Page 55 of Battle of the Bookstores

That thought sends an uncomfortable twinge through my chest. Regardless of his motivations, I owe him, big-time.

I glance again at my laptop to see if RJ has replied. He hasn’t. I tell myself he’s just busy.

But as the hours pass, he still doesn’t respond, and I feel a growing sense of unease.

After closing the store, I know I ought to head home, but if I do, I’ll just ruminate on all my uncomfortable thoughts: the lack of response from RJ, the weird obligation I now feel toward Ryan.

Eddie brought me leftover pastries before he left, so I grab one and head over to Happy Endings. Maybe if I give it to Ryan, that’ll assuage some of my discomfort.

There’s a book club tonight—a group, mostly women, seated in a circle, talking and laughing—but I immediately spot Ryan in the back corner.

He’s sprawled in a purple-and-yellow floral armchair, his broad shoulders and long legs making the chair look comically small. The white cat is in his lap, and the black one is snoozing on top of the chairback. As usual, he’s wearing a cardigan (navy blue) and glasses (tortoiseshell), and the effect is very Hot Mr. Rogers meets Adorable Cat Dad. He also looks tired. The specific, bone-deep fatigue from a long day working in retail, your feet aching from standing, your face tight from smiling.

I can almost see the invisible weight he carries as manager, a weight I know too well, and again I feel a strange tug of solidarity.

I walk toward him. He glances up and sees me, then stiffens.

“I made sure your store would be closed,” he says quickly.

It takes me a moment to understand. He thinks I’m here to complain about the noise.

“No, that’s not—” I hold out the pastry. “I brought you something.”

He looks confused, peering over the top of his glasses at me. “Why?”

“It’s not poisoned, if that’s what you’re wondering,” I say.

He sighs. “Sorry, I’m feeling a little…Never mind.” He takes the pastry but doesn’t eat it. “Do you, I don’t know—want to stay for a bit?”

To my surprise, I do. I tell myself it’s so I can spy on hisoperations and figure out how to pull ahead. But I have a sneaking suspicion it has something to do with this peculiarinterestI feel toward him—and not just physically. The common ground we share despite our differences.

I can’t allow myself to feel that way, though. He’s currently beating me, and maybe he actually isn’t all that nice. Maybe it was the water in my eyes and the panic in my veins, and now that I’m dried out and calmed down, I’ll see that he really is the arrogant, uncouth jerk I’ve imagined him to be.

Tentatively, I settle into the red-and-blue plaid chair next to Ryan and listen as the book club finishes their discussion. The women in the glittery pink shirts are here—the Book Club Sluts, Ryan called them. They’re in their element, making inappropriate comments that make everyone laugh.

As the conversation turns to the themes and characters, I find myself getting pulled in. A few years ago, I was invited to join a friend’s book club; I was so excited for my first meeting, I created a color-coded, annotated list of discussion points about the book—only to find out that no one else had read it, and the purpose of the gathering was to drink wine and chat. Which is great! Except that I felt like a total nerd.

But these readers? They’re just as book obsessed as I am, even if their “favorites” shelf may look different from mine. And I have to hand it to Ryan: he’s created an inclusive, supportive atmosphere here.

After the book club ends, I hang around for reasons I do not allow myself to examine too closely. Wanting something to do to keep busy, I grab one of the chairs and start moving it back into place.

Ryan comes over and takes it from me (lifting it more easily than I did). “I’ve got these. You can sit down.”

“What, I’m not capable of handling your chairs?” I’m trying for a teasing tone, but it comes out sounding peevish.

“I’m afraid you’re going to sabotage them somehow. Stick thumbtacks on the seats, maybe.” He frowns as he carries the chairs back to their places. “Sit, Josie.”

Instead, I find a broom and start sweeping the floor. When he returns, he takes that from me, too.

“How can I possibly sabotage you by sweeping?” I ask.

“You’ll figure something out,” he mutters.

While he sweeps, I go behind the counter and start taking out the trash. But he’s right behind me again, grabbing the trash bag from my hand and giving me a confused look.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to repay you!” I say, frustrated. “You’ve done two nice things for me, and I’ve been uncomfortable ever since.”

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