Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE

JOSIE

Growing up, countless well-meaning adults urged me to get my “nose out of that book” and go outside to “experience real life.” But from what I’ve seen, reality is vastly overrated.

My earliest memory is of reading Where the Wild Things Are to my sister, trying to drown out my mom’s shouting match with her latest boyfriend—I couldn’t even sound out all the words, but I needed to take us somewhere, anywhere, that was magical instead of messy. By second grade, when playground dynamics started to feel way too complicated, I’d spend recess lost in the pages of a chapter book. For my eleventh birthday, I invited my entire class to a Readathon party—I even reserved a room at the local library—but no one showed up. I stayed anyway, grateful for the librarians who always welcomed me. When I got to high school, I longed to go to the football games and parties everyone talked about, but I was usually home babysitting my sister. Mom wasn’t exactly reliable, so someone had to be—but hey, at least I had books to keep me company.

For better or worse, my library has always grown faster than my social circle.

Managing a bookstore has forced me out of my shell, helping me grow from a shy bookworm into someone who can confidently navigate conversations and recommendations—at least, in the safety of these shelves. Out in the world, I may be quiet and reserved, but here, I’ve found my voice.

Except now, Xander Laing has put all that at risk.

But it’s not just my future, my livelihood—it’s the customers I’ve served for five years. Like Beatrice Glaybold, who moved down to Florida but trusts me to send her any book I think will strike her fancy, or Michael Liu, who writes a literary column for the Boston Herald and bases his reading on my recommendations. Or James Kendall, who lost his wife last year and comes in weekly to buy a new book and chat.

If I lose this job, I lose them, too—and we all lose the store, this quiet refuge of words and stories.

When the bell on the front door chimes, I’m sitting in the back room of the shop, surrounded by boxes I haven’t opened. All I can do is stare into the middle distance while panic churns in my stomach.

A voice calls, “It’s me!” and a huge sigh of relief rushes out of my lungs. It’s my little sister (for her, I’d throw every book I own in front of a moving train—plus myself, for good measure).

“I’m in the back!” I call.

The front door closes, followed by the familiar step-step-tap as she makes her way across the polished wood floor.

“I brought rugelach,” Georgia says. She sets her cane against the desk, puts down a white to-go bag from Mamaleh’s in Cambridge, and finally her backpack. She’s heading to class at Tufts after this, and I feel a pinch of envy.

“Thank you, dear sister,” I say, grabbing one of the pastries.

Georgia takes a bite, too, and we chew in silence. It tastes like buttery chocolate comfort. Our neighbor, Mrs. Goldstein, would bring rugelach over when our mom was having one of her “hard times”—though I doubt she had any idea how scary things could get. Georgia and I have kept up the tradition, buying it whenever one of us has a bad day.

My sister is a more relaxed, optimistic version of me, with the dark hair and green eyes we got from our dad (before he skipped out of our lives when I was five and Georgia was a baby)—but my sister’s hair is loose and wild, curling from the early summer humidity. We both have the soft curves we inherited from our mom, but I’m in a tailored pencil skirt, while she’s wearing a floral dress that flutters to the floor, partially obscuring the brace on her right leg. She’s fearless and unguarded and fun—my opposite.

“So . . .” she says. “Didn’t sleep much?”

I grimace; she’s also too perceptive. Ever since she started graduate school in psychology, she’s adopted a new tone that sneaks out when we’re talking. Concerned; professional. Like she’s trying to burrow into my brain and analyze me.

“I’m stressed,” I say. “But I’ve been brainstorming ways to win this competition.”

Georgia picks up my notebook and reads: “Number one: Cut expenses. Number two: Sell more books.” She raises an eyebrow. “I hate to break it to you, Jojo, but those aren’t exactly actionable strategies.”

“I know,” I say, sighing.

“How are you going to cut expenses? You already run this place pretty lean.”

She’s right. Since my part-timers left, I’ve been doing it all: buying, receiving, and stocking; paying the utilities; managing the website. I even clean the toilet in the back room. Georgia helps out, but she won’t let me pay her. She says she “owes me for saving her life,” which isn’t technically true, though I appreciate the thought. What she doesn’t know is that I set aside what I would have paid her in an account she can use if and when she needs it.

“And how are you going to increase your sales during the summer?” she continues. “That’s not a big season for literary fiction.”

Again, she’s right. This time of year, people want beach reads: light, engaging, easily digestible. I get it—sometimes people just want to unwind. What’s-his-name at Happy Endings probably sells a boatload of books in the summer.

(Brian, I remind myself. Brian, who wears cardigans and weird pins and hates my bookstore. Brian, the man who has been given the power by another man to ruin my life.)

“Why couldn’t this happen in the fall?” I say. My highest season for sales—aside from the holidays—is September through November, when publishers release their most anticipated titles.

“I’d be unbeatable.”

“Maybe you should lean into that,” Georgia says. “Target people who prefer reading books that require you to have a dictionary on hand?”

She’s teasing me, but it’s not a bad idea. “Maybe I could host a literary salon where people can discuss books they’re reading?”

A banging sound distracts us: someone knocking on the glass door of the store. When I step out of the back room, a man is peering in the window. He waves, so I head to the door and open it a crack, trying not to let the AC escape (Strategy 1: Cut Expenses).

“Hi there, we’re not open yet?—”

“I need to return a book.” He’s the picture of impatience—crisp suit, shiny shoes, probably on his way to a Very Important Meeting—and I decide it’s easier to do the return than tell him to come back later. He’s not a regular customer, but if he has a good experience, maybe he’ll become one (Strategy 2: Sell More Books).

I give him my most welcoming smile. “Of course. Come on in.”

He follows me to the register and plunks the book down. It’s the latest Oprah’s Book Club choice; I’ve sold dozens of copies .

“I’ll just need your receipt,” I say.

He frowns. “It was a gift.”

“I’m sorry, but we only accept returns or exchanges with receipts.” I point toward the printed sign next to my register.

“You have copies of the same book right there.” He nods at the display. “Can’t you refund me your current selling price?”

I smile and stick to my guns, repeating the policy.

He exhales in frustration. “Where’s your manager?”

“I’m the manager, actually.”

Cue the usual response: eyeing me suspiciously as the wheels turn in his mind. This small, young woman cannot have any sort of actual influence or authority. I am in fact thirty years old and of average height, but I was cursed with a baby face that makes me look at least five years younger—which is why I dress professionally and always wear my hair up.

“I mean the head manager,” he says. “Is he here?”

My smile freezes. “You’re looking at her.”

He huffs. “This is ridiculous. The book was—” He flips open the cover and points. “Twenty-nine ninety-nine! Plus tax! That’s an absurd amount of money for a book.”

My jaw tightens. The foil accents on the dust jacket, the deckled edges on the paper... it’s a freaking work of art! This man clearly has no appreciation for the craftsmanship that goes into creating a beautiful hardcover.

“Sir, I don’t set the prices, but?—”

“I want a refund. Now. I don’t have time to argue with a checkout girl. Understand?”

The words are a swift kick to my chest. I’m proud of what I do; my job is so much more than running a register.

“Oh, I understand,” I say, my smile disappearing. “But if I give you twenty-nine ninety-nine—plus tax!—for a book that may not have been purchased here?—”

“It was?—”

“Even if I do sell it at some point, I won’t make any profit. Furthermore...” I take off the dust jacket and inspect the book; the spine is visibly cracked. “This book has been read.”

“That’s not?—”

“So technically speaking, it’s not in sellable condition.” My hands shake as I hand it back to him, but I keep my voice calm and cool. “If I give you twenty-nine ninety-nine plus tax for this unsellable book, I will lose that money. And if I do that for other customers, I will not be able to afford to keep the lights on and replace the paper rolls in my register and pay my own meager wages, and eventually this store will close, and you, sir, will have contributed to the demise of one of Boston’s most beloved literary establishments, a store that has stood in this spot and served this community for over sixty years.”

He’s flustered, pink in the face, and for a moment I think he’s going to start yelling...

But then he wheels around and stomps away. Before leaving, he turns back and shouts, “I will never set foot in this store again!”

“We’ll miss you terribly,” I say.

“Bitch,” he mutters.

My stomach bottoms out, but he’s already gone.

Behind me, my sister slow-claps. “That dude just got Josie’d,” she says, grinning. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen that.”

She must not have heard the last thing he said. I sigh, trying to shake off the nastiness of that final insult. I hate that I’m now questioning myself, wondering if I was rude. It’s a constant tightrope act, running a business as a woman, wanting to be respected for my abilities but knowing that no one will take me seriously unless I’m nice.

“He was just . . .”

“Oh, he deserved it,” she says. “But if you have the emotional energy, it may be useful to explore why you react like that when people disparage your career.”

“Because it’s incredibly rude!” Though of course, it’s much more than that. It’s the fear that maybe they’re right, that I’ll never amount to anything of importance and I don’t deserve this job anyway.

“Yes,” Georgia says, “and maybe it’s a wound you haven’t fully healed yet?”

I purse my lips and remind myself that I am absolutely, positively thrilled that my sister is studying what she loves.

“You know what? I think it’s time for coffee,” I say, and head out into the early morning sunshine.

Beans is bustling. Eddie’s new hire, Mabel, takes my order (an Americano for me, a dirty iced chai for Georgia), smiling nervously as she promises to get it right this time.

“Is she scared of me?” I ask Eddie, who’s wiping down a table.

“No, she’s scared of me. I gave her a lecture about not assuming someone’s gender based on their coffee order.” He gives me a concerned look. “You okay?”

I slump into a chair, the word bitch crawling around my mind like an ugly spider. “I had a terrible customer.”

“Already? You’re not even open!”

“I know!” I tell him the story, and he looks appalled. “It just felt so... belittling. Xander does the same thing.”

Eddie gives my shoulder a sympathetic squeeze. “Try not to let the bastards get to ya.”

Something occurs to me. “Wait—how does Xander’s plan affect Beans?”

He shrugs. “My guess is I’ll be working under the head manager.”

I hear the disappointment in his voice. Eddie enjoys being in charge as much as I do.

“If I win, I’ll make sure you get to keep running it the way you want.”

He hesitates a beat too long before saying, “Thanks, darling.”

Hang on. Does he not think I’m going to win?

“Eddie,” I say, leaning forward, “what do you?— ”

“Oh, would you look at that line—I better help Mabel before she dissolves into tears.”

He rushes back to the register, and I sit back, stung. Eddie’s my friend—and he underestimates me, too? Maybe he knows something I don’t. He’s like the Mayor of Davis Square, keeping tabs on everything. He sees how many people go into Brian’s store compared to mine and how many walk out with purchases. Meanwhile, I don’t know much about Happy Endings. All I know is that the clientele is mostly women (judging by the customers I’ve seen holding pink and gold bags), and I think the employees are, too.

“Josie?”

I stand and run smack into a solid chest. A hand grips my arm to steady me. I look up; it’s Brian.

He’s shockingly tall this close—even with my four-inch heels, he towers over me. I have to tilt my chin way up, giving me a view of his jaw, covered in light brown flecks of stubble. The heat of his hand gripping my arm radiates through the sleeve of my blouse.

“Excuse me,” I say, taking a step back.

He releases me and clears his throat. “Sorry. I was... uh, hoping we could chat?”

Today, Brian’s wearing a gray cardigan, along with his pin-studded lanyard and tortoiseshell glasses. His hair’s still a mess, though if he was a hero in a romance novel it would probably be described as flowing chestnut locks that partially obscure the piercing gaze of his mahogany eyes.

I’m not sure what he wants, but I’m not having this conversation while he’s looking down on me.

“Sure,” I say. “Let’s sit.”

He seems surprised, but nods, and we both pull out chairs. My eyes catch on another pin on his lanyard: when i think about books, i touch my shelf.

It takes me a moment to get it. When I do, the song by the Divinyls starts playing in my head, sparking a memory: my mom, dancing around the kitchen, deep in the throes of another love affair with another man she swore was the One. Little Georgia, dancing along, hope sparkling in her eyes. Forgetting that in a few weeks, this boyfriend would dump our mom and she’d be back in bed, crying with the curtains drawn, forgetting that her two young daughters needed meals, clean laundry, and help with homework.

Shaking that away, I refocus on Brian. He’s staring at me, his eyes drifting across my face like I’m a book he’s reading.

A boring, bitter book.

“You wanted to talk?” I say.

He blinks. “Oh, yeah. About this whole Xander thing. I mean, there’s no reason for us to be enemies.”

“Agree,” I say, though I’m wary. I’d love to feel like we’re on the same side, united by mutual loathing of our evil boss. Unfortunately, it seems that Xander and Brian are bros, united in their mutual scorn of me.

What’d you call her store, Lawson? A bleak wasteland of existential dread?

“Great, that’s great,” Brian is saying. “Because, um, after Xander combines the stores, it’s going to be a lot to manage and—and it’s going to require a lot of work.”

“Yes,” I say, unsure what he’s getting at. Does he think I’m not capable of it?

“I’ve been trying to think of what I could do...” He brushes his hair out of his eyes, hesitating.

“So you aren’t out of a job when?—”

“What do you mean, when?” My voice squeaks on the last word.

“I mean, if,” he corrects quickly.

“You said when.” I swallow the surge of dread. Did Xander say something to him? Maybe this whole competition is a farce and Brian’s already got it in the bag? “Word choice matters. ”

“It was a slip of the tongue.”

“A Freudian slip, maybe.”

He blinks at me from behind his glasses. “Well, I apologize.”

He doesn’t sound apologetic. He sounds irritated, which isn’t fair—he’s the one who implied I was going to lose.

Exhaling, I glance at my phone. Almost time to open. “Thanks for the chat, Brian, but I?—”

“Stop calling me that.”

I rear back, shocked. “Excuse me?”

He mumbles something I don’t catch.

“Hmm?” I say.

“Ryan,” he says more clearly. “My name? It’s...”

He turns the lanyard around: ryan lawson. manager, happy endings.

My cheeks heat with embarrassment. I’ve been calling him the wrong name for days.

But before I can apologize, he stands. He’s looming over me, a mountain of a man, and I scramble to my feet and try to muster a confidence I do not feel. “Is there anything else?”

“Yes, if you’d let me finish.” He huffs out a frustrated sigh. “All I’m trying to say is that if I win...” He bites his lip, then blurts, “You could be my assistant.”

Indignation sparks through me. “Your assistant?”

“I mean, I could hire you as an assistant manager so you wouldn’t be out of a job.” The expression on his face is all, See what a nice guy I am?

“Wow, that’s great,” I say.

“Yeah?” His eyebrows lift.

“I mean, you’re the man, you should be the boss.”

“Uh . . .”

“And all us little women should work for you, right?” I’m gathering steam, letting the frustration I didn’t unleash on that awful customer surge out of me. “I bet that’s why you love managing a bookstore. Hordes of women asking you to tell them what to read? And hey, if those books happen to reinforce the message that women aren’t complete without a man, that’s a bonus! Patriarchy at its finest.”

“I . . .”

I step closer, poking a finger at his chest, saying what I wish I could say to every single person who has ever underestimated me.

“I’ll never be your assistant, Mr. Happy Endings. And you’d better polish up your resume, because I’m going to win this battle. And the first thing I’ll do? Fire you.”

With that, I turn and walk off.

I wish saying all that made me feel better. Instead, I’m left feeling like no matter what I do, if I stay silent or stay in control or let everything out, I’ll always end up in the wrong.

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