Page 30 of Battle of the Bookstores

“The blind date books have been a big hit,” I say, desperate to change the subject.

And it’s true. The success of this program has shattered everything I thought I knew about what makes people buy a book. Apparently, they don’t need to see the cover, back cover copy, or blurbs.

The coolest part is the books we’ve been selling. We’ve included a few bestsellers, but it’s mostly been old stock, backlist titles that didn’t get as much attention as they should have.

I was talking about this just last night with BookshopGirl. We kept chatting until almost one a.m. after our Never Have I Ever game. I was tipsy by the end and making even more spelling errors than usual. Luckily, BSG has never once made me feel dumb about them (unlike Josie Klein, the High Priestess of Intellectual Snobbery). Anyway, she and I both agree it’s impossible to really know what will sell and what will collect dust on our shelves.

Personally, I think the whole thing is random. Publishing companies throw books at the wall like spaghetti to see what sticks. BSG seems to have more faith in the system, believing that publishers look to tastemakers and other literary elite to help predict what readers will like.

If that’s the case, I don’t fit the mold of that literary elite. Which tracks.

The bell on the front door chimes, and I look up to seeEliza, wearing a hoodie from her soccer team. School’s officially out for the summer, but she still has practice most mornings.

“Perfect timing,” I say, tossing her the roll of Scotch tape. She catches it with one hand, grinning.

“Ooh, blind dates!” She joins Cinderella, and I head back to shelve the shipment that came in this afternoon. I could delegate this task, but I enjoy deciding where the books go. At the moment, I have a whole shelf featuring the “only one bed” trope, and another section featuring love interests named Josh. My system isn’t neat or logical—Josie seemed revolted by it—but our customers love to browse and explore, discovering books they might have otherwise walked by.

I’m debating where to shelve a new M4M young adult title that’s gained popularity thanks to social media, when the front door chimes again.

“Excuse me, is RJ working today?”

The familiar voice stops me in my tracks.

“I’m sorry,” Cinderella says. “We don’t have an RJ here.”

“Oh.” There’s disappointment in her voice. The voice that belongs to a woman I haven’t seen in more than a decade.

I could easily stay back here and let another decade pass, but I know that’s not what Jack would have wanted. I look down at the novel in my hands, wishing my best friend could have lived to see the day when he could walk into a bookstore and buy a book like this. A love story he could imagine himself in.

“Mrs. Palmer,” I say, stepping into view.

“RJ.” Her eyes shimmer, and I know she’s not seeing me. She’s seeing the shadow of her son. RJ and JR—best friends since first grade. Our birthdays were a day apart, and wecelebrated every milestone together—until senior year of high school.

After everything happened, the Palmers sold their house and moved away. Somewhere they wouldn’t have to see me getting older while my best friend, their son, stayed forever seventeen.

“I think you can call me Brenda now,” Mrs. Palmer says, walking toward me. “I heard you were still working here.”

“I’m running the place now,” I say, and the pride in her smile makes me stand even taller.

“That’s really something. How are your parents doing?”

It’s the kind of small talk reserved for familiar strangers, even though I used to think of Mrs. Palmer—Brenda—as a second mom.

“They’re great,” I say, happy to report the truth. “They’re throwing a big party for their fiftieth anniversary in a few weeks—I’m sure they’d love to see you.”

“We’ll be back home by then. In Florida.”

So that’s where they went.

“How about you?” Brenda / Mrs. Palmer asks. “Anyone special in your life?”

Cinderella chuckles, and I shoot a glare in her direction. At least Eliza is pretending not to eavesdrop, wrapping a blind date book with excellent precision.

“Not at the moment. I’m too busy helping other people find their love stories.” I hold up the book, expecting her to blanch at the cover image of two young men wrapped in an embrace, but she doesn’t.

“Is that a good one?” she asks.

“It’s excellent,” I say, holding it out for her to take.

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