“Perfect timing,” I say, tossing her the roll of Scotch tape. She catches it with one hand, grinning.

“Ooh, blind dates!” She joins Cinderella, and I head back to shelve the shipment that came in this afternoon. I could delegate this task, but I enjoy deciding where the books go. At the moment, I have a whole shelf featuring the “only one bed” trope, and another section featuring love interests named Josh. My system isn’t neat or logical—Josie seemed revolted by it—but our customers love to browse and explore, discovering books they might have otherwise walked by.

I’m debating where to shelve a new M4M young adult title that’s gained popularity thanks to social media, when the front door chimes again.

“Excuse me, is RJ working today?”

The familiar voice stops me in my tracks.

“I’m sorry,” Cinderella says. “We don’t have an RJ here.”

“Oh.” There’s disappointment in her voice. The voice that belongs to a woman I haven’t seen in more than a decade.

I could easily stay back here and let another decade pass, but I know that’s not what Jack would have wanted. I look down at the novel in my hands, wishing my best friend could have lived to see the day when he could walk into a bookstore and buy a book like this. A love story he could imagine himself in.

“Mrs. Palmer,” I say, stepping into view.

“RJ.” Her eyes shimmer, and I know she’s not seeing me. She’s seeing the shadow of her son. RJ and JR—best friends since first grade. Our birthdays were a day apart, and we celebrated every milestone together—until senior year of high school.

After everything happened, the Palmers sold their house and moved away. Somewhere they wouldn’t have to see me getting older while my best friend, their son, stayed forever seventeen.

“I think you can call me Brenda now,” Mrs. Palmer says, walking toward me. “I heard you were still working here.”

“I’m running the place now,” I say, and the pride in her smile makes me stand even taller.

“That’s really something. How are your parents doing?”

It’s the kind of small talk reserved for familiar strangers, even though I used to think of Mrs. Palmer—Brenda—as a second mom.

“They’re great,” I say, happy to report the truth. “They’re throwing a big party for their fiftieth anniversary in a few weeks—I’m sure they’d love to see you.”

“We’ll be back home by then. In Florida.”

So that’s where they went.

“How about you?” Brenda / Mrs. Palmer asks. “Anyone special in your life?”

Cinderella chuckles, and I shoot a glare in her direction. At least Eliza is pretending not to eavesdrop, wrapping a blind date book with excellent precision.