I leave them to it and head over to Beans. Josie is standing at the counter, and she greets me with a smile even bigger than the frappe she hands me, the straw unwrapped and ready to go.

It feels like the sun coming out: Josie came in this morning and thought about me. Ryan.

“Sorry about last night,” she says. Her eyes fall away from mine, and I get the sense she’s embarrassed that I saw her in a less than perfect moment.

She’s back to being the woman she lets the world see: cool, calm, and collected. And gorgeous. Not a hair out of place, crisp green blouse, gray pencil skirt—and sky-high heels, of course.

I hated seeing her upset, but I have to admit, I loved getting a glimpse beneath her armor. I want to be there for her in all the moments of her life. Especially the flawed and imperfect ones. The real ones.

“Nothing to apologize for,” I tell her. “Is everything okay now?”

Josie shakes her head as she says, “It will be.”

“Are…is…your—” I shove the straw in my mouth and take a big sip in an attempt to stop myself from asking her about all the things I’m not supposed to know: if Georgia made it to Mexico, if she was able to convince their mom to come home, if Josie slept okay last night, if the conversation with RJ—with me—helped her feel better.

A hot flash of pain hits and I cringe and close my eyes. Brain freeze. Too much, too fast. Why is it that the things I love always cause me so much pain?

When I open my eyes, Josie is looking up at me, a playful grin on her face.

“I’ll be fine,” I say, rubbing my temple. “Thanks for your concern.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, barely concealing a laugh. “It’s just…seeing a big, strong man get taken down by a froufrou drink. You have to admit, it’s funny.”

“Hilarious,” I say, taking a smaller sip. “But back to you…”

Her smile fades, and I know the brief window of her being willing to open up is over. The page has turned; the book has closed.

“I really am okay,” she insists. “But I won’t be if I don’t get the store open—we can’t sell books if we don’t open the doors!”

I give her a salute and turn to start my own opening rituals. Before I disappear around the corner, she calls out, “Hey, Ry?”

Ry. I like the sound of that, a nickname, on her lips.

“Yeah?” I say, turning.

“Thanks for washing the dishes last night—it was a nice surprise.”

“Oh, sure,” I say.

What kind of surprise will it be when she finds out I’m the anonymous stranger she’s been confessing her secrets to online?