It’s the next afternoon and I’m parked in front of Happy Endings, getting ready to head out—twenty minutes behind schedule. I appreciate that Josie’s attempting to keep the judgment out of her voice, even if she’s not entirely successful.

I’m cleaning out my car—which I had every intention of doing before work, but I slept through my alarm, then got stuck on a call with my mom, who is “absolutely tickled” to hear I’m bringing a date, even though I stressed that Josie’s just a friend. If that.

“Hey, you never know when you’re going to need a…” I stop when I see Josie holding a pink satin eye mask that says, Dreaming of My Hea, from an author event last week.

“What’s a he-ah?” she asks.

“H-E-A,” I tell her. “Happily Ever After. Surely you’ve heard of those, even if they don’t exist in your big literary tomes.”

Josie’s cheeks flush. She breaks eye contact, and I catalog another difference between the two women. Where BookshopGirl seems eternally curious, excited to learn about new things, Josie can’t handle looking like anything less than the smartest person in any room.

My mind flicks back to the story she told me about losing her scholarship and dropping out of college. The deep shame she still carries. Maybe I’ve been misreading her; what if it’s not about wanting to look smarter, but she’s genuinely insecure? My heart gives a teeny, tiny squeeze of sympathy.

Until she lets out an exasperated sigh and gathers the ARCs sitting in the passenger seat. Like it’s such a burden to pick up a few books—I left them there so I wouldn’t forget to bring them home for my mom and sisters-in-law, before I knew someone would be riding shotgun all the way to Maine.

Wordlessly, Josie carries the books to the open trunk. I bet she’s cringing at the clutter—which makes my jaw tighten with irritation. Rushing back, I take the books from her arms and toss them inside, closing the trunk before she can get a good look. I don’t want to have to explain the boxes of vibrators, ready to be sorted for next month’s subscription box.

“I think we’re all set—just need to grab your bag,” I say, spotting the small duffel resting on the sidewalk.

Before I can reach for it, Josie has it in her arms.

“I’ve got it,” she says. The edge of defensiveness in her voice makes my own defenses rise.

“Listen,” I tell her, “you don’t have to come. We can find another way for you to balance the scales, or whatever.”

“I said I was going, so let’s go.”

This is going to be the longest two-hour drive of my life.

—