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“Oh, really?”

“Yeah, I guess yesterday not everyone was there and they planned a dinner for after the first full day of filming. To celebrate.” It’s weird how lying to my mom doesn’t feel bad. If anything, I feel bad that I don’t feel bad about it.

“Oh, okay. Well, that’s great! Rubbing elbows with all the bigwigs. Exciting.”

“Yeah, yeah. Anyway, I’ll let you know when I’m on my way home, okay?”

“Okay. See you soon.”

“Bye.”

I hang up the phone and immediately text Jax back.

ME:sounds like fun. Maybe I’ll swing by if I’m not busy.

I already know I won’t be.

Checking the time, I see I still have twenty minutes before I’m due back on set, but I can’t sit in my car any longer. It’s already stiflingly hot in here, even with the windows rolled down. My mind whirs through the options this small city has and the places I used to frequent. Without fail, there was always one spot that was my safe space growing up, and luckily, it’s right down the street.

I lock my car before stepping back out into the blazing sunshine, walking past the set on the other side of the blue mesh fencing. Through the crowd and film equipment, I spot Julia and Oscar casually wandering down the street with a stroller, decked in winter gear despite the heat. They must be sweating buckets under all those layers. I continue past, cross the street, and leave the hubbub of the film set behind. I walk along the sidewalk until I see a familiar sign beckoning me forward.

The Bookman.

I step under the bookstore’s awning with its colourful Pride flag fluttering in the breeze, past the cart of one-dollar books on sale, and open the door, which greets me with a dinging bell. The smell of old books and aged building welcome me with a wave of nostalgia so potent my stomach tightens and rises into my chest, triggering a prickle of tears somewhere behind my eyes.

It hasn’t changed one bit.

A young twentysomething-year-old with thick glasses, orange hair, and a vintage death-metal T-shirt greets me witha nod and a smile as I walk past. To my left is a shelf with all the famous BookTok books, to my right the children’s section, complete with a cozy nook for reading. I continue past the glass display cases filled with bookish bric-a-brac, teas, and candles, turn left past the next shelves, and head over to the corner where the adoptable cats are housed. I pause to stroke the head of a grey tabby, who twitches her tail back and forth while lying atop a stack of books.

I feel just as at home here now as I did when I was a kid. There’s just something about books and cats that are safe.

I let my fingers trail over the bumps and ridges of book spines as I wander the aisles like I did when I was a teen, when I felt so lost, so broken, so alone, and had nowhere where I felt like I could be myself. I’d felt a smidgen of my true self here, lost in this sea of words, knowing that every person who put themselves into a book must have been a little like me—a little different, trying to make sense of the world, trying to find a way to share who they were with others without being too vulnerable, too open, letting anyone get too close.

Letting someone in only leads to pain.

I pause my reminiscing when I come across someone in the aisle with me. Normally I’d mutter a quickexcuse meand move past, but this person’s face has me doing a double take. It’s familiar, but just different enough that...

Oh shit.

It’s Bethany.

I thought I’d had my fill of high school run-ins with Jax. I’d got lucky with him, fate taking a surprising turn from what could have been an awkward situation to a satisfying romp.

But nothing good can come from this.

Bethany looks the same. Still blonde, though her hair is a bit shorter. She’s still perfectly proportioned, though a bit curvier. I wonder if she’s still a mean bitch who makes fun of people’s cellulite in gym changing rooms. Maybe she has some of her own now.

I wonder what she’d think if she knew I fucked her ex-boyfriend.

Even though she was mean, befriending the bully and pretending to fit in helped me survive high school. I can’t imagine how cruel she would have been to me if I’d actually been myself. And if she’d known I was queer? I might not have survived at all.

Bethany looks up from her perusal through the romance section, meeting my gaze. “Sorry,” she says, her smile creasing her brows. “Am I in your way?”

I eye her, waiting for the shoe to drop, for her to recognize me and blow my cover and force me to go through the whole song and dance ofWhat have you been up to?andIs it really you?and the always nauseating rendition ofI’ve been living a perfect life ever since high school and everything has been so easy, let me tell you all about it!

But it doesn’t happen.

“No,” I say after a second. “I’m going this way.” I point over my shoulder, turn on my heel, and disappear down another aisle.