Page 14 of Battle of the Bookstores

Hearing Elaine’s name summons up an image so clear, it’s almost as if my old boss is beside me, people-watching the couples walking by and predicting who’ll be getting lucky and who’ll be left with blue balls.

Elaine was a walking contradiction—she looked like a grandmother but swore like a sailor. She had a take-no-shit attitude that made me believe her when she said everything would be okay. It was true back when I was fifteen and she caught me shoplifting, and it was true the day she told me she was retiring and leaving the store in my “strong, manly hands.”

I still wonder what she saw in me: a lost, lonely teen who claimed to hate the very books he tried to steal. Of course, I didn’t hate them. I hated that I had such a hard time reading them.

Who knew reading out loud to a parrot named Esmerelda who had a thing for romance novels—the smuttier the better—could change all that?

Elaine, apparently.

“But it’s bad news, right?” Cinderella says, settling into the worn leather couch where she spends a good chunk of time reading, on and off the clock.

“It’s news,” I say, taking a seat on the purple wingback chair, commonly referred to as Persephone’s throne. The cat ishere now, perched on top, a paw resting on my head as if she’s anointing me. “And I’ll tell you more as soon as we get through the fishbowl.”

I’m met with a collective groan, even from Indira, who confided in me that she secretly loves these icebreakers. Personally, I’m not crazy about them, but I’m not about to mess with Elaine’s traditions.

“Nora, why don’t you do the honors?”

I pass the glass bowl to our senior staff member, who works one shift a week. Nora is seventy-nine and resembles a stylish Mrs. Claus with a snowy white bob. She claims to work for the employee discount, but I think it gives her an excuse to binge-read historical romance.

Nora sets aside her crochet project and reaches into the bowl, pulling out a folded slip of paper.

“Share your anti-kink: something that turns you off in an otherwise good romance novel.” She looks up, her eyes twinkling. “Mine is when they make elderly characters out to be sexless. We might need a little blue pill or some good lube, but we’re not dead yet! Eliza?”

We all turn and look at Eliza, who is going to be a senior—in high school. Her cheeks are flushed, either from the mental image of horny grandparents or from her soccer scrimmage. She came here straight from the field.

“My anti-kink is when YA authors talk down to readers,” Eliza says. “Like we couldn’t possibly understand the complexities of love and sex.”

“But you don’t read YA,” Cinderella says.

“Exactly,” Eliza says before passing the question to Indira.

“This one’s easy.” Indira’s voice is loud and clear as she says, “Arranged marriage.”

We all nod, understanding her complicated feelings toward the Indian tradition that brought her parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents together. Indira hasn’t said so directly, but I have a feeling one of the reasons she dresses in black, from her lipstick down to her combat boots, is to make herself less appealing to all the “aunties” looking to marry her off.

“My anti-kink is stories with men who cheat,” Cinderella says, “even if it’s just a setup to get the heroine into the arms of the hero. There’s enough of that in real life, you know?”

We do. Even the IT guy who comes in every few months is familiar with Cinderella’s tale of woe.

I’m up next, and I consider giving a fluff answer, but decide to be as vulnerable as my staff. Elaine knew what she was doing when she started this tradition; sharing literary preferences can reveal a person’s own story, the scars they’re trying to heal.

“I’ve got two,” I say, pushing my hair out of my face. “First is the whole tall-man fetish—what’s the big deal about a few extra inches?” The women on my staff make eyes at each other. “Don’t answer that.”

“What’s your other one?” Nora asks, looking up from the tiny animal she’s crocheting—it looks like a meerkat.

“This might be controversial,” I warn, “but nothing pulls me out of a story more than an enemies-to-lovers trope.”

Everyone gasps; this is blasphemy.

“It normalizes toxic behavior and romanticizes serious issues that shouldn’t be glossed over,” I say, while the others groan and roll their eyes. “Hear me out: if someone’s really your enemy, you wouldn’t fall in love with them. It’s not plausible.”

“But monster sex is?” Cinderella says.

“Or vampires and werewolves?” Indira adds.

“I can suspend some disbelief. And sure, enemies can havehot hate sex—but if they’re really enemies…” My mind drifts to Josie’s fiery eyes, and I shiver. “Feelings that deep don’t change. Love is love and hate is hate.”

Cinderella harrumphs, and I have a feeling she’s already making a mental list of her favorite enemies-to-lovers books to change my mind.

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