Page 31 of Battle of the Bookstores

She accepts it, turning it over. I wait for her cheeks to burnbright as she reads the back copy about the lovers, two young men from families who didn’t accept them for who they are, who ran away and found family in each other. To her credit, she doesn’t.

“This does look good,” she says. “I think I’ll get it.”

“It’s on the house,” I say, ignoring the way Cinderella’s jaw drops. Last week, after another “barter” incident, I laid down the law: no more trades or freebies. I’ll run my credit card for this later; the thought of Mrs. Palmer reading that book is worth far more than $17.99 plus tax.

“Thank you.” Her eyes well with tears, and I know she’s trying to find the right words to make a graceful exit.

“It was good to see you, Mrs. Palmer. Brenda.” I give her a hug, aware of how strange it is to be looking down at this woman I used to look up to. “Please don’t be a stranger.”

She gives my arm a loving tap before turning to go, and I wonder what she’ll find if she comes back in another decade. If I’ll still be here, managing whatever this store becomes. Or if she’ll find Josie behind the counter, the LGBTQ romance section confined to a tiny back corner.

If there is one at all.

How can anyone stand this place?

The memory of what Josie said turns my sorrow into a rallying cry, a reminder that it’s not just myself and my staff I’m fighting for. It’s for the girls and guys and gays and theys who deserve the support and solidarity my best friend never got.

I couldn’t save him, but I can save this place for them.

9

Josie

“I honestly despisehim,” I say to my sister. “It’s more than a superficial dislike. It’s loathing. Disgust. Like, on a soul-deep level.”

“I don’t blame you,” she says. “Especially after how he treated you.”

We’re talking about Ryan, of course, he of the Loud Yelling and Defensive Reactions, as we walk toward Tabula Inscripta after grabbing breakfast at Davis Square Donuts & Bagels. Georgia’s munching on a Boston cream donut, and I’ve got a sesame bagel with honey walnut cream cheese. The warm sun filters through the trees lining the brick-paved sidewalk, and the distant melody of a street musician’s guitar mingles with the sounds of traffic and pedestrian chatter. It’s almost pretty enough to distract me from the twitchy feeling I get whenever I think about Ryan.

Not quite, though.

“He’s the antithesis of everything I value,” I continue. “He’s unkempt, disorganized, anti-intellectual, vulgar, and has serious issues with emotional reactivity.”

I’m hyperbolizing, and we both know it, but one of the bestthings about Georgia is that she’s unequivocally on my side. Bonus: she’s now psychoanalyzing him with zero evidence other than my highly biased recounting of our interactions. But what else are sisters for, if not to join in mutual hatred?

Another bonus: if she’s analyzinghim, she’s not analyzing me and why I’m so fixated on him.

Which I am also trying to avoid analyzing.

“I bet he’s uncomfortable with successful women.” Georgia’s channeling a fairy princess today, her hair in a braid crown dotted with tiny flower pins, loose tendrils framing her face. “We had a whole discussion about this in my Gender Dynamics class. When men feel emasculated, they compensate with increasing hostility, sexism, homophobia—all sorts of toxic traits.”

“He’s definitely hostile.” Backing me into the bookcase, for example. Yelling at me. Ordering me to leave his store.

AlthoughmaybeI can see how he saw my comments as insulting, even if I didn’t intend them to be. I’ll give him some props for being protective of his store—though, come on, he insultedmine, too. He called it soulless and joyless. Organization is plenty joyful!

“Let me guess, he has short-man syndrome,” Georgia says.

“Well, no,” I admit. “He’s tall. Like, really tall. And big. Not in a gym-rat way, more like a sturdy, farm-boy kind of thing. Like he could heft a bale of hay in one hand and a sick baby cow in the other, walking three miles uphill, without breaking a sweat.”

Georgia eyes me. “That’s…specific.”

Oops.Before she can ask why I’ve spent so much time thinking about Ryan Lawson’s body, I say, “He’s probablyoverconfidentbecause of his height, you know?”

Nodding, she takes a bite of her donut. “If it’s not short-man syndrome, it’s probably small-penis syndrome.”

I choke on my bagel.

“It’s a real diagnosis,” Georgia insists. “Well—it’s a type of body dysmorphic disorder. Men with anxiety about their penis size have increased rates of erectile dysfunction and lower intercourse satisfaction.”

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