Mister Romance by Amelia Simone (the reading list .txt) 📕

a tired hand over the strands coming out of my ponytail. Blundering comments like that were why I was alone. Relationships were all fun and games until I said something too blunt. Other women (and men) expected something more refined to come out of my mouth—not the uncensored truths that fell out, splatting like a hot mess into the conversation.

Eva laughed awkwardly before wishing me a good night and escaping back inside. It was clear which “monster” she preferred.

I ate a quick dinner of grilled cheese. I was too tired to cook anything complicated and nothing much was open in town after my shift ended. As birthday dinners went, it wasn’t fantastic, but I promised myself a fabulous meal when I had more time. While I polished off my dinner, I checked my social media feeds and smiled at the happy birthday wishes from extended family and high school friends. I was yearning to start the new Virginia Rothman book I’d downloaded to my Kindle, but I knew if I did, I wouldn’t sleep at all. #ReaderProblems. I was the queen of ‘Just one more chapter.’

Since I was saving her new book to savor on my day off, I scrolled Twitter for updates. Virginia Rothman frequently posted recipes with photos of the delicious looking results or writing tidbits and excerpts. I’d never done more than “like” what she posted. I felt a little stalkerish for never being more engaged, but wasn’t that what social media was for? Feeling like you’re involved and part of the “in” circle, without leaving the comfort of your home?

Virginia had posted a picture of an amazing meal along with a link to the recipe. Asian turkey burgers with hoisin mayo. It looked divine, and I regretted my grilled cheese mediocrity.

Maybe I did need a life coach. “Dull” described the tenor of my last few years. I went to my ordinary job and home to my uninspired apartment. I hadn’t even bothered to spice up the place by painting, though my lease agreement allowed it. I’d left it vanilla. My life had turned beige. Not the cool greige, beigey-gray combo that was currently all the rage in decorating, but plain, boring beige. I’d made no effort to change my surroundings or challenge myself. Looking at my apartment with fresh eyes, it was clear Gina was right to push me to change.

“Every change starts with a single step,” I murmured to myself. Trite but true. I’d drafted and deleted so many social media comments to Virginia and others over the last few months without posting any of them. Something about submitting my thoughts for ridicule or replies felt like too much exposure, even with a semi-anonymous username. The anonymity of an online persona should have made me feel secure, but if anything, I felt even more anxious. Any response would be based purely on what I’d written. 280 characters wasn’t much to convey context or intent, and I’d seen comments blow up in people’s faces. No way did I want to become the next Main Character on Twitter.

I navigated back to Virginia Rothman’s dinner post. I took a picture of my sad white bread crusts. Navigating to the replies, I posted my picture and wrote, “Looks divine. Wish I’d had that instead of this birthday grilled cheese. Birthday grilled cheese should not be a thing. At least not with processed cheese. #Regret #BirthdayGirl”

There. Gina would be proud. After months of lurking, I’d broken the seal and responded to one of my idols. My phone didn’t implode in my hand. No one jumped out from behind my furniture to point and laugh because I’d made a stupid comment. Trolls weren’t responding to my tweet. It was fine. It was easy. I could do this.

The notification that someone liked my Tweet caught me by surprise and sent a little thrill racing through me. Opening the app, I realized that Virginia Rothman had liked my Tweet. At best, I’d expected commiseration from my fellow followers. Not a response from the woman herself. Such a small moment probably didn’t mean much to others, but I took it as a sign. She might as well have sent me a dozen cupcakes, a bottle of wine, and her entire signed backlist. Happy birthday to me.

I HAD THE NEXT DAY off to enjoy my birthday, and I indulged in my favorite things. My toenails were a sassy shade of purple after a relaxing pedicure. I treated myself to lunch at my favorite sandwich shop and picked up the ingredients to make the recipe I’d seen on Virginia Rothman’s post, humming along to the 90’s soft rock at the store. My high had nothing to do with Gina’s text of encouragement, and everything to do with my progress, though Gina’s text did make me smile.

Gina: Don’t fear failure. Fear being in the exact same place next year as you are today. – Unknown

Apparently, she was taking her role as my new life coach seriously.

Back at my condo, I took full advantage of the sunny summer afternoon, pulling on a tank swimsuit and bundling my brown curls up in a poufy ponytail on top of my head. Dark sunglasses shaded my brown eyes, and I liked to think I looked like a darker haired and eyed Keri Russell when she was rocking it curly.

I examined my figure in the mirror. The tank suit was a nice shade of blue with a paisley pattern, and it kept my “bait in the bucket” as my dad liked to say. I frowned, looking at my cleavage. Maybe that was the problem? Should I be trolling for big fish instead? I rolled my eyes. Pretty sure there was a catch and release metaphor in there somewhere.

The rest of the afternoon was spent languishing by the complex pool with Virginia Rothman’s new book and a bottle of iced tea. The awkward heroine temping as a QA analyst may not have my work schedule, but I could relate to her challenges