Page 52 of Battle of the Bookstores

“Just friends.” Although I felt more of a spark for BookshopGirl than I have for any of the women I’ve gone out with in the last…well, since college. “But I’m not sure we can even be that anymore.”

Nora frowns. “What happened?”

I shrug. “It turns out she’s someone I know in real life. A person I don’t like. Someone who’s completely different from the woman I thought I knew.”

“Ah,” Nora says. “And you’re not sure which version is real.”

“That about sums it up,” I say, slumping back onto the couch.

“The internet is a tricky place,” Nora says after a moment. “It’s easy to pretend you’re someone you’re not. All those catfishers. And the trolls, saying things they’d never have the balls to say to your face. But for most people, I think the truth is somewhere in the middle.”

“Between a catfish and a troll?”

Nora nods solemnly. “People want to be seen as the best version of themselves. So maybe they pretend they’re nicer or taller or richer—but it’s still them, deep down. I’d say that’s true for your book friend, too. I mean, what reason does she have to lie?”

One of our conversations comes back to me, when BSG said she’s worked so hard to make something of herself, to turn her life around. Maybe Josie’s icy exterior is just armor, protecting the part of her that still believes she’s a failure. Hiding the warm, generous, tender soul I’ve come to know online.

“Give her a chance,” Nora says, squeezing my shoulder. “If you don’t, you’ll never know what you could be missing.”

She’s got a point, although I can’t imagine a world where Josie Klein and I are friends, let alone anything more.

“Now,” she says, pulling her basket back on her lap. “I found some patterns for vulvas…”

—

Later that afternoon,the store is bustling with the after-school book club. Eliza’s running a thoughtful discussion on Alyssa Cole’s latest. I thought it might be too racy for the under-eighteen crowd, but Eliza insisted that it showcases healthy sexuality, and I agree that’s important. She also called me a hypocrite and a prude.

I’m up front, handling the register, when the front bell chimes. The man responsible for the sound freezes, like he’s been busted for being somewhere he isn’t supposed to be. Judging by his neatly trimmed hair, pleated khakis, and button-down shirt, he’s one of two things: a romance-curious man who wrongly thinks his interest says something about his masculinity, or a man on a mission to buy a gift.

“Welcome to Happy Endings,” I say, smiling. “Can I help you?”

“I hope so.” He sounds forlorn. “I’m looking for a birthday gift.”

“Great—what kind of books do they like?”

The man blanches. “She. And we’ve only been dating a few weeks.”

“We have gift cards…” Although it could have a short redemption window if I don’t figure out a way to get our profits even higher.

“She thinks they’re lazy gifts,” the man says.

“Okay, then,” I say. “What books do you like? Sharing a favorite book with a partner can be a very intimate experience.”

Which makes me wonder: Would Josie have taken my book suggestions if she’d known I was the one making them?

“I don’t read romance,” the man says with the air of someone who looks down on the genre even though they’ve never read it. “My taste skews more literary.”

This is a challenge I like. As much as I’d love to convince him to buy something spicy—he could benefit from his girlfriend reading a book like that—I know he’s trusting me to help him choose something that will make him look good, and I don’t want to disappoint. I flip through the card catalog in my mind, trying to think of a romance that leans literary. More of a love story than a traditional genre romance…

“How do you feel about cherry farms in Michigan?”

A few minutes later, I’m leading the man—his name is Brad—across the invisible barrier that used to separate Happy Endings from Beans and around the bookshelf barrier into Tabula Inscripta.

Josie’s eyes widen when she sees me. It’s moments like thisthat make me wish I wasn’t such a goddamn giant. I know my size can be intimidating, but I wouldn’t hurt a cat. Not even Hades when he’s acting like the devil he was named after.

“Can I…help you?” Josie’s the epitome of a buttoned-up retail professional today: hair slicked back in a long, dark ponytail; crisp blouse and pencil skirt; glossy red lips that match her high heels. A new image comes barreling into my mind: Josie Klein in nothing but those shoes and a red lacy bra and panties, ordering me to get on my knees.

Flushing, I shove that thought away and try to picture BookshopGirl dressing like Josie. I can’t—I’ve always imagined her as a soft, sweet woman who wears flowy skirts and cozy sweaters, her hair in a messy bun, ink smudges on her fingers.

---