in bed—if he’d be pink cheeked and flushed, eager to please but a little awkward. Or like he was on the beach—intense and focused, his mouth and hands demanding more more more.
My body flares with heat.
A rhythmic thumping echoes from the store, followed by the unmistakable sound of trade paperbacks falling to the floor.
“What. Are they doing. To my books ?” Ryan whispers, aghast.
We hear male grunting, joined by a higher-pitched moan. It reminds me of my last conversation with RJ about noisy sex, and my admission that I’ve never made more than a loud sigh. I’m starting to worry that you’ve had extremely mediocre sex.
Brigitte cries out, a piercing scream that goes on and on and on.
“Gold star, Sam,” I murmur.
Ryan squeezes his eyes shut, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter, and then I’m doing the same, both of us stifling giggles and struggling to breathe. I make a mental note to delete the security camera footage ASAP.
Finally, Sam and Brigitte head out the door, and Ryan and I go survey the scene. One bookshelf has been shoved a good two feet from its original location, and most of its books are on the floor. I also discover a suspicious damp spot on the chair our two lovebirds were sharing. I’m about to mention it to Ryan, then decide he’s had enough sexually traumatizing experiences in his beloved bookshop and flip the cushion over.
Together, we clean up the remains of dinner, and I stack the dirty dishes in a box to bring to my place.
Ryan takes it out of my hands. “I’ll walk you home.”
It feels so natural to head back out into the warm summer night, to smile up at him and see him smiling down at me. Like this is something we do all the time, walking home from work together. When we get to my building, it feels just as natural to fish out my key and unlock the door, to have him follow me up the stairs.
When he steps inside my apartment, though, it no longer feels so natural, maybe because he’s taking up half the space in my kitchen, sucking the oxygen out of the room. My bedroom is twenty steps away, and my knees feel wobbly, my brain playing a slideshow of possibilities: Ryan. Bed. Naked.
“Your place is cozy,” he says, setting the box of dishes on my counter.
I turn and see it through his eyes: my small kitchen with two stools pulled up to the counter; sofa and armchair in the living room; two big bookshelves against one wall.
“Were you expecting some kind of ice castle?”
He chuckles. “Maybe.”
I’m not sure what to do now. After the night we’ve had—deep conversation, holding hands, dancing, listening to vigorous sex? I ought to be shoving him out the door.
“Want some tea?” I say instead.
“Sure.”
I’m turning to grab the mugs when something vibrates on my counter.
“My phone!” I gasp. I must have left it here when I came home this afternoon to get the dishes for the dinner. It’s a clear sign of how distracted I’ve been that I hadn’t even realized.
MOM is flashing across the screen. I send her to voicemail—and notice that my screen is filled with messages from Georgia. Her most recent text:
We’re about to take off. I’ll call you when I land. Hope you’re OK??
My sister is on a plane? What’s going on? I immediately call her. No answer.
Confused, I scroll back to the first message she sent—nearly six hours ago.
I just heard from Mom. Darrell left and she’s alone in Puerto Vallarta. Give me a call as soon as you can.
Twenty minutes after that: I talked to Mom again. Call me?
Then a series of texts:
Maybe your phone is dead. I’ll try the store.
No answer there either. Where are you?
Jojo, please call me. Mom’s upset and I don’t know what to do.
Are you okay? Please tell me you’re okay.
Where are you??
A few minutes after that:
I’m looking at flights to PV. Mom’s freaking out.
“Shit,” I whisper. This is why I can never truly relax—no matter how much time passes, at any moment, my mom could self-destruct.
And I’ll be damned if I allow my innocent sister to suffer the consequences.
“Everything okay?” Ryan asks, but I’m reading the next message from Georgia, sent four hours ago.
I’ve found a flight tonight. Call me when you can, ok?
“I—I need to call my mom.” I glance up at Ryan, who’s watching me with concern. “I’ll just…One second.”
I step into my bedroom and call; Mom answers—and she’s crying. All the ease and comfort I’ve felt this evening vanishes. I’m a ball of tight muscles, gripping the phone and bracing for impact.
“Mom? Mom, are you okay?”
“He’s gone,” she says through sobs. “I woke up and Darrell was gone; he took all his things, and no one knows where he is.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say, and I mean it.
“We were having a wonderful time, Jojo. I don’t know what happened.”
Probably the same thing that’s happened all the other times with all the other men. Except this time, she’s in a foreign country, and my sister is flying to her rescue.
“Mom, why did you ask Georgia to come? She has classes and exams.”
“I didn’t ask! She offered.”
But what kind of mother would want their daughter to do something like this? Decades of resentment are churning inside me, and I try to stuff them down.
“Okay,” I say, thinking through the logistics. “I need you to offer to pay for her flight—”
“I don’t have the money!”
I take a deep, calming breath. “I know, but I do.” The money I set aside every time Georgia helps at the store. “I’ll pay you back. Just don’t tell her it was from me, okay?”
“Fine,” she says sulkily. “But maybe you could come with her? I need my girls by my side.”
“You know I can’t, I have a store to run.”
“It’s obvious where your priorities lie,” she mutters.
Her words are a stab to the heart. I haven’t told my mom what’s going on at work—and this is why. She wouldn’t even try to understand.
“Mom. That’s not—” I take another calming breath. “Let me help you get home. I’ll go online and book your flight. Okay?”
“No!” The word is a horrified screech. “I need to find Darrell.”
“Find him? He left you!”
“Because he’s scared! Things are moving quickly with us, and he got scared, that’s all—”
“Would you ever leave him alone in a foreign country with no explanation?”
“Of course not! I love him!”
I hate saying this to her, but it’s necessary. “Mom. Listen to me: if he loved you, he wouldn’t have left.”
There’s a pause. Then a stifled sob. My heart cracks; she deserves better than this.
“That may be true,” she says in a shaky voice. “But I have to find him and ask him myself.”
I sigh. That’s my mom: ninety-five percent desperation, five percent undaunted hope.
“Now what’s this I hear about your man?” she says, her voice oddly upbeat. Forced.
“I don’t—”
“Georgia said you’re seeing the guy who runs the bookstore next to yours?”
“Ryan?” I spit out, shocked. My mother is delusional; no way Georgia said that. “No. We’re not involved.”
“Georgia said you’re spending a lot of time together…and it sounded like you’re falling in love. ”
“We’re not—” I pinch the bridge of my nose, my frustration growing. “He doesn’t matter. This isn’t about—Listen, Mom. When Georgia gets there, please come home. Don’t drag her all over the city looking for this guy, okay? I’ll pay for your flights—”
“I better go, sweetie! I’ll let you know when Georgia arrives.”
And then she’s gone.
“Shit,” I whisper. “Shit, shit— oh my god! ”
Ryan’s in my bedroom doorway.
I clutch my heart as my pulse slows. How long was he there? Did he hear me say his name?
But all I see on his face is that same gentle concern.
“Sorry,” he says. “Everything okay?”
My throat is tightening up. “I—I need to figure some things out.”
“Can I help? If nothing else, I can listen.”
Part of me wishes I could pour my heart out to him, but that would mean revisiting the whole messed-up saga, and Ryan hates complicated stories with sad endings. He said so himself. He prefers the ones that end neatly, tied with a bow, happily ever after, the end.
He wouldn’t want to touch this situation with a ten-foot pole.
Ryan is still waiting, his forehead furrowed. “Josie,” he says gently. “What can I do?”
I sigh—a deep, defeated sigh from the bottom of my exhausted, eldest-daughter soul. “Nothing. I’ll handle it. Thanks for helping me bring everything home.”
“Of course,” he says. “But you’re sure I can’t do anything to help?”
“I’m sure.”
He stares at me for a moment, his mouth opening and shutting, then turns and goes.
The door clicks shut behind him, and I immediately regret it. Why did I tell him to leave ? The last thing I want is to be alone with my spiraling thoughts. What can I do but wait until my mom or sister contacts me? Nothing.
That’s when I walk back into my kitchen and see that Ryan’s taken all the dishes out of the box, washed them, and set them in the drying rack.
If I wasn’t so upset about my mom, I’d melt. Now all I can do is berate myself: A kind man with huge hands, who’s a good listener and gives wonderful hugs, offered to stay and I told him to leave.
What’s wrong with me? I’m so tired of carrying this by myself, this heavy burden of responsibility, worry, and shame. Maybe I couldn’t have found the words to explain, but at least if Ryan were here, I wouldn’t be alone.
And then I realize: I don’t need to be alone.
I pick up my phone and send a message to RJ.