Page 90 of Battle of the Bookstores

A rhythmic thumping echoes from the store, followed by the unmistakable sound of trade paperbacks falling to the floor.

“What. Are they doing. To mybooks?” Ryan whispers, aghast.

We hear male grunting, joined by a higher-pitched moan. It reminds me of my last conversation with RJ about noisy sex, and my admission that I’ve never made more than a loud sigh.I’m starting to worry that you’ve had extremely mediocre sex.

Brigitte cries out, a piercing scream that goes on and on andon.

“Gold star, Sam,” I murmur.

Ryan squeezes his eyes shut, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter, and then I’m doing the same, both of us stifling giggles and struggling to breathe. I make a mental note to delete the security camera footage ASAP.

Finally, Sam and Brigitte head out the door, and Ryan and I go survey the scene. One bookshelf has been shoved a good two feet from its original location, and most of its books are on the floor. I also discover a suspicious damp spot on the chair our two lovebirds were sharing. I’m about to mention it to Ryan, then decide he’s had enough sexually traumatizing experiences in his beloved bookshop and flip the cushion over.

Together, we clean up the remains of dinner, and I stack the dirty dishes in a box to bring to my place.

Ryan takes it out of my hands. “I’ll walk you home.”

It feels so natural to head back out into the warm summer night, to smile up at him and see him smiling down at me. Like this is something we do all the time, walking home from work together. When we get to my building, it feels just as natural to fish out my key and unlock the door, to have him follow me up the stairs.

When he steps inside my apartment, though, it no longer feels so natural, maybe because he’s taking up half the space in my kitchen, sucking the oxygen out of the room. My bedroom is twenty steps away, and my knees feel wobbly, my brain playing a slideshow of possibilities:Ryan. Bed. Naked.

“Your place is cozy,” he says, setting the box of dishes on my counter.

I turn and see it through his eyes: my small kitchen with two stools pulled up to the counter; sofa and armchair in the living room; two big bookshelves against one wall.

“Were you expecting some kind of ice castle?”

He chuckles. “Maybe.”

I’m not sure what to do now. After the night we’ve had—deep conversation, holding hands, dancing, listening to vigorous sex? I ought to be shoving him out the door.

“Want some tea?” I say instead.

“Sure.”

I’m turning to grab the mugs when something vibrates on my counter.

“My phone!” I gasp. I must have left it here when I came home this afternoon to get the dishes for the dinner. It’s a clear sign of how distracted I’ve been that I hadn’t even realized.

MOM is flashing across the screen. I send her to voicemail—and notice that my screen is filled with messages from Georgia. Her most recent text:

We’re about to take off. I’ll call you when I land. Hope you’re OK??

My sister is on a plane? What’s going on? I immediately call her. No answer.

Confused, I scroll back to the first message she sent—nearly six hours ago.

I just heard from Mom. Darrell left and she’s alone in Puerto Vallarta. Give me a call as soon as you can.

Twenty minutes after that:I talked to Mom again. Call me?

Then a series of texts:

Maybe your phone is dead. I’ll try the store.

No answer there either. Where are you?

Jojo, please call me. Mom’s upset and I don’t know what to do.

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