Page 60 of Battle of the Bookstores

“You ran ads?” I ask, even though she obviously did.

Josie shrugs. “Sometimes you’ve got to spend money to make money.”

“Smart,” I say, wishing I’d thought of that. No wonder she’s winning.

We fall quiet again, and luckily the traffic dies down past Medford. I’m cruising at a respectable five miles over the speed limit as the trees blur past our windows.

“We should probably get to know each other,” Josie says, out of the blue. “Otherwise, your parents will think you picked me up off the street like a stray.”

“I was planning to tell them you were a hitchhiker.”

I can feel Josie’s fiery eyes on me, but I don’t give her the satisfaction of acknowledging her glare. Safety first—gotta keep my eyes on the road.

“Please tell me your parents know I’m coming.”

“They know I’m bringing someone,” I say. “A friend.”

“Friends know things about each other.”

“Wellll, I know you’ve been working at Tabula Inscripta for about five years; that you have one sister; that you drink triple Americanos, you always wear your hair up, and you have a penchant for big books.”

Now I steal a glance, and judging by how wide her eyes are, she’s shocked at my astute observational skills.

“What do you know about me?” I ask, remembering how just a month ago she didn’t know my name.

“I know you have a very loud laugh; you have two cats you can’t control, a ridiculous sweet tooth when it comes to your beverages, and alotof stuff.”

I choose to ignore the thinly veiled insults. Mostly because I’m surprised that she actuallyhasbeen paying attention to me.

“How about we fill in the blanks?” I suggest. “Where did you grow up?”

“Newburyport—but not the nice part. How about you?”

“Winchester. The nice part,” I admit.

“Not Maine?”

I shake my head. “We vacationed in Kennebunkport when I was a kid, and my parents bought a place there once they became empty nesters. How about siblings? One sister, right?”

“Georgia.” Josie’s love for her sister is apparent in the way she says her name, like it’s precious. Like she’s precious. Understandably so, after the accident BookshopGirl told me about.

“And you?” she asks. “Any brothers or sisters?”

“Three brothers; I’m the baby.”

“Ahhh,” she says, as if that explains something—but I know enough about birth order to know I’m not as outgoing or free spirited as youngest children tend to be.

On the other hand, I would have known Josie was the oldest even without my conversations with BookshopGirl. She’s a textbook firstborn—a hardworking, high-achieving perfectionist who believes it’s her duty to take care of her sibling.

Again, I feel that reluctant squeeze of sympathy. I still can’t believe her mother left her sister alone, forcing Josie to leave school. Even worse, it sounds like that was a pattern their whole lives. It’s hard to imagine a parent doing that. Mine have always been there for me, even if I sometimes wish my mom would back off a little.

“So, what’d you do before working at the Tab?” I ask. “Where’d you go to college?”

And just like that, Josie shuts down, her body stiffening, her expression flattening. I curse myself for bringing up a taboo topic and putting an end to our conversational volley. It had been going pretty well.

She answers, a single word, devoid of emotion: “Emerson.”

I can tell she’s bracing herself for the inevitable nextquestions: what did you major in or when did you graduate. But I’m not going there.

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