Compounding my confusion is the fact that he did another nice thing: bringing a customer over and hand-selling one of my books. The man ended up buying four other titles, too—a huge sale. It’s such a switch from our prior interactions that I can’t help wondering why.

Xander’s voice echoes in my mind: Unfortunately, you’re slightly behind Ryan.

Ryan must know that, too. Does he feel bad for me now? Does he want to prove that he’s a “good guy” as he crushes me?

Unless he actually is a good guy?

That thought sends an uncomfortable twinge through my chest. Regardless of his motivations, I owe him, big-time.

I glance again at my laptop to see if RJ has replied. He hasn’t. I tell myself he’s just busy.

But as the hours pass, he still doesn’t respond, and I feel a growing sense of unease.

After closing the store, I know I ought to head home, but if I do, I’ll just ruminate on all my uncomfortable thoughts: the lack of response from RJ, the weird obligation I now feel toward Ryan.

Eddie brought me leftover pastries before he left, so I grab one and head over to Happy Endings. Maybe if I give it to Ryan, that’ll assuage some of my discomfort.

There’s a book club tonight—a group, mostly women, seated in a circle, talking and laughing—but I immediately spot Ryan in the back corner.

He’s sprawled in a purple-and-yellow floral armchair, his broad shoulders and long legs making the chair look comically small. The white cat is in his lap, and the black one is snoozing on top of the chairback. As usual, he’s wearing a cardigan (navy blue) and glasses (tortoiseshell), and the effect is very Hot Mr. Rogers meets Adorable Cat Dad. He also looks tired. The specific, bone-deep fatigue from a long day working in retail, your feet aching from standing, your face tight from smiling.

I can almost see the invisible weight he carries as manager, a weight I know too well, and again I feel a strange tug of solidarity.

I walk toward him. He glances up and sees me, then stiffens.

“I made sure your store would be closed,” he says quickly.

It takes me a moment to understand. He thinks I’m here to complain about the noise.

“No, that’s not—” I hold out the pastry. “I brought you something.”

He looks confused, peering over the top of his glasses at me. “Why?”

“It’s not poisoned, if that’s what you’re wondering,” I say.

He sighs. “Sorry, I’m feeling a little…Never mind.” He takes the pastry but doesn’t eat it. “Do you, I don’t know—want to stay for a bit?”