Page 36 of Battle of the Bookstores

I’m not ready to throw in the towel yet.

Gretchen:Fair. Don’t hate me if I check in again in a few weeks. You’re a hot commodity. xx

Before I have a chance to reply, another text comes in. This one is from Eva: they just got off the T and are on their way to “pick up a book” they preordered.

“They’re almost here!” I call out, and everyone hides.

“Hi, ladies,” I say when they walk in a few minutes later.

“I hear you’ve got bookmail for us,” Barb says.

Behind her, Eva catches my eye and grins—she’s curled her hair and is wearing a dress for the first time I can remember.

“The new Casey McQuiston,” I say, trying to tamp down my smile. “It’s in the back. And, Barb—there’s a new collection of poetry over there I think you might like.”

“Ooh!” Barb heads to the front of the store, unaware that a photographer friend is standing outside, ready to snap photos through the window.

I give Eva a good luck squeeze on the shoulder, then join Cinderella and Indira behind the Hot Priest/Rabbi shelf.

We hear Barb’s voice: “What in the—?”

And I know she’s turned to find Eva down on one knee.

“Barbie, my love,” Eva says, clearing her throat. “I haven’t stopped loving you since the day we met sixty years ago. I don’t regret the years we spent apart; they gave us our beautiful children…But now…now…I don’t want to go another minute without making our love official. I want to be your wife, and I want you to be mine. Will you marry me?”

I peek around the bookshelf to see Barb, now also down on her knees, kissing Eva as tears spill down their cheeks.

Tears fill my eyes, too, as I’m pulled back to a memory I’m usually able to suppress. Having grown up under the shadow of my parents’ love story, I went through high school and college with my eyes and my heart open, waiting for my own lightning-strike moment when I’d meet someone and know she was the one. It finally came on the day I moved into the dorms sophomore year.

Or so I thought.

For three wonderful years, Kate and I had a storybookromance. Until she dumped me for her chemistry class TA. I was blindsided: I’d already started saving for a ring. When I asked her why, what this guy had that I didn’t, she shrugged and said, “When you know, you know.”

Based on her Instagram, shedidknow. They’ve been married for seven years and have two adorable kids. Meanwhile, I have two bookstore cats—one of which doesn’t even like me—and a job I might be on the verge of losing.

But the most devastating part wasn’t losing Kate, it was losing trust in my own intuition. If I was wrong about something that felt so right, how could I ever trust that feeling again?

Which is why, over time, I’ve realized that my purpose isn’t to have my own love story, but to help other people find theirs.

“She said yes!” Eva calls out, and the room erupts in cheers as everyone jumps out to congratulate them. Cinderella pops a bottle of champagne, and I help the newly engaged couple back onto their feet. Kevin launches into a rousing rendition of Bruno Mars’s song “Marry You.”

It’s a moment of pure, unbridled joy—until it’s interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat. I turn to find Josie, her cheeks red, fallen tendrils of hair framing her face.

“Can I speak to you for a moment?” Her voice is flat, but her eyes are blazing. She’s pissed, and I’m not in the mood to get lectured.

“If you have something to say, you can say it right here.”

Josie surveys the scene, then huffs out an impatient breath. “I have twenty people over there trying to meditate.” Her voice wavers, and I realize her eyes aren’t shimmering from anger,but because she’s on the verge of tears. “I planned this event for when you were closed so this wouldn’t happen!”

Suddenly, I feel like the basic asshole she accused me of being. I knew her event was starting at seven; I could have asked Eva to plan the proposal for six instead.

“Josie, I’m—”

“I know you hate me,” she cuts in. “I know you hate my books and my store. But I thought a fellow bookseller would have some respect for mycustomers. They’re booklovers, just like the ones who come here.”

She’s right, and I feel a twinge of guilt. “Listen, I—”

“Not to mention the author leading the event has terrible social anxiety; he’s in the back room hyperventilating into a paper bag.” Josie breaks off, breathing heavily herself. It’s obvious how much she cares about her customers and the anxious author, just like I would.

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