BookshopGirl: Good morning! Guess what? I started The Princess Bride after we finished chatting last night.

RJ.Reads: And…

BookshopGirl: And the one I got is apparently abridged. Do you know where I can get a copy of the original? It’s OK if it’s longer. When we read Les Misérables for English in 11th grade, our teacher assigned us the abridged version, but I read the original even though it’s 1,463 pages.

A laugh bursts out of me, startling Persephone, who just got comfortable on my lap. She gives me an annoyed side-eye before falling back asleep.

RJ.Reads: There isn’t an unabridged version.

BookshopGirl: Yes, there is, the author says right at the beginning that the original was written by S. Morgenstern. Maybe I should try a vintage retailer.

RJ.Reads: Did you google S. Morgenstern?

BookshopGirl loves unique structures, so I figured she’d get a kick out of this one—but maybe I should’ve just come out and told her. The last thing I want is to make her feel stupid for not knowing.

But that’s the genius of the book. The author (William Goldman, a legendary screenwriter) frames the entire novel as the “good parts” of the original history written by the fictional S. Morgenstern.

The longer I wait for a reply, the more nervous I get. She’s probably rolling her eyes and promising herself she’ll never ask me for recs again. Good thing I didn’t suggest one of my favorite books—I wasn’t kidding when I said I couldn’t handle it if she hated it.

I’m about to give up when my phone pings again.

BookshopGirl: WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK.

BookshopGirl: ARE YOU SERIOUS??

My stomach sinks.

BookshopGirl: This author is either a genius or a total nutjob. Either way, I’m hooked.

A huge smile spreads across my face as I lean my head back against the chair, relieved.

RJ.Reads: I’d never steer you wrong.

BookshopGirl: Thank you. Really—it’s just what I needed. It’s been a rough few weeks, which is another reason why last night hit extra hard.

BookshopGirl: Got to go. Chat soon!

“Holy fuckin’ shit!” I hear Eddie say ten minutes later. The whir of his espresso machine has almost blurred into white noise, but Eddie’s voice—especially at its most dramatic—can cut through anything.

I glance up, less than half interested until I see the person he’s talking to.

The warm and fuzzy feelings from my conversation with BookshopGirl evaporate, replaced by the irritation I always feel around Josie. I don’t care what’s going on with her. I shouldn’t. But my curiosity—okay, my nosiness—gets the best of me.