Page 59 of Battle of the Bookstores

I could still tell Josie not to come this weekend, pull outone of a million excuses: That it’s too late to change my RSVP; that there are no rooms left at the hotel. That I’m harboring a secret—I’m the same guy she’s been chatting with online.

It would be so easy to tell her the truth, just reply to the message that’s gone unanswered all day. But BookshopGirl wants to keep things the way they are, which is the one thing I don’t know if I can do.

With my fingers poised over the keyboard, I consider confessing my identity. She’ll be as torn and confused as I am, and there’s no way she’ll still want to go on the trip.

And yet…

Before I can change my mind again, I type out a quick reply and hit send.

RJ.Reads:Okay. If that’s what you want.

I know it’s the coward’s way out. I also know that, deep down, it’s what I want, too; to go back to the way things were before I knew.

The best I can hope for is that this trip will show me once and for all who Josie Klein is. If she’s the ice queen, or the woman I thought I was developing real feelings for.

—

“You’ve got alot of stuff in here,” Josie says.

It’s the next afternoon and I’m parked in front of Happy Endings, getting ready to head out—twenty minutes behind schedule. I appreciate that Josie’s attempting to keep the judgment out of her voice, even if she’s not entirely successful.

I’m cleaning out my car—which I had every intention of doing before work, but I slept through my alarm, then gotstuck on a call with my mom, who is “absolutely tickled” to hear I’m bringing a date, even though I stressed that Josie’s just a friend. If that.

“Hey, you never know when you’re going to need a…” I stop when I see Josie holding a pink satin eye mask that says,Dreaming of My Hea, from an author event last week.

“What’s a he-ah?” she asks.

“H-E-A,” I tell her. “Happily Ever After. Surely you’ve heard of those, even if they don’t exist in your big literary tomes.”

Josie’s cheeks flush. She breaks eye contact, and I catalog another difference between the two women. Where BookshopGirl seems eternally curious, excited to learn about new things, Josie can’t handle looking like anything less than the smartest person in any room.

My mind flicks back to the story she told me about losing her scholarship and dropping out of college. The deep shame she still carries. Maybe I’ve been misreading her; what if it’s not about wanting to look smarter, but she’s genuinely insecure? My heart gives a teeny, tiny squeeze of sympathy.

Until she lets out an exasperated sigh and gathers the ARCs sitting in the passenger seat. Like it’s such a burden to pick up a few books—I left them there so I wouldn’t forget to bring them home for my mom and sisters-in-law, before I knew someone would be riding shotgun all the way to Maine.

Wordlessly, Josie carries the books to the open trunk. I bet she’s cringing at the clutter—which makes my jaw tighten with irritation. Rushing back, I take the books from her arms and toss them inside, closing the trunk before she can get a good look. I don’t want to have to explain the boxes of vibrators, ready to be sorted for next month’s subscription box.

“I think we’re all set—just need to grab your bag,” I say, spotting the small duffel resting on the sidewalk.

Before I can reach for it, Josie has it in her arms.

“I’ve got it,” she says. The edge of defensiveness in her voice makes my own defenses rise.

“Listen,” I tell her, “you don’t have to come. We can find another way for you to balance the scales, or whatever.”

“I said I was going, so let’s go.”

This is going to be the longest two-hour drive of my life.

—

We’re both quietas we head out of Davis Square, toward 93. Traffic is crawling, but I’m hopeful it will pick up once we get to the highway. Thanks to the late start, we’re going to be cutting it close.

I steal a glance at Josie, who has her duffel bag resting on her lap. She’s hugging it to her chest like it’s a stuffed animal. I can’t tell if she’s uncomfortable or afraid her bag will get dirty.

The song on the radio ends and the DJ comes on the air. “That was ‘Shut It Down,’ by Marley Greene. Now for the traffic report, brought to you by Tabula Inscripta—where Boston gets lit. As in literature.”

Josie looks from the radio to me, excited—until she realizes that her competition is behind the wheel.

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