“Well, I have an idea. I need to figure out a few details, but maybe we could chat tomorrow?”

She raises her eyebrows and shrugs, a gesture that feels vulnerable and hopeful. Whatever she wants to talk about, it’s important to her. Which means it’s important to me, too. If I’m going to figure out these complicated feelings I’m having for her, I need to get us out of our usual routine at work, where we’re both so stuck in the roles we’ve been playing all summer. Rival booksellers. Competitors.

And I think I know just the spot.

“Sure,” I say, and she lights up. “What if we get dinner?”

She blinks, the light dimming slightly. I need to tread carefully.

“Just as colleagues,” I say, and she nods. “But you know I’m going to be in suspense all day tomorrow, wondering what you want to talk about—can you give me a hint?”

She gives a nervous smile. “You’re going to have to be patient.”

“I’ll try,” I tell her.

And I mean it, in more ways than one.

21

Josie

Ryan made reservations. At a restaurant. This doesn’t feel like two colleagues meeting over food to discuss an idea. This feels like a date.

He won’t tell me where we’re going, either, just called us an Uber after closing. Now we’re in the back seat of an immaculate Subaru, heading toward Back Bay. Across from me, Ryan looks squished, his long legs drawn up to his chest. No cardigan tonight—he’s wearing a blue button-down, collar unbuttoned, the sleeves rolled up. It’s taking all my effort to not stare at his forearms, thick and veiny with fine brown hair. I’m also trying to breathe through my mouth because his scent is making my head feel fuzzy.

I need to focus on the purpose for this outing: sharing the idea I’ve been contemplating. What if we can figure out a way for both of us to keep our jobs? I think I have a solid plan. I just have to convince Ryan to give it a chance.

I force my attention out the window. This area is all too familiar. My muscles tighten involuntarily.

The driver turns down Boylston and there it is: the Boston Public Library. Imposing granite exterior, arched doors, copper trim along the eaves. As much a museum as a library—filled with murals and sculptures, rare original books and manuscripts—and arguably the most beautiful library in the country.

Instead of driving past, continuing toward any of the dozens of restaurants in the neighborhood, the Uber pulls up out front.

“I don’t go there,” I blurt out.

Ryan brushes his hair off his forehead, his eyes concerned. “How come?”