Page 92 of Battle of the Bookstores

“Of course not! I love him!”

I hate saying this to her, but it’s necessary. “Mom. Listen to me: if he loved you, he wouldn’t have left.”

There’s a pause. Then a stifled sob. My heart cracks; she deserves better than this.

“That may be true,” she says in a shaky voice. “But I have to find him and ask him myself.”

I sigh. That’s my mom: ninety-five percent desperation, five percent undaunted hope.

“Now what’s this I hear aboutyourman?” she says, her voice oddly upbeat. Forced.

“I don’t—”

“Georgia said you’re seeing the guy who runs the bookstore next to yours?”

“Ryan?” I spit out, shocked. My mother is delusional; no way Georgia said that. “No. We’re not involved.”

“Georgia said you’re spending a lot of time together…and it sounded like you’re falling inlove.”

“We’re not—” I pinch the bridge of my nose, my frustration growing. “He doesn’t matter. This isn’t about—Listen, Mom. When Georgia gets there, please come home. Don’t drag her all over the city looking for this guy, okay? I’ll pay for your flights—”

“I better go, sweetie! I’ll let you know when Georgia arrives.”

And then she’s gone.

“Shit,” I whisper. “Shit, shit—oh my god!”

Ryan’s in my bedroom doorway.

I clutch my heart as my pulse slows. How long was he there? Did he hear me say his name?

But all I see on his face is that same gentle concern.

“Sorry,” he says. “Everything okay?”

My throat is tightening up. “I—I need to figure some things out.”

“Can I help? If nothing else, I can listen.”

Part of me wishes I could pour my heart out to him, but that would mean revisiting the whole messed-up saga, and Ryan hates complicated stories with sad endings. He said sohimself. He prefers the ones that end neatly, tied with a bow, happily ever after, the end.

He wouldn’t want to touch this situation with a ten-foot pole.

Ryan is still waiting, his forehead furrowed. “Josie,” he says gently. “What can I do?”

I sigh—a deep, defeated sigh from the bottom of my exhausted, eldest-daughter soul. “Nothing. I’ll handle it. Thanks for helping me bring everything home.”

“Of course,” he says. “But you’resureI can’t do anything to help?”

“I’m sure.”

He stares at me for a moment, his mouth opening and shutting, then turns and goes.

The door clicks shut behind him, and I immediately regret it. Why did I tell him toleave? The last thing I want is to be alone with my spiraling thoughts. What can I do but wait until my mom or sister contacts me? Nothing.

That’s when I walk back into my kitchen and see that Ryan’s taken all the dishes out of the box, washed them, and set them in the drying rack.

If I wasn’t so upset about my mom, I’d melt. Now all I can do is berate myself:A kind man with huge hands, who’s a good listener and gives wonderful hugs, offered to stay and I told him to leave.

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