“I—what?” He looks bewildered. “Why?”

I bite my lip, then let it out: “I hate being in anyone’s debt, especially yours.”

“Because I’m your nemesis.” He says the words flatly, almost distastefully.

“Exactly,” I say, latching on to that because I desperately need to keep him in that category despite the thoughts I’ve been having lately. “It’s eating me alive. I can’t handle it.”

His expression darkens. “Well, then…as your nemesis, I ought to let you stay in your discomfort for a while longer, don’t you think?” He ties a knot in the trash bag and tosses it into the back room. “So, uh, what did you think about your first romance book club?”

This is the first time we’ve had an actual conversation, rather than an argument. I lean against the counter and say slowly, “It was…unexpected.”

“You thought it would be a bunch of girlies squealing about their new book boyfriend?”

I stiffen at his tone: teasing, but with a hint of defensiveness—and maybe some judgement, too. “You know, you make a lot of assumptions about me.”

He blinks. “What do you mean?”

“Just because I don’t read romance doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a good discussion.” There’s a messy basket of crocheted objects next to the register, and I start organizing it so I have something to focus on. I can’t tell what they are—brown and pink, I don’t know…vegetables? Flowers?

When Ryan sees what I’m doing, his eyes widen and he rushes over, whisking the basket out of my reach. Bewildered, I put my hands on my hips. “Why can’t I do anything to help?”

He hands me a jumbled pile of bookmarks. “You want to organize something? Organize these.”

My fingers brush his as I take them, and goose bumps prickle down my arm. I take a quick step away and focus on the bookmarks, sorting them by type. I Don’t Watch Porn, I Read It Like a F*cking Lady, one reads.

“So what is your deal with romance novels, then?” he asks.

“My deal?”

“Why won’t you read them?”

“It’s not that I won’t, it’s…”

My mind conjures an image of my mother, curled in bed with a book, lost in a world that wasn’t ours. I don’t blame the books, of course—it’s not their fault my mom couldn’t cope with reality—so what is it? Maybe I resent them, for capturing her attention when her daughters needed her. When I needed her.

But there’s no way I’m telling Ryan that.

Instead, I shrug. “They’re too predictable. You always know how the story will end: happily ever after, wedding bells, heart-eyes. Why bother reading?”

I know it’s a lazy take on the genre. But it feels easier than admitting there’s something deeper underneath.