I shrug. “It turns out she’s someone I know in real life. A person I don’t like. Someone who’s completely different from the woman I thought I knew.”

“Ah,” Nora says. “And you’re not sure which version is real.”

“That about sums it up,” I say, slumping back onto the couch.

“The internet is a tricky place,” Nora says after a moment. “It’s easy to pretend you’re someone you’re not. All those catfishers. And the trolls, saying things they’d never have the balls to say to your face. But for most people, I think the truth is somewhere in the middle.”

“Between a catfish and a troll?”

Nora nods solemnly. “People want to be seen as the best version of themselves. So maybe they pretend they’re nicer or taller or richer—but it’s still them, deep down. I’d say that’s true for your book friend, too. I mean, what reason does she have to lie?”

One of our conversations comes back to me, when BSG said she’s worked so hard to make something of herself, to turn her life around. Maybe Josie’s icy exterior is just armor, protecting the part of her that still believes she’s a failure. Hiding the warm, generous, tender soul I’ve come to know online.

“Give her a chance,” Nora says, squeezing my shoulder. “If you don’t, you’ll never know what you could be missing.”

She’s got a point, although I can’t imagine a world where Josie Klein and I are friends, let alone anything more.

“Now,” she says, pulling her basket back on her lap. “I found some patterns for vulvas…”

—

Later that afternoon, the store is bustling with the after-school book club. Eliza’s running a thoughtful discussion on Alyssa Cole’s latest. I thought it might be too racy for the under-eighteen crowd, but Eliza insisted that it showcases healthy sexuality, and I agree that’s important. She also called me a hypocrite and a prude.

I’m up front, handling the register, when the front bell chimes. The man responsible for the sound freezes, like he’s been busted for being somewhere he isn’t supposed to be. Judging by his neatly trimmed hair, pleated khakis, and button-down shirt, he’s one of two things: a romance-curious man who wrongly thinks his interest says something about his masculinity, or a man on a mission to buy a gift.

“Welcome to Happy Endings,” I say, smiling. “Can I help you?”

“I hope so.” He sounds forlorn. “I’m looking for a birthday gift.”

“Great—what kind of books do they like?”

The man blanches. “She. And we’ve only been dating a few weeks.”

“We have gift cards…” Although it could have a short redemption window if I don’t figure out a way to get our profits even higher.

“She thinks they’re lazy gifts,” the man says.