Page 107 of Battle of the Bookstores

“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 needingyour 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—whenJosie 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 firstafternoon, 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. ThatStfuattdlaggone 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 issogood to see you,” she says, giving my cheek a big kiss, complete with amwah!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.

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