For three wonderful years, Kate and I had a storybook romance. Until she dumped me for her chemistry class TA. I was blindsided: I’d already started saving for a ring. When I asked her why, what this guy had that I didn’t, she shrugged and said, “When you know, you know.”

Based on her Instagram, she did know. They’ve been married for seven years and have two adorable kids. Meanwhile, I have two bookstore cats—one of which doesn’t even like me—and a job I might be on the verge of losing.

But the most devastating part wasn’t losing Kate, it was losing trust in my own intuition. If I was wrong about something that felt so right, how could I ever trust that feeling again?

Which is why, over time, I’ve realized that my purpose isn’t to have my own love story, but to help other people find theirs.

“She said yes!” Eva calls out, and the room erupts in cheers as everyone jumps out to congratulate them. Cinderella pops a bottle of champagne, and I help the newly engaged couple back onto their feet. Kevin launches into a rousing rendition of Bruno Mars’s song “Marry You.”

It’s a moment of pure, unbridled joy—until it’s interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat. I turn to find Josie, her cheeks red, fallen tendrils of hair framing her face.

“Can I speak to you for a moment?” Her voice is flat, but her eyes are blazing. She’s pissed, and I’m not in the mood to get lectured.

“If you have something to say, you can say it right here.”

Josie surveys the scene, then huffs out an impatient breath. “I have twenty people over there trying to meditate.” Her voice wavers, and I realize her eyes aren’t shimmering from anger, but because she’s on the verge of tears. “I planned this event for when you were closed so this wouldn’t happen!”

Suddenly, I feel like the basic asshole she accused me of being. I knew her event was starting at seven; I could have asked Eva to plan the proposal for six instead.

“Josie, I’m—”

“I know you hate me,” she cuts in. “I know you hate my books and my store. But I thought a fellow bookseller would have some respect for my customers. They’re booklovers, just like the ones who come here.”

She’s right, and I feel a twinge of guilt. “Listen, I—”

“Not to mention the author leading the event has terrible social anxiety; he’s in the back room hyperventilating into a paper bag.” Josie breaks off, breathing heavily herself. It’s obvious how much she cares about her customers and the anxious author, just like I would.

I am definitely the asshole here.