Page 48 of Battle of the Bookstores

I sigh, not even knowing how to respond. “Who’s Darrell?”

My mom’s laughter peals through my ear. “My fiancé, sweetheart, you know that.”

Fiancé?I mouth to Georgia, who shrugs. I’d bet good money Darrell isn’t actually her fiancé. Or a doctor. Last time my mother was dating a “doctor,” he was just a guy who worked at GNC.

Mom rattles on about Darrell and his time-share in Puerto Vallarta, how she got auburn highlights and bought a new sundress that accentuates her figure. I’m only half listening—until she says something about Georgia meeting her in Mexico.

What?I mouth to my sister, who gets a guilty look on her face and shrugs.

Mom has run out of topics to ramble about. “I’d better get back to Darrell,” she says. “Love you! Kisses and hugs!”

“Love you, too,” I say, but she’s already hung up.

I sigh again; I do love her—but that doesn’t mean I think she’s a healthy person to be close to.

I hand my sister the phone. “You’re going to Mexico?”

“Probably not,” Georgia says, shrugging. “Flights are expensive, and I can’t miss too many classes, but I want to meet Darrell. It sounds like this relationship is the real deal, Jo.”

I grimace. “Which is what she always says. Please tell me you see that.”

My voice is getting snippy—because I’m worried. Georgia, despite taking an entire course in family therapy, doesn’t recognize how damaged our upbringing was. She loves ourmom when she’s like this, fun and enthusiastic, albeit a tad flighty and judgmental. But it’s like she forgets that at any moment, Fun Mom could morph into Absent Mom, then into Heartbroken Mom, and there’s nothing we can do.

I can feel my body tensing, like I’m bracing for impact. It’s how I always felt growing up, constantly on guard, never able to fully relax.

“Darrell is good for her,” Georgia insists. “He’s got her playing pickleball, he helped clean out her apartment—”

“Poor man,” I say under my breath.

Georgia’s face is flushed. “She’s going to therapy and taking care of herself and now she’s met a great guy—”

“Like all the other great guys?”

She presses her lips together, then shifts into that exasperating professional tone. “Maybe you should explore why you’re distrustful of relationships, Jojo—Mom’s right, you haven’t dated anyone for a while. And when youdodate, you never let yourself get emotionally attached. Why do you think that is?”

I fold my arms and match her tone. “Hmm. What could possibly be the reason, Dr. Klein?”

Georgia swallows. “Okay, Mom wasn’t exactly a shining example of healthy relationships. But this time is different. I don’t understand why you’re not happy that she’s doing well.”

Because I know what happens next, when the knight in shining armor leaves. She’ll chase after this guy—and then she’ll crumble.

My eyes fill with tears, and I blink them away.

“I hope you have a wonderful time in Puerto Vallarta, if you decide to go,” I tell my sister.

And I mean it: I hope that when she arrives, Mom andDarrell are still deeply in love. I hope Mom stays happy forever. I hope she’s found her One and Only and spends the rest of her life with him, safe and secure and adored.

But hope without evidence to support it is a delusion.

Georgia leaves for class, and I turn my attention to my next task: moving a table back to the front of the store where it belongs, then stacking all the new releases on it. The plumber asked me to clear that area so he could work on the pipes in the ceiling, but he had to order parts that won’t arrive for a week, and I can’t handle an entire week with the table in the wrong place.

By evening, the store is empty, so I go into the back room and heat a frozen dinner. When it’s ready, I sit at the desk, which is strategically positioned so I can eat while keeping an eye on the store.

I pull outThe Princess Bride. I wasn’t lying when I told RJ I think it’s genius. Ridiculous, yes, but self aware—like the author is having fun. It’s pure literary dessert, as RJ might say—and I’m savoring each bite.

I lose track of time as I read, occasionally pausing to look up and scan my store. But it’s drizzling outside, and no one is shopping, so even though I have a million things to do, I allow myself to get sucked into the story. The feeling reminds me of being twelve years old, reading under the covers with a flashlight because I had to know what happened next.

As Westley and Buttercup are making their way into the Fire Swamp, I become aware of a new sound, a light spattering. I glance into the store—it’s still raining outside—and keep reading.

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