Page 50 of Battle of the Bookstores

Ryan looks up. Again, his face startles me. The strong jawline, the way his eyes catch the light, his easy, unguarded expression—it’s doing things to me. “Because your books were getting damaged?”

“Yes…but I’m your competition. You could have let everything get ruined.”

If our situations were reversed, I might have done exactly that. That’s how badly I’ve wanted to crush him.

Ryan’s forehead wrinkles; he looks genuinely upset. “Books are too important to be casualties in our war, Josie.”

His words hit me in the chest, and I nod without speaking. We work silently, stacking the ruined books in the back room, removing the dust jackets from the damp ones and spreading them across the floor, arranging the dry ones back on the table.

Ryan is meticulous, handling the books with care in his bighands, his eyes narrowed as he inspects the spines and pages. We don’t talk, and I’m glad—my throat feels swollen and raw. I keep worrying that I might start crying, not because of the damage, but from relief. From the sense of solidarity, the comfort of having someone at my side who understands exactly how awful this is.

I wonder what would’ve happened if we’d met some other way, not as competitors but as two fellow booksellers. Maybe we could’ve been…friends?

After we finish, Ryan follows me to the back room with one last armful of soggy books and sets them on the floor next to my desk. I don’t know how to express my gratitude for this unexpected kindness that I don’t deserve.

“Ryan,” I say, “I owe you—”

“Are you reading that?” he asks sharply.

Startled, I follow his gaze. He’s staring at the paperback copy ofThe Princess Brideon my desk.

Instantly, my hackles go up. “Yes.”

All that openness I saw earlier in his face? Gone. His eyes dart between the book and me.

“No way,” he says, almost to himself.

“Are you judging my reading choices?” I demand, hands on hips.

He doesn’t seem to hear; he’s running both hands through his hair in agitation, staring at me with the strangest expression. Like he’s seeing me for the first time.

“No fucking way,” he says.

And without another word, he’s gone.

14

Ryan

Josie Klein isBookshopGirl.BookshopGirl is Josie Klein.

My brain is short-circuiting. I can’t believe it—I don’t want to believe it. No way my smart, interesting, funny, kind friend on the internet is the ice queen herself. My nemesis. The woman who, if she wins, will erase everything I care about.

I’m dizzy and disoriented, like I’ve stepped through a portal. The store feels claustrophobic, so I close up and start walking. The sidewalks are nearly empty because of the rain, but I hardly notice it. My mind is reeling.

That couldn’t have been a coincidence, Josie readingThe Princess Bride.

Oh god, I hope it’s a coincidence.

Somehow, I’ve ended up in Harvard Square. I duck into the Dunkin’ to dry off and recalibrate. As I scroll through my messages with BookshopGirl, my stomach turns to lead. There are countless clues I should have picked up on. Like how BookshopGirl and Josie both have a habit of saying “technically speaking.” Only when BSG says it, the phrase comes off as charming and cute. Unlike Josie, who uses thewords as if she’s looking down on everyone who isn’t as smart as she is.

Then there’s the whole Kenneth Michael Rutherford ordeal. It should have been obvious that BSG posted about the ableist prick the same night he spoke at the Tab. And of course, the story of her sister’s accident—she must be the woman with the cane I’ve seen helping Josie.

And BSG mentioned that her job is tenuous.

Fuck.

I have no doubt it’s true, but I can’t merge the two people in my mind. One is kind where the other is callous; one is funny, the other pretentious; one is my friend, and the other is my sworn enemy.

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