Page 81 of Battle of the Bookstores

I hesitate; being here, so close to this place I loved all those years ago, has made me realize I’ve spent too much time avoiding anything that reminds me of my college experience. I want to push myself.

“Could we?” I say. “Just for a minute?”

We climb the stairs in silence, but when we get to the threshold, I freeze.

Ryan’s hand comes to my shoulder, warm and steady. He leans down, putting his mouth an inch from my ear. “You got this.”

And, taking a deep breath, I walk inside.

The reading room is exactly as I remember: domed ceiling, arched windows, rows of wooden tables with green-shaded lamps. The vast space is mostly empty, just a few people finishing up their work for the evening.

We sit at a table near the end, across from each other.

“We came here for a field trip in elementary school,” Ryan says in a low voice. “Imagine thirty rambunctious kids, the librarians hushing us, and our teachers reminding us tobe respectful, children.”

I smile, imagining Ryan at that age. A head taller than everyone else, his hair a bird’s nest.

“What were you like back then?” I ask.

“I was the kid at the back of the line who had to be assigned my own chaperone to keep me from wandering off,” he says, which makes my smile grow. “Let me guess—you were the girl who sat at the front and raised her hand before anyone else. Who had all the stars on the star chart and got the ‘Best Reader’ award.”

His description is pretty accurate. “Yeah. I guess so. I loved the structure of school.

And I loved the positive feedback:Josie is a delight. Josie shows real talent for reading. Josie is going to go far in life.

“Meanwhile, I was the kid with one star that the teacher only gave me because she felt bad.” He softens his words with a smile, but I never thought about how demoralizing that could be. To me, the stars were motivating.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

He shrugs. “My brothers were great at school, so the teachers were shocked when I wasn’t. But after a while, I’ddisappointed everyone so thoroughly that their expectations were on the floor.”

“I guess that’s the thing about expectations,” I say. “High or low, they can screw you up. I was totally focused on academic success, you know? And then when I got to college…”

I trail off. He’s leaning forward, listening intently. When his eyes meet mine, I get that bubbly, effervescent feeling I had on the beach, like I’m tipsy. Like everything I say is fascinating, and the world is warm and kind, and baring my soul to him feels like the most natural thing I could do.

Except I’mnottipsy. So maybe it’s not alcohol and Ryan.

Maybe it’s just Ryan.

Blinking, I refocus. “Anyway—that’s part of why I never finished my degree.”

I say the words casually, though they feel like shards of glass in my mouth. Thankfully, there’s no surprise or—worse—pity in his expression. Instead, he just nods and says, “Do you ever think about going back?”

“No,” I say immediately. “What would be the point? I don’t need it for my job.”

“What was your plan for a career, back when you were in college?”

I shrug. “No idea. I was an English major—”

“Of course.”

“—and I had this vague idea of spending my life reading Big Books and having Important Conversations.”

“Which is what you do now.” He nods. “And you’re great at it—if we had a sticker chart, your row would be filled with gold stars.”

I laugh—then stifle the sound as a patron glances our way.“If we’re going strictly by books sold, you’d have more gold stars.”

“But there’s so many other ways to get gold stars.” He leans forward on his elbows, and I do the same, like we’re co-conspirators. “Gold star for each organized shelf. Gold star for your efficient stock tracking system.”

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