ONE
JESSICA
Every morning, I unlock The Fiction Nook and pretend my life is as romantic as the shop smells—vanilla candles, well-loved paperbacks, and the mustiness that comes from books whose spines crack open like they’re genuinely happy to see you.
Before the shop opens, it’s just me, the books, and the comforting illusion that I have any control over my existence whatsoever.
No customers asking for recommendations I could provide in my sleep. No well-meaning friends checking to see if I’m “doing okay” after eight years of divorce, as if grief has a clearly posted expiration date like milk. No reminders that my tiny independent bookstore is bleeding money like a Victorian heroine with consumption and a dramatic backstory.
Just me, the books, and Austen.
“Morning, traitor,” I say to the gray tabby sprawled across the checkout counter like a furry paperweight with strong opinions about my life choices.
Austen cracks one judgmental yellow eye and dismisses me with contempt.
“My caffeine delivery is late. Some of us can’t function without a little assistance.”
His tail twitches. It’s sympathy, right? Not the feline equivalent of “that sounds like a you problem.” Of course not.
I move through my morning routine. Lights on—the vintage Edison bulbs my best friend, Michelle, helped install last year, because apparently even struggling bookstores need ambiance to properly convey their financial desperation. I count the register and adjust the front window display because the summer reading tower keeps tilting left like it’s trying to escape.
The V. Langley section occupies prime real estate in the front corner, exactly where browsers will see it immediately upon entering. But only books one through nine. The most recent three releases? Conspicuously absent, banished to the back corner with the remaindered diet books and that biography of a C-list celebrity nobody remembers.
I pull out a blank recommendation card and my favorite fountain pen—the one that makes me feel literary and important instead of divorced and struggling financially.
V. Langley’s early work is required reading for contemporary romance lovers,I write in my neatest script.The Lighthouse Keeper’s Daughter and Second Chance Summer showcase emotional honesty that will ruin you in the best way. His recent releases, however, have lost what made him special. Read the first nine. Skip the rest unless you enjoy watching a gifted author forget what hearts actually do.
I prop the card against book three and step back to admire my handiwork.
“Too harsh?” I ask Austen.
The cat stretches, yawns wide enough to display all his teeth, and begins grooming his tail with aggressive disinterest.
“You’re right. He’ll never see it anyway. Also, I should probably examine why I’m seeking emotional validation from a cat.”
Austen does not dignify this with a response.
V. Langley is my favorite contemporary romance author and has been for eight years, ever since his debut novel made me cry in public—full ugly crying with mascara rivers while tourists pretended not to stare.
His heroes are grumpy men who learn to be soft, and the heroines are women who claim their own power. His prose made love feel like poetry and coming home to yourself.
Made.Past tense. Because somewhere around book ten, something broke.
He started writing like someone who’d forgotten what makes hearts actually beat. Like someone hiding behind walls so thick he couldn’t even see his own story anymore.
Six months ago, I posted my first critical review of his work as “J.A. Reads Romance”—my anonymous reviewer identity across multiple platforms. I agonized over those words for a week, knowing his team would read it, knowing it might sting.
Two stars.This book reads like the author stopped believing in his own story. The hero’s walls feel performative rather than authentic. Where is the emotional honesty that made his earlier work transcendent? I’m heartbroken to watch a gifted author lose his way.
Three days later, I was removed from his ARC team without explanation. No email. No apology. Just gone, like I’d never mattered at all.
I cried about it in Michelle’s coffee shop. Embarrassingly. Drank wine while rereadingThe Lighthouse Keeper’s Daughterand mourning an author I’d never met but whose words understood me better than my own ex-husband ever had.
And now I sell his books with a warning label like I’m the protagonist in some kind of sad literary revenge fantasy.
“Very mature of me,” I mutter, adjusting the card one final time.
The summer reading tower chooses this moment to finally commit to its leftward lean, toppling spectacularly and sending eighteen paperbacks cascading across the floor in a domino effect that also takes out my carefully curated “Beach Reads!” display.
