Page 56 of Battle of the Bookstores

“I—what?” He looks bewildered. “Why?”

I bite my lip, then let it out: “I hate being in anyone’s debt, especially yours.”

“Because I’m your nemesis.” He says the words flatly, almost distastefully.

“Exactly,” I say, latching on to that because I desperately need to keep him in that category despite the thoughts I’ve been having lately. “It’s eating me alive. I can’t handle it.”

His expression darkens. “Well, then…as your nemesis, I ought to let you stay in your discomfort for a while longer, don’t you think?” He ties a knot in the trash bag and tosses it into the back room. “So, uh, what did you think about your first romance book club?”

This is the first time we’ve had an actual conversation, rather than an argument. I lean against the counter and say slowly, “It was…unexpected.”

“You thought it would be a bunch of girlies squealing about their new book boyfriend?”

I stiffen at his tone: teasing, but with a hint of defensiveness—and maybe some judgement, too. “You know, you make a lot of assumptions about me.”

He blinks. “What do you mean?”

“Just because I don’t read romance doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a good discussion.” There’s a messy basket of crocheted objects next to the register, and I start organizing it so I have something to focus on. I can’t tell what they are—brown and pink, I don’t know…vegetables? Flowers?

When Ryan sees what I’m doing, his eyes widen and he rushes over, whisking the basket out of my reach. Bewildered, I put my hands on my hips. “Why can’t I do anything to help?”

He hands me a jumbled pile of bookmarks. “You want to organize something? Organize these.”

My fingers brush his as I take them, and goose bumps prickle down my arm. I take a quick step away and focus on the bookmarks, sorting them by type.I Don’t Watch Porn, I Read It Like a F*cking Lady, one reads.

“So what is your deal with romance novels, then?” he asks.

“Mydeal?”

“Why won’t you read them?”

“It’s not that I won’t, it’s…”

My mind conjures an image of my mother, curled in bed with a book, lost in a world that wasn’t ours. I don’t blame the books, of course—it’s not their fault my mom couldn’t cope with reality—so what is it? Maybe I resent them, for capturing her attention when her daughters needed her. When I needed her.

But there’s no way I’m telling Ryan that.

Instead, I shrug. “They’re too predictable. You always know how the story will end: happily ever after, wedding bells, heart-eyes. Why bother reading?”

I know it’s a lazy take on the genre. But it feels easier than admitting there’s something deeper underneath.

“Because it’s about the journey, not the destination,” Ryan says. “You’re willing to follow these characters to the darkest depths because you know everything will be all right in the end.”

“But that’s not how the world works.” I’m aware of how cliché I sound: the cynic who doesn’t believe in love. “Why don’t people write about messy, complicated love affairs that end in tragedy or devastation?”

He narrows his eyes, but there’s laughter hiding there, too. “You’re kidding, right? There are plenty of books like that—Anna Karenina?The Song of Achilles?Call Me by Your Name? I could go on…”

“Okay, okay.”

“By definition, a romance novel is about lovers falling in love. Kind of like how mystery novels are about solving a mystery. Fantasy novels take place in a fantastical world; historical fiction is set in the past; literary fiction features purple prose and depressing endings—”

“Come on,” I say, rolling my eyes as an unexpected grin pulls at my lips. “If you think that’s true, you haven’t read much literary fiction.”

“And you haven’t read much romance.”

He knocks his shoulder into mine—well, his upper arm into my shoulder—and the contact sends a zap of electricity through me.

I really need to get out of here.

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