This whole situation is so fucked up, and I wish I’d told Josie the truth the day I discovered it. Of course, back then she hated me, Ryan, so she would have stopped talking to me, RJ. She wouldn’t have gone to Maine with me, and she never would’ve suggested we work together. I’d be almost exactly where I am now, jerking off to thoughts of my fantasy girl.

Except my fantasy girl, the woman who was riding my face a few hours ago, just said she wants to meet another man. In person.

FML.

—

The next morning, I wake with a sense of dread. I don’t know how I’m going to face Josie—and I still haven’t figured out how to reply to her message on BookFriends.

I should feel relieved. Elated. BookshopGirl is finally ready to meet in person. It’s what I’ve been waiting for. But the timing…she didn’t just turn down my invitation, she turned around and offered it to someone else.

I reach for my phone and reread her message: I would really like to meet you. In person. Followed by: You’ll be at IBNE, right?

She knows RJ is going to be there. But she knows Ryan will be there, too.

Frustrated, I close out of the app right as my phone buzzes with a text from my mom: Almost at the restaurant! See you soon! xoxoxo

I groan. Normally, I love the chance to spend one-on-one time with my mom—but today, I don’t think my tender heart can handle it. And it’s not like she made the drive down to see me; she’s here for a hair appointment, even though there are plenty of high-end salons in Kennebunkport.

I type out a reply:

Was just about to text you. I’m not feeling great. Rain check?

Nonsense, you’ll feel better after a good breakfast.

I shake my head and throw back the covers. After raising four boys, my mother can sniff out a lie, even if it’s over text.

Fifteen minutes later, I walk into Rosebud, a restaurant near the bookstore where you can sit inside the dining car of a train from the 1940s. My mom is at a booth by the window, her hair looking pristine. I shouldn’t be surprised that the woman who cleans before the cleaning lady comes would do her hair before going to the hairdresser.

“Hi, Mom,” I say, giving her a kiss on the cheek before sliding into the booth across from her.

“You don’t look good,” she says.

She reaches across the table to put a hand on my forehead, and I feel a pang for early childhood, the days when my mom had the magical ability to make everything better.

She frowns before taking her hand back, studying me. “Did you and Josie break up?”