Another: “The moment I saw her, a part of me walked out of my body and wrapped itself around her. And there it still remains.” The Ministry of Utmost Happiness, by Arundhati Roy. Jerome recommended it to me my first year working for him.

Footsteps echo, and I look up to see Ryan, emerging from the back room, filling the doorway. He’s wearing his tortoiseshell glasses and a gray cardigan, his hair falling across his forehead, Persephone curled up in his arms.

“Ryan,” I breathe. “What is all this?”

“It’s my grand gesture.” His voice holds so much regret and gentleness that my eyes fill with tears.

“Your what?”

“It’s, uh, something people do in romance novels? I’m not sure what characters do in literary fiction when they make a massive mistake.”

“Usually they dig themselves into a deeper hole until their entire world falls apart.”

His lips quirk in a smile. “Well, lucky for us, I don’t read many of those books.”

I let out a shocked laugh, looking around at the highlighted passages. “But—what are these?”

“You don’t recognize them?” He looks concerned.

“I do, but—”

I glance at another open book, the highlighted words: “To love or have loved, that is enough.” I don’t even need to look at the cover; I know that one by heart. Les Misérables, the book I stubbornly read in its unabridged form, all fourteen hundred pages of it.

“Why are these here?”

Ryan sets Persephone down and walks over to me. “I’ve been tackling all the books on your Favorites shelf on BookFriends. Some of them are ridiculously long, so I’ve been listening to them, and I’m not through all of them yet, but…” He shrugs. “I’m trying.”

A lump forms in my throat. All those times I saw him with earbuds in, I assumed he was listening to some steamy romance. “You’re reading my favorite books?”

“Well, yeah. Someone told me it’s the best way to get to know a person.”

He says it like it’s a no-brainer. Because he’s Ryan Lawson, a man who knows how to pay attention.

“I’m not sure if you’ve noticed,” he says, “but a lot of your favorite books have something to do with love. It’s almost like you’ve been a closet romance fan all along.”

I let out a disbelieving laugh. Maybe he’s right. Maybe all stories are love stories at their core. The search for belonging, the ache of grief, our fumbling attempt to find purpose and connection in this big, confusing world.

Ryan takes a few steps toward me, his expression turning serious. “Listen, Josie—you can’t quit. Not for me—”