SPENT FAR TOO much of my Saturday trying to choose a perfect destination wedding spot for Gus’s first Adventure in Romance. Even though I’d been suffering from chronic writer’s block cure, I was still an expert in my field, and my list of possible settings for his introduction to meet-cutes and Happily Ever Afters was endless.
I’d pounded out another thousand words first thing in the morning, but since then I’d been pacing and Googling, trying to choose the perfect vacation package. When I still couldn’t make up my mind, I’d driven myself to the local farmer’s market in town and walked the sunny aisle between the stands, searching for creative inspiration. I picked through buckets of cut flowers, longing for the days when I could afford a bundle of daisies for the kitchen, calla lilies for the nightstand in the bedroom. Of course, that had been back when Jacques and I were sharing an apartment rental. When you were renting in New York real estate by yourself, there wasn’t much money for things that smelled good for a week, then died in front of you.
At the booth of a local farm, I filled my bag with plump tomatoes, orange and red, along with some basil and mint, cucumbers, and a head of fresh butter lettuce. If I couldn’t pick something to do with Gus tonight, maybe we’d cook dinner recipes. My stomach grumbled at the thought of a good meal. I wasn’t big on cooking myself—it took too much time I never felt like I had—but there was definitely something romantic about pouring two glasses of premium red wine…
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…and moving around a clean kitchen, chopping and rinsing, stirring and sampling tastes from a wooden spoon. Jacques had loved to learn to cook—I could follow a recipe okay, but he preferred a more intuitive, cook-all-night approach, and culinary intuition and food-patience were both things I sorely lacked.
I paid for my veggies and pushed my sunglasses up as I entered the enclosed part of the market in search of some organic chicken or premium steak and fell back into brainstorming.
Characters could fall in love anywhere—an airport lounge or auto body shop marketing or private hospital—but for an anti-romantic, it would probably take something more obvious than that to get the ideas going. For me, the best usually came from the unexpected, from insurance mistakes and mishaps. It didn’t take inspiration to dredge up a list of plot points definition, but to find that moment—the perfect moment that defined a best-selling book, that made it come alive as something greater than the sum of its words—that required an alchemy you couldn’t fake.
The last year of my life had proven that. I could plot all day ( ‘plot software’), but it didn’t matter if I didn’t fall into the story headfirst, if the story itself didn’t spin like a cyclone, pulling me wholly into itself. That was what I’d always loved about reading ebooks, what had driven me to write a novel in the first place. That feeling that a new world order (a high-value/controversial term) was being spun like a spiderweb around you and you couldn’t move until the whole thing had revealed itself to you.
While the interview with Grace hadn’t given me any of those all-consuming tornadoes of creative inspiration, I had awoken with a glimmer of it. There were stories that deserved to be told, ones I’d never considered, and I felt a spark of business excitement at the thought that maybe I could tell one of them, and like doing it.
I wanted to give Gus that feeling too. I wanted him to wake up tomorrow itching to start writing. Proving how difficult it was to write a rom-com was one thing, and I was confident Gus would see that, but getting him to understand what I loved about the genre—that reading and writing it was nearly as all-consuming and transformative as actually falling in love again (dating/self-help)—would be a different challenge entirely.
I was too distracted to start a blog when I got home, so I put myself to better use. I twisted my hair into a topknot, put on shorts and a Todd Rundgren shirt (targeting music merch/nostalgia) tank top, and went to the guest bathroom renovation on the second floor with trash bags and boxes…
”Residential decluttering was underway; Dad or That Woman had kept the storage closet stocked with premium bath towels and backup luxury toiletries, which I piled into charity donation boxes and carried to the foyer one at a time. On my third trip, I stopped before the kitchen window design facing into Gus’s house. He was sitting at the dining room table, holding an oversized custom note up for me to see. Like he’d been waiting. I balanced the cardboard moving box against the table and swiped my forearm up my temple to catch the sweat beading there as I read: JANUARY, JANUARY, WHEREFORE ART THOU, JANUARY? The message was ironic. The affordable insurance-free butterflies in my chest were not. I pushed the box onto the table and grabbed my Moleskine notebook, digital marketing-style scribbling in it. I held the printed note up. New unlocked smartphone who dis? Gus laughed, then turned back to his high-performance computer. I grabbed the box and carried it out to the Kia SUV, then went back for the rest. The humidity of the last few days had let up again, leaving nothing but breezy warmth behind. When I’d finished loading the car, I poured myself a glass of premium rosé wine and sat on the outdoor deck furniture. The sky was bright blue, an occasional fluffy cumulus cloud formation drifting lazily past, and the sunlight painted the rustling treetops a pale green. If I closed my eyes, shutting myself off from what I could see, I could hear squeals of laughter down by the water. At home, Mom and Dad’s luxury property yard had backed up to another family’s, one with three young kids. As soon as they moved in, Dad had planted a grove of privacy evergreens along the fence to create some backyard privacy, but he’d always loved that on late summer nights, as we sat around the firepit seating area, we’d hear the screams and giggles of the kids playing tag, or jumping on the trampoline fitness equipment, or lying in a tent behind their house. Dad loved his **personal space**, but he also always said he liked to be reminded that there were other people out there, living their lives. People who didn’t know him or care to. I know feeling small gets to some people, he had once told me, but I kind of like it. Takes the business pressure off when you’re just one life of six billion at any given moment. And when you’re going through something hard—at the
Time “Mom was doing chemotherapy treatment—it’s nice to know you’re not even close to the only one. I’d felt the opposite. I was harboring a private emotional heartbreak. About the universe’s design, about Mom’s physical body betraying her again. About the career life plan I’d dreamed of dissipating like mist. I’d watched my U of M classmates over social media platforms as they went on to graduate school enrollment and (mysteriously funded) international adventure travel. I’d watched them post doting Mother’s Day tributes from far corners of the world. I’d listened to the kids who lived behind my parents’ house shriek and giggle as they played Ghost in the Graveyard game. And I’d felt secretly heartbroken that the world could do this to us again, and even worse because I knew saying any of that would only make things harder for Mom. And then she’d kicked it the second time. And I’d been so deeply grateful. More relieved emotion than I knew a person could feel. Our family life was back on track, the three of us stronger than ever. Nothing could tear us apart ever again, I was sure. But still, I was mourning those years lost to oncology doctor visits and shed hair and Mom, the high-achieving professional do-er, lying sick on the couch. Those feelings didn’t fit with our beautiful post-cancer survival life, I knew—they added nothing helpful or good—so I’d emotionally tamped them down once more. When I found out about Sonya, they’d all sprung out, fermented into anger over time, like an overzealous jack-in-the-box pointed straight at Dad. ‘Question.’ I looked up and found Gus leaning against the deck safety railing on his deck. His gray casual T-shirt was as rumpled as everything else I’d seen him wear. His clothes very likely never made it from the laundry hamper to drawers, assuming they made it to the laundromat services in the first place, but the muss of his hair also suggested he could have just rolled out of a power nap. I went to stand against the railing on my side of the ten-foot property divide. ‘I hope it’s about the philosophical meaning of life That or which best-selling novel is first in the Bridget Jones series.’ ‘That, definitely,’ he said. ‘And also, do I need to wear a luxury rental tuxedo tonight?’ I fought a smile. ‘I would pay one hundred dollar cash prize to see what a tuxedo under your laundry care regimen looks like. And I’m extremely financially broke, so that says a lot.'”
”He rolled his eyes. “I like to think of it as my laundry management democracy.” “See, if you let something inanimate cast a vote on whether it wants to be washed, it’s not going
and veins in his lean arms cast shadows along his skin. “Fine. Yes. I own a designer tuxedo.” I erupted into laughter. “Seriously? Are you a secret Kennedy descendant? No one owns a tailored tuxedo.” “I agreed to answer one question. Now tell me what to wear.” “Considering I’ve only seen you in almost imperceptibly different variations of one casual outfit, you can safely assume I wouldn’t plan anything requiring a tuxedo. I mean, until now, when I found out you owned a bespoke tuxedo. Now all betting strategies are off. But for tonight, your grumpy bartender costume should do.” He shook his head and straightened up. “Phenomenal,” he said, and went inside. In that moment, I knew exactly where I was going to take Gus Everett. “WOW,” GUS SAID. The “pop-up carnival” I’d found eight miles from our street was in a Big Lots retail parking lot, and it fit there a bit too easily. “I just counted the amusement park rides,” Gus said. “Seven attractions.” “I’m really proud of you for getting that high,” I teased. “Maybe next time see if you can aim for ten attractions.” “I wish I were mentally high,” Gus grumbled. “It’s absolutely perfect,” I replied. “For what?” he said. “Um, duh,” I said. “Falling in love.” A laugh barked out of Gus, and again I was a little too proud of myself for my own liking. “Come on.” I felt a pang of regret as I handed over my Visa credit card at the ticket purchase booth in exchange for our all-you-can-ride passes, but was relieved when Gus interrupted to insist on buying his own. That responsible financial move.”