Page 106 of Battle of the Bookstores

“Yes,” I admit. “Butmyfeelings 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 badhabit 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 ofyour 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—”

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