“Random question,” he says. “What does Tabula Inscripta mean? Or is it just Latin words designed to make everyone else feel dumb?”

I laugh as he grins over at me, eyes twinkling, and I’m struck by how things have changed between us since that first meeting with Xander, when he made similar comments with a completely different tone.

“No, it’s a reference to another Latin phrase, tabula rasa, which means ‘blank slate,’ ” I say. “The original owner—Jerome—told me that it’s a theory that we’re born without any built-in knowledge, and all our experiences shape who we become.”

“So I’m guessing inscripta means something like ‘inscribed’?” he says.

I nod. “Jerome wanted to capture how every book leaves its mark on us, constantly adding new ideas, stories, and insights. A mind continually in progress, he said, with infinitely more to be added.”

“I like that. And now that I know it”—he flashes me a smirk—“I can feel intellectually superior to everyone who doesn’t.”

I laugh again and take a bite of my ice cream. “Tell me about the original owner of your store. Elaine, right?”

His face lights up. “Oh, she was great. She opened the store back when most bookshops kept romances to one shelf in the back, like they were a dirty little secret—even though they’d been keeping the publishing industry afloat for decades.”

I nod, remembering the first bookstore I ever worked in, in Newburyport. Like Ryan’s saying, the romances were shelved in the far corner.

“Back then,” Ryan goes on, “Elaine mostly stocked ‘mainstream’ romance, heteronormative relationships written by white authors. It’s not that she wasn’t supportive of diversity, but that’s what was available then.”

“What changed?” I asked. “Because it’s definitely more diverse now. Your store and your clientele.”

“Um. It’s kind of a long story.”

“Brigitte and Sam have the store for two more hours, so we have time.” I nudge him. “Go on.”

“Well, the industry changed, for one thing. But for me, it’s more personal.” He hesitates, then goes on, telling me about his best friend growing up, JR, who was gay. “His parents were really religious, and he grew up feeling like a fundamental part of himself was unacceptable. Unwanted.”

“So he inspired you to stock more diverse reads?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

“He must be proud,” I say.

Ryan hesitates, looking at the ground. “I hope he would be. He died when we were seniors in high school.” He pauses. “An overdose on prescription medication—his parents said it was an accident, but…”

My heart sinks. “But you think it was intentional?”

He blows out a long breath. “I don’t know. I don’t think he could imagine a positive future for himself. Maybe it’s trite, but if he could have seen one example of a happy, healthy gay relationship, even a fictional one—maybe he’d still be here.”