Page 63 of Battle of the Bookstores

“Hello, party people!” my mom shouts into the microphone. She’s clearly been overserved but is having the time of her life. My dad chuckles and takes the mic from her hands.

“Thank you all for being here to celebrate our golden anniversary,” he says. “Fifty years of marriage teaches you a lot about love, patience, and most importantly, the art of pretending to listen. Just kidding, babe.”

The crowd laughs as my mom playfully elbows my dad. She looks at him with such love and adoration, even after all these years. They set the bar impossibly high, I’m afraid.

“Despite a few questionable decisions, like that mustache in the eighties, my gut hasn’t steered me wrong.” Dad pats his slight beer belly, and the guests laugh again. “Like they say, when you know, you know—and the moment I saw Merrie in our high school cafeteria with her golden hair and that yellow dress…” He pauses and looks down at my mom like he’s still seeing that girl. “It was like the rest of the world faded to black and white, and she was the only thing in color. I knew that very moment she was the one.”

There’s a collectiveawwfrom the crowd. They all know, like I know, that the love my dad has for my mom is as authentic as it gets. None of this is for show.

“And just look at where that love has led us. We have four wonderful sons and three wonderful daughters-in-law.” I inwardly cringe at this mathematical proof that I don’t measureup. The youngest Lawson boy, still a disappointment. “Five grandchildren, with another on the way, and more friends than we can count.”

Dad’s voice cracks, and he pauses. My mom steps in to take the mic, and I marvel at the way they instinctively know what the other one needs. My chest tightens with the longing I try so hard to ignore—to have what they have. To know like they know.

“What my Jimmy is trying to say is that we love you all like crazy. Thank you for being on this ride with us. Now let’s get back to dancing. DJ, hit it!”

The DJ starts playing “This Magic Moment.” Mom throws her arms around Dad’s shoulders, and they kiss as they sway to the beat. Other couples join in, and soon the dance floor is filled.

As wonderful as the moment is, it feels like too much. I lean down to Josie and whisper in her ear, “What do you say we get out of here?”

17

Josie

None of thisis going as planned.

I had it all mapped out in my mind: we’d make polite conversation in the car, head to the anniversary party—where I’d hang out in the background andmaybeshare an obligatory dance with Ryan while keeping a sizable distance between us—then call it a night and go to bed early.

I never planned on his entire family being so excited to meet “Ryan’s new girlfriend” that I wouldn’t have the heart to explain that we’re not even friends. I never planned on them being so welcoming I forgot to be nervous, or dancing with his sisters-in-law and nieces and laughing myself silly.

And I certainly never planned on Ryan Lawson in a suit.

All night, I’ve been staring at him. His shoulders, how they seem even broader; the strain of his shirt buttons across his chest when he moves; the crisp white collar and the tie knotted just below his Adam’s apple.

I meant to come here and tilt him off his axis, not the other way around.

I also never imagined this: walking down to the beach with him, holding my shoes in one hand while he carries a bottle ofchampagne and two plastic cups he swiped from the bar. The salty air nips at my bare arms; the sand is cool on my feet as we sit on a patch of dry sand.

Off in the distance, a few fireworks explode. I’m right at the earliest stages of tipsy—warm and relaxed, soft around the edges. The ocean breeze washes over me, crisp and a little smoky.

“Your family is great,” I say. The kind of family I grew up envying: stable, successful parents; a whole mess of siblings.

“They are,” he says fondly. “They’re also a lot.”

“It must have been fun growing up with all those brothers.”

Though I found them a little intimidating, exuding success and masculinity in their tailored suits. Ryan left his tie and jacket at the party, and now he’s unbuttoned his top button and rolled up his shirtsleeves. His hair, which was neatly combed at the start of the night, has reverted to its usual floppy state, and it makes him look more like himself. All evening, it’s been difficult to remember that this handsome, imposing man is the same guy who wears tortoiseshell glasses and cardigans and a lanyard covered in ridiculous pins. The same guy I’ve been competing against for weeks.

Real life seems far away, here on a beach in the moonlight with the waves whispering against the sand.

“Fun is one way to put it,” he says. “Being the youngest meant I was always the butt of the jokes. And now, being the only one still single…” He grimaces. “Champagne?”

“Please,” I say. He fills a plastic cup halfway, then hands it to me before filling his own. “So I hate to bring up a sore subject, but…whyareyou single?”

Ryan chokes on his champagne. “Not you, too!”

“Sorry!” I say, laughing. “But it doesn’t make sense. You’re tall, you have a job, you have adequate personal hygiene—”

“Thanks?”

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