Chapter 26
26
Ryan
She wants to meet me. In person.
Correction: she wants to meet RJ in person.
I wrap the towel tighter around my waist and toss the lotion back in my nightstand drawer. I can’t stop thinking about my view from between Josie’s legs, looking up at her perched on the counter, her head thrown back in ecstasy.
Stopping was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. But thank god I did—it would’ve been worse if she’d sent RJ that message after we’d slept together.
I leave the message unanswered while I brush my teeth and get ready for bed. Bed, where I won’t be going anytime soon with Josie.
I wish I didn’t know how fucking perfect she tasted.
It was her moaning that ruined everything. Under normal circumstances, it would have turned me on, knowing she was enjoying herself, that I was doing a good job. But tonight, it brought me back to that conversation with BookshopGirl when she told me she was a quiet lover. Josie even brought up the stupid myth thing.
It screwed with my head, being intimate with Josie while I was thinking about BookshopGirl and she was thinking about RJ. Plus, I promised myself that nothing would happen between us until she knows the truth. So instead of fucking the smartest, most beautiful woman I’ve ever met and living out my fantasy, my fingers (the very ones that were inside her just moments before) buttoned her blouse and walked her home.
I know she was hurt and confused—and so was I. It’s not like I’ve been exclusive with every woman I’ve slept with—but I’ve never known how deep and real a woman’s connection with the other person was. Because I’ve never also been the other person.
This whole situation is so fucked up, and I wish I’d told Josie the truth the day I discovered it. Of course, back then she hated me, Ryan, so she would have stopped talking to me, RJ. She wouldn’t have gone to Maine with me, and she never would’ve suggested we work together. I’d be almost exactly where I am now, jerking off to thoughts of my fantasy girl.
Except my fantasy girl, the woman who was riding my face a few hours ago, just said she wants to meet another man. In person.
FML.
—
The next morning, I wake with a sense of dread. I don’t know how I’m going to face Josie—and I still haven’t figured out how to reply to her message on BookFriends.
I should feel relieved. Elated. BookshopGirl is finally ready to meet in person. It’s what I’ve been waiting for. But the timing…she didn’t just turn down my invitation, she turned around and offered it to someone else.
I reach for my phone and reread her message: I would really like to meet you. In person. Followed by: You’ll be at IBNE, right?
She knows RJ is going to be there. But she knows Ryan will be there, too.
Frustrated, I close out of the app right as my phone buzzes with a text from my mom: Almost at the restaurant! See you soon! xoxoxo
I groan. Normally, I love the chance to spend one-on-one time with my mom—but today, I don’t think my tender heart can handle it. And it’s not like she made the drive down to see me; she’s here for a hair appointment, even though there are plenty of high-end salons in Kennebunkport.
I type out a reply:
Was just about to text you. I’m not feeling great. Rain check?
Nonsense, you’ll feel better after a good breakfast.
I shake my head and throw back the covers. After raising four boys, my mother can sniff out a lie, even if it’s over text.
Fifteen minutes later, I walk into Rosebud, a restaurant near the bookstore where you can sit inside the dining car of a train from the 1940s. My mom is at a booth by the window, her hair looking pristine. I shouldn’t be surprised that the woman who cleans before the cleaning lady comes would do her hair before going to the hairdresser.
“Hi, Mom,” I say, giving her a kiss on the cheek before sliding into the booth across from her.
“You don’t look good,” she says.
She reaches across the table to put a hand on my forehead, and I feel a pang for early childhood, the days when my mom had the magical ability to make everything better.
She frowns before taking her hand back, studying me. “Did you and Josie break up?”
I lean back and sigh. I knew she’d be able to tell something was wrong, but I didn’t think she’d zero in on a version of the truth so quickly.
She won’t let this go, so I tell her the most truthful thing I can bear to share: “You can’t break up with someone you aren’t dating.”
My mother purses her lips.
“What?” I ask, an edge to my voice like I’m fourteen years old and about to get busted for saying I made my bed when we both know I didn’t.
“You can lie to yourself, sweetheart, but you can’t lie to your mother. I saw the way you two looked at each other—and Officer Dan told me he caught you in flagrante on the beach.”
“Mo-o-om.”
She tsks playfully, but my parents have never treated sex like it’s something to be ashamed of. The only two things that concerned them were safety and consent, something I heard repeatedly growing up.
“Whatever you want to call it—hanging out, hooking up, friends with benefits—the label doesn’t change the feelings.”
“It’s complicated,” I say, even though I know she won’t let it rest at that.
“Then uncomplicate it. Do you have feelings for her?”
“Yes,” I admit. “But my feelings aren’t the problem.”
It’s my mom’s turn to sigh, a sound that says more than a thousand words. Before she can explain herself, our waitress arrives. I order the Masala Chai French Toast and a side of extra-crispy bacon.
I wonder what Josie would order—something more savory than sweet, maybe? And probably not bacon because of the whole Jewish thing. If it mattered to her, I would give it up, too. Out of solidarity and respect for her culture. I would give up anything for that woman.
My mom clears her throat, and I realize the waitress has come and gone.
“You know,” she says, “in some ways, I think all those romance books you’ve read have done you a great service. I imagine you’re a kind and considerate lover”—I dry heave at the thought of my mom thinking of me as any kind of lover—“but I also imagine it gave you an unrealistic idea of how fast and easy love is in the real world.”
I shake my head. “C’mon, Mom. It’s never fast or easy in the books. If it was, they’d be thirty pages, not three hundred.”
“You’re making my point—no real love story wraps up in three hundred pages. Real life doesn’t follow plot beats, and real love isn’t like your books.”
“Says the woman who married her high school sweetheart. If you wanted me to have a more pessimistic view of romance, you and Dad shouldn’t have been so happy for so many years.”
My mom goes quiet, looking down at the small diamond on her right hand—the original engagement ring my dad got her when they were in college.
“It wasn’t always easy. There were several—”
“I know,” I say. I lived through the blips—Dad had a bad habit of working too much, and Mom didn’t have great boundaries with her family. “I know your life wasn’t always sunshine and roses. But I also know that when you were sixteen years old, you knew he was the one. When you know, you know, right?”
Another sigh, but this time, she’s acknowledging that I’m right.
“The thing is, Mom, none of that matters if the knowing is one sided.”
“Are we talking about Kate?”
“No,” I say, too quickly. But then I meet her eyes, so full of love and understanding. “Maybe.”
But it’s not Kate, specifically—I got over her years ago. What I’m not over is how it felt. The sickening realization that the person I’d given my heart to didn’t want it. And the way it made me question everything I thought I knew about love.
“Here you go,” our waitress says, setting our plates on the table.
I’m grateful for the distraction, although I know it’s temporary. It would take someone bleeding out on the floor to distract Merrie Lawson from making her point.
“Your beautiful heart has always been one of your biggest gifts,” Mom says, once the waitress has left.
“And one of my biggest curses,” I say, shoveling a bite in my mouth.
“I wasn’t finished. You were so open to love when you were young. In fact, the first time you told me you’d met the girl you were going to marry, you were in third grade.”
“So you’re telling me this bad judgment is a lifelong pattern?”
“No, I’m telling you that these ups and downs are part of your journey—it’s growth, not failure. Every time your heart was broken, it healed even stronger. But after Kate you just…”
“Stopped trying,” I say, setting down my fork. I’ve lost my appetite.
“Listen, sweetheart—I know your dad makes it sound like our story was love at first sight. And it might have been for him; I was pretty cute back then. But you should know that he asked me out every week for four months before I said yes. And even then, I only did it so he’d stop asking.”
I sit up straighter; she did not just say that.
“You’re telling me the story at the heart of our family is a lie?”
“It’s not a lie.” Her voice sounds faraway, like she’s talking to me from the past, not from across the table. “I had that ‘knowing’ moment, it just took me longer.” She sets her fork down and looks up at me, like she just had a literal lightbulb moment. “Love is like swimming in the ocean. And you, my darling—and your father, for that matter—want to cannonball right in. But some people, perhaps like your Josie”— my Josie —“need to dip their toe in the water and ease in. Slowly.”
Great, now I’m thinking about Josie in a bathing suit, a bikini that shows off her curves and her generous tits.
“But she’ll get there, and if she doesn’t—”
“Don’t say there are other fish in the ocean.”
“Fine,” my mom says, cutting into her egg-white omelet. “I won’t. But it’s true, even though I’m holding out hope for the two of you.”
“So am I,” I say.
We’re both quiet for a moment, and the silence is comfortable. Comforting. Maybe you never outgrow needing your mom, I think, and as I do I feel sorry for Josie and her sister, who never got to experience this kind of love.
“If— when Josie comes around, don’t hold the time it took against her,” my mom says. “I know it feels personal, but trust me, it’s got more to do with her than it does with you.”
We spend the rest of the meal covering safer topics: a trip she and my dad have planned, how much everyone loved their party, and of course, the latest accomplishments of my gold-star brothers and their families.
It’s not until I’ve hugged and kissed my mom goodbye that her words sink in.
This isn’t about me.
Josie Klein is one of the most cautious, deliberate people I know. If she feels even a little spark with RJ.Reads, which I know she does, then of course she wants to explore that. So who am I to get in her way?
I pick up my phone and open the BookFriends app, where Josie’s message has been sitting, ignored, for far too long. I take a deep breath and type a response.
RJ.Reads: I’ll be at IBNE. And I’d love to meet you there.
For the rest of the week, Josie is so busy we barely have time to be awkward around each other. I do my best to focus on my store and not what she’s doing on her side. But my best is nowhere near good enough—I’m constantly aware of her.
It doesn’t help that she’s hardly talked to RJ once they— we —decided on our/their plans to meet. Since I, Ryan, knew Josie would be nervous and focused on her panel the first afternoon, I, RJ, suggested meeting for a late dinner. I thought about suggesting the Map Room, but that’s such a special memory for me, Ryan, that I don’t want to share it with me, RJ.
God, I can’t wait for the truth to be out.
In the end, I picked the Parish Café, a restaurant close enough to the hotel that we can walk, but not so close that it’ll be overrun with other conference attendees.
I’m walking into the lobby of the Boston Park Plaza now, impressed as always by the way the hotel manages to be both understated and elegant. The library to the left, with its mahogany walls and leather furniture, is the stuff of a booklover’s wet dream. Then straight ahead, past the white, flowing curtains, is the bar, already crowded with hundreds of booksellers from all around New England.
We’re an eclectic crowd: young and old, some stern and reserved, others bubbly and animated; some with pink or purple hair and piercings, others wearing tweed jackets with reading glasses tucked in the pockets.
The one type I don’t see is a curvy bookseller with a bun on top of her head. I assume Josie is in her room, drilling herself on all the points she hopes to make on her panel this afternoon.
The line for check-in moves quickly. When it’s my turn, I collect my swag bag and get oddly emotional when I see my name tag. For the last dozen years I’ve been coming to this conference, it’s read, Ryan Lawson, Happy Endings / Somerville . Next year, who knows what it will say. Xander’s Books?
Only if Josie and I are successful in our scheme. If she even wants to keep working with me after today.
I slip the lanyard around my neck; it feels light without any crazy buttons—although maybe I should have brought a few. That Stfuattdlagg one would have been an interesting icebreaker with the literary elite. Josie’s crowd. Although I think the last few weeks have taught us both to be more open minded to other genres.
The thought of Josie reignites my nerves, and I distract myself by heading upstairs to the exhibition floor where publishing companies have set up tables featuring their upcoming releases. I load my swag bag with as many romance ARCs as it’ll hold, stopping every few minutes for a hug and hello from booksellers I’ve met at conferences past.
After the fifth conversation about my height (really, you’d think book people would have something more interesting to say!), my phone buzzes with an alarm reminding me to make my way to Salon B for Josie’s panel.
“Ryan Freaking Lawson!”
I freeze, then turn and see Kimberly, a bookseller from Rhode Island that I’ve hooked up with at past IBNEs. There’s a reason it’s called I-BONE.
“Hey, Kimberly,” I say as she throws her arms around me.
“It is so good to see you,” she says, giving my cheek a big kiss, complete with a mwah! sound. “Are you coming to the ‘I Like It Nasty and Neurodivergent’ panel?”
“No,” I say, taking a step back. “It was on my list, but I’m heading to ‘Literary Fiction and Gen Z.’?”
She pouts, looking disappointed and more than a little confused.
“Got to go,” I say with a wave before she can ask me anything else—including what I’m doing later.
—
Josie’s panel is packed—standing room only. I claim a spot in the back and notice with pleasant surprise that Josie is wearing her hair down. I wonder if she decided to forgo the bun because I told her how much I liked her hair down, or if she’s wearing it that way for RJ.
RJ, who she’s meeting for dinner in a few hours.
My stomach churns, and I try to quiet the what-ifs circling my head and focus on the panel, which is in full swing. Josie is the only woman, and the only one under fifty.
“Have any of you had any luck getting Gen Z interested in literary fiction?” the moderator is asking.
Josie straightens. “The other night, we held an event for—”
“How are they going to sit still and read anything worthwhile if they’re stuck on their phones all day?” an old white man—one of four on the panel with Josie—says, interrupting her for the third time in five minutes.
Josie tries again. “I actually think—”
“Their attention spans have been decimated,” another man says, nodding. “It’s a real shame, and—”
“I’m interested in hearing what Ms. Klein has to say.” The room goes quiet, and all eyes dart to the woman in the audience standing up. It’s Penelope Adler-Wolf, Josie’s hero, coming to her rescue. I’m grateful, and a little pissed at myself for not doing it first.
“Go on, Josie,” Mrs. Adler-Wolf says.
Josie flushes—both from the attention and, I bet, from the fact that her idol knows her name.
“I—I was saying that the other day we had an event with a group of teenagers.” Josie’s eyes flit toward me before she looks back at Penelope. “And a lot of them were interested in literary fiction. These kids are so smart—yes, they’re on their phones, but that means they have the whole world at their fingertips, exposing them to complex issues. They have strong opinions and real insights to offer. I think we need to do a better job listening to them instead of talking over them.”
Penelope Adler-Wolf smiles and nods in approval. “I agree wholeheartedly,” she says, and Josie glows.
The conversation moves on, but for the rest of the hour, Josie is given the space to talk. Soon, everyone in the room is as captivated by her as I am. When the panel ends, she’s swarmed by people asking her additional questions.
I hang near the door, waiting my turn. It takes almost twenty minutes, but I don’t mind. This is her moment, and I want her to soak it all in.
By the time she’s finished talking to the last person, her cheeks are flushed, and she’s practically floating down the aisle toward me.
“Eeek!” she says, raising her balled fists in celebration. “I did it!”
“You did it,” I say, swooping her into a hug. She feels so good in my arms, I almost forget what happened the last time we touched. I almost forget what we’re doing tonight.
“You were amazing,” I say. “We should celebrate.”
Josie’s smile fades.
“I have plans,” she says. Then her gaze turns icy. “And maybe you do, too?”
She motions toward my cheek.
Fucking Kimberly. I wipe away the evidence of her red-lipstick kiss, grateful it’s at least on my cheek and not my lips. I already have more than enough to explain later.
I can barely swallow past the lump in my throat, but I manage to squeak out, “Maybe we can grab breakfast before the first panel tomorrow?”
Josie’s lips press together. “Sure.”
She turns to go, and I drink her in, knowing the next time I see her, everything will change.
I can only hope for the better.