Page 123 of Battle of the Bookstores

So I blink away the tears and smooth my hair before turning around. Ryan’s sitting on the edge of the couch, watching me with a concerned expression.

“I don’t think so,” I say, “I have so much to do at the bookstore this weekend. I’m overwhelmed as it is.”

“I don’t have to go tomorrow; we can find another time—”

“No, you should go,” I say, and give him a smile that I hope looks genuine. Supportive. “You can call me and tell me all about it.”

He looks disappointed, but nods. “Yeah, of course. I understand.”

“I’m really excited for you,” I say. “Congrats on this new opportunity.”

If he catches the lie in my voice, he doesn’t let on. “Thanks. I wish…” He pauses, and I wait for him to say more:I wish our plan had worked;I don’t blame you;I don’t want to go.But instead, he clears his throat. “Thank you.”

“Can I help you pack?” I ask.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to spend time with you.” If he doesn’t let me stay a little longer, I really might start begging, and that would be a disaster.

His face softens. “Sure. I’d love that.”

—

Ten minutes later,we’re packing a duffel bag in his bedroom, a place I never even got the chance to spend time in. There’s a king-size bed with a blue comforter covered in an insane number of pillows—more than I’ve ever seen on a man’s bed, but it’s so Ryan. Big, comfortable, inviting. One entire wall is a bookcase, bulging with messy stacks and rows of paperbacks.

I’m over by his dresser, which is littered with odds and ends. Including the pink lanyard covered with colorful romance-related buttons with their inside jokes I’ll never understand. I assume he’ll get a new one at his new store, where he’ll probably meet women who share his passion for romance.

He deserves someone like that.The thought wriggles into my mind, and I try to push it away, but I can’t. Ryan deserves someone softer than me. Someone sweeter, warmer, easier.

What do I know about happy endings, anyway?

“I guess I don’t need that anymore,” he says, coming up behind me. He’s close enough that if I lean back, he might wrap his arms around me. Maybe he’d take me to bed, and I could stop thinking about what’s happening.

My eyes land on one button in particular:Stfuattdlagg.

“You never told me what this means,” I say, touching the letters.

There’s a pause. A long pause. I turn around; he’s awkwardly shifting his weight.

“It’s, uh, something that got popular on social media,” he finally says. “The romance community picked it up, and…it’s stupid, honestly.”

The evasiveness in his voice sparks a jolt of anger. Okay, he’s leaving, and I have no say in the matter, and he didn’t even tell me until after he’d decided. But can’t he tell methis?

I face him. “I want to know what it means.”

“No, you don’t.” There’s a stubborn edge to his voice.

“You don’t get to decide what I want.”

That’s the crux of it: he’s made a choice that affects my life, and I don’t have a say. And just like that, all the feelings I stuffed down surge up again, a red-hot flame bursting to life. Because guess what? It’s so much easier to be angry than sad.

He’s inches away, looking down at me, his eyes memorizing my face—my lips, my hair, my neck. There’s a pained expression in his eyes, a tiny crack in the mask he’s wearing. I want to rip it off.

“Tell me, Ryan.” Heat crackles between us, like it did during those first few weeks of our battle.

“It’s nothing,” he says, sharper.

“What does it mean?” I’m egging him on, poking his chest with my index finger. “Shut the fuck up and…?”

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