Page 24 of Battle of the Bookstores

I stiffen at the comparison.

“The difference is that she’d lose herself for days at a time and forget she had two daughters,” I say. Meanwhile, I always made sure Georgia was taken care of.

Georgia sighs. “I know.”

“Instead of facing her responsibilities like a grown-up, she wanted her Prince Charming to swoop in and turn life into a fantasy—just like in those books she read.” I try to keep my voice steady, but it’s not easy. “I don’t need a degree in psychology to know that isn’t healthy.”

It happened after every bad breakup: Mom would pull out her paperback romances, the ones with clinch covers featuring bare-chested men embracing women with heaving bosoms, and she’d hole up in her room for days at a time like they were an escape hatch from reality.

It was terrifying, but I had to pull myself together for Georgia’s sake. I’d make meals, walk her to school, do our laundry—even when I was barely big enough to reach into the washing machine in the basement of our building. Mom was fired from her job more times than I could count. Sometimeswe ran out of food and I’d have nothing to feed Georgia but stale saltine crackers and cream of chicken soup. Once, Mom forgot to pay the gas bill and we spent a frigid night in January wearing three layers of clothes and shivering in bed.

After a while, Mom would emerge, thin and pale, and declare that she was “ready to find love again.” Soon enough, she’d have “met someone real nice,” a man that would treat her “better than those other awful guys.”

And the cycle would start all over again.

“She’s doing better now,” Georgia says, her voice tentative.

“You’ve been talking to her?” I say, horrified. I stopped returning Mom’s calls a couple years ago, when the drama became too much to handle. As far as I knew, Georgia had done the same.

“No—well, a little.” Georgia shrugs. “She called me a few months ago, and I picked up…She’s working as a receptionist at a dentist’s office. I helped her find a therapist, and she’s moved into a new apartment and…”

I fold my arms. “And?”

“And she’s dating someone—”

“George!” I burst out.

“He sounds nice.”

“They always do.”

My sister turns, looking at me with mournful eyes. The same way she looked at me when I came rushing home from college after her accident, because our mom had taken off after her latest boyfriend.

“I wish you’d give her a chance,” Georgia says quietly.

My throat tightens. I know she wants to believe our mother can change, and I love that about her. Unfortunately, it’s never going to happen, and the last thing I want is for my sister toget hurt again. So many popular novels showcase big, sweeping character arcs—but that’s the author’s imagination. Fictional.

In real life, people don’t change, not enough to make a difference.

“I—I need to unpack some boxes,” I say, and head into the back room.

—

That night, asI’m closing the register, my mind drifts back to that conversation. Not about giving our mom a chance, but Georgia’s comments about how I used to read as a kid. When I’d get sucked into a book so thoroughly, hours would feel like minutes. And when I put the book down, reentering reality would feel like surfacing from underwater.

On a whim, I grab my phone and pull up my chat with RJ.Reads.

BookshopGirl:Do you read for fun?

His username lights up. Maybe he has an alert set for my messages, like I do for his. The thought makes me smile.

RJ.Reads:Of course. Is there any other way?

BookshopGirl:I remember reading for pure enjoyment as a kid. It hasn’t felt the same as an adult, though.

RJ.Reads:What did you read as a kid?

This is the first time we’ve discussed something other than book recommendations, book pet peeves, or reviews. It’s still book related, but it seems more personal.

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