“Good.” She takes the books from my hands, and our fingers tangle briefly before she pulls away. “Because hating your landlord is exhausting, and I have enough stress without adding that to the list. Plus, you’re friends with Grayson, who is with Michelle, and if I hate you, book club gets awkward.”
“Book club?”
“Bookaholics Anonymous. We meet monthly with wine and strong opinions. If you and I are enemies, I’ll have to make pointed comments every time your name comes up, and frankly, that sounds exhausting.”
“I appreciate your willingness to tolerate me for the sake of book club.”
“Don’t get too excited. Tolerating is not the same as liking.”
“I’ll take what I can get.”
For what it’s worth,” I say, “I hope you find a way to keep the shop. I mean that.”
“I know.” She looks up at me, and there’s something searching in her gaze. Like she’s trying to figure out which version of me is real. “That’s the confusing part. I think you actually do.”
I do. More than she knows. More than I know how to explain without revealing everything.
The bell chimes and another customer enters. The moment breaks.
“I should let you work,” I say, backing toward the door with the lease documents clutched like a shield. Also, I should probably find a first aid kit for my shoulder.
“Probably.”
“Jessica—”
“I know. Sixty days. I’ll figure something out.” She’s already turning toward the new customer, slipping into her welcoming smile. “And Scott? Maybe next time knock before seven-forty-five. Like a normal person. Who understands social conventions.”
“I’ll add it to my list.”
“You have a list?”
“I have many lists. I’m a very organized disaster.”
She laughs again—quieter this time, just for me—and I’m dismissed.
I make it to my car before I allow myself to feel the full weight of what just happened.
She doesn’t hate me. She thinks I’m lonely and wants to understand me.
And I’m lying to her about absolutely everything that matters.
I sit in my car in the parking lot, watching the bookstore through the windshield, and pull out my phone. Open the burner app I use for V. Langley correspondence.
There’s a new message from Rodney, my agent.
Scott. We need to talk about the manuscript. It’s incredible. Raw. Honest. Everything the last three books weren’t. But it’s also clearly based on someone real. Are you ready for that level of vulnerability?
I respond.
No, I’m not ready for vulnerability. But I’m going to try anyway.
That’s either brave or stupid.
Probably both.
I close the message and start my car, glancing one more time at The Fiction Nook. Through the window, Jessica’s helping the new customer, animated and warm, completely in her element.
I have no idea how to tell her the truth without revealing everything I've been hiding.
