And with that, he’s off.

I turn back to Josie, hoping for a moment of shared commiseration, but she’s eyeing me like I’m the enemy.

I should say something to break the tension, but I don’t have a clever bone in my giant, awkward body. Especially around a woman who’s as intimidating as she is striking. The Hating Game comes to mind, and I wonder what Josh Templeman might say to Lucy Hutton in this situation. But I’m no Josh, and I don’t have Sally Thorne drafting my dialogue.

My silence seems to annoy Josie even more. She stands in a huff and hurries back to her store, leaving me with a table full of dirty dishes and a familiar, soul-deep discomfort.

Growing up as the youngest of four boys, everything was a competition. Who could eat the most the fastest, who could hit the hardest, who could pee the farthest from the toilet bowl. Who was the oldest (that one didn’t make any sense).

I came in last for every single one.

Not that I ever really tried to win. I’ve always gotten more pleasure from doing an activity than coming in first. What was there to even win? Bragging rights?

Now, though, the stakes couldn’t be higher.

I glance at the wall dividing my store from the coffee shop, which currently displays artwork for sale by local artists. I try to picture it gone, seeing right through to Happy Endings, looking in on my employees, all blissfully unaware that everything is about to change.

Eddie and the new girl both look busy, so I bus the table and leave the dirty dishes on the counter before leaving.

—

The bell on the front door of Happy Endings chimes as I enter, and a wave of nostalgia hits me. Elaine, the store’s original owner and my first and only boss, created this little corner of the world to be a haven for the tenderhearted: those who love love but don’t always feel deserving of it. She’d be proud of how we’ve grown, carrying the books to back up our motto—Everyone deserves a love story.

If Happy Endings closes…No other bookstore in Boston carries such a diverse selection of romance. Our customers won’t have anywhere to browse without judgment, to sit and read in cozy nooks, to connect with themselves and each other.

There’s so much at stake, and not just for me.

“Boss!” my assistant manager shouts, even though I’m steps away from her.

“Cindy!” I say back in mock excitement. Her eyebrows furrow, and I realize my mistake. “Cinderella!”