He doesn’t seem to hear; he’s running both hands through his hair in agitation, staring at me with the strangest expression. Like he’s seeing me for the first time.

“No fucking way,” he says.

And without another word, he’s gone.

14

Ryan

Josie Klein is BookshopGirl. BookshopGirl is Josie Klein.

My brain is short-circuiting. I can’t believe it—I don’t want to believe it. No way my smart, interesting, funny, kind friend on the internet is the ice queen herself. My nemesis. The woman who, if she wins, will erase everything I care about.

I’m dizzy and disoriented, like I’ve stepped through a portal. The store feels claustrophobic, so I close up and start walking. The sidewalks are nearly empty because of the rain, but I hardly notice it. My mind is reeling.

That couldn’t have been a coincidence, Josie reading The Princess Bride.

Oh god, I hope it’s a coincidence.

Somehow, I’ve ended up in Harvard Square. I duck into the Dunkin’ to dry off and recalibrate. As I scroll through my messages with BookshopGirl, my stomach turns to lead. There are countless clues I should have picked up on. Like how BookshopGirl and Josie both have a habit of saying “technically speaking.” Only when BSG says it, the phrase comes off as charming and cute. Unlike Josie, who uses the words as if she’s looking down on everyone who isn’t as smart as she is.

Then there’s the whole Kenneth Michael Rutherford ordeal. It should have been obvious that BSG posted about the ableist prick the same night he spoke at the Tab. And of course, the story of her sister’s accident—she must be the woman with the cane I’ve seen helping Josie.

And BSG mentioned that her job is tenuous.

Fuck.

I have no doubt it’s true, but I can’t merge the two people in my mind. One is kind where the other is callous; one is funny, the other pretentious; one is my friend, and the other is my sworn enemy.

When we talked last night, BookshopGirl was so vulnerable; that couldn’t have been an act.

Could it?

Desperate to escape my swirling thoughts, I get up and keep walking, hoping I’ll tire out my feet and my mind.

—

The next day, I’m no closer to figuring this out. I’ve been going through my work tasks in a daze, trying to avoid Josie at all costs.

Because the other question I’m wrestling with is: What do I do now that I know?

I hate lying. Plus, I have no poker face. The next time I see Josie, she’ll probably see the truth written all over me.

“For god’s sake, spit it out already!”

I look up to see Nora, deceptively dressed like a sweet grandma, holding a basket of crochet projects in her arm.

“Spit what out?”