Romance By the Book by Sarah Ready

Jessie

I dropa two-foot-high stack of romance books and old romcoms from the library onto the thick wooden table top.

“Oh no, she’s finally going off the deep end,” says Veronica.

It’s Monday, and I’m meeting my friends at Juliet’s Wine Bar for our weekly girls night out. They’re at our usual table, a scarred oak plank piece with comfy upholstered chairs and votive candles. The wine bar is crowded and the hum of happy conversation and laughter fills the air.

Veronica and Chloe already have some red wine poured from a bottle and Ferran has a bubbly white. There’s a tray of cheese, crackers, and fruit. I pull out a chair and plop down. Ferran grabs an empty glass and pours me some of the red wine.

I grin at Veronica. She’s the least romantic person I know. When Miss Erma told her the name of her soul mate, she ran. We may disagree on the importance of romance and romcoms, but I still love her.

“You won’t believe what happened today.” I smile at my best friends and gesture at the stack of books on the table.

“You got rid of the damaged books and nabbed enough goodies for a weeklong romance binge?” asks Ferran.

“Shoot me, shoot me now,” Veronica says.

“Hey, you got It Happened One Night. Nick hasn’t seen that yet.” Chloe eyes the titles on the sack. “We watch movies after the baby’s asleep and then reenact the sexy scenes. We did Ghost last week. I had no idea clay was so hard to get out of—”

“Um.” A flush spreads over my cheeks at the visual.

“Have you done a Spiderman reenactment yet, that upside-down kiss?” asks Ferran.

“How do you think Nick got that sprained ankle last month?”

Veronica snorts and chokes on her wine. I pat her back.

Chloe winks. “Kidding. Just kidding.”

“She’s not,” Ferran says in a loud whisper.

Veronica wipes her eyes. “I love you, Chloe. We should do a new card line—kinky stick figures doing it.”

Chloe shakes her head and rolls her eyes.

I can’t stand it anymore.

“You guys,” I say. I wait until they’re all looking. “I saw Miss Erma today.” I put a whole book’s worth of meaning into those five words.

Chloe’s eyes widen. Erma is her great aunt and Chloe spent her life eating up Erma’s romantic legacy.

“That’s amazing,” Chloe says. Her eyes light up. There’s nothing Chloe loves more than romance. “Who is he? Where is he? What did she say?”

“Erma told you who your soul mate is?” Veronica asks.

I nod. Suddenly, I’m nervous. Maybe it’s the way Veronica’s looking at me. She spent years running from love and she wasn’t excited when Erma told her who her soul mate was.

I turn and look at Ferran. She has a tight smile on her face. Everyone knows Ferran loves her job more than anything in the world. She wouldn’t be happy to have Erma’s “help.”

“Who is it?” asks Veronica.

I clear my throat and shove down my sudden nervousness.

“Gavin Williams.”

There’s a short silence, then Chloe says, “Isn’t he…your first crush?”

More than crush. He’s the one I’ve loved my whole life.

“That’s him,” I say.

“You used to write J.D. plus G.W. on all your school book covers. For years,” Ferran says.

“Wow,” Chloe says.

Ferran nods. “Wow. For once, Erma actually predicted a match that somebody’s happy about.”

Veronica shakes her head. “Gavin Williams is a player. That guy deflowered half of New York State’s virgins while still in high school.”

We all look at Veronica. She shrugs, and we burst out laughing. Veronica’s husband was formerly The King of Players.

“He’s a good man,” I say with conviction. “I’m sure of it.”

I think back to the day we met.

I'd just turned eight. I was wearing a scratchy black dress and itchy black tights. My grandma had pulled my hair into a tight French braid that made my eyes water. My mom was in a white lace dress, and her hair was smooth around her face, more silky and straight than it’d ever been when she was alive. Her skin was the wrong color and her lips were bright pink. Her coffin was pink too. And it made me angry and itchy because my mom hated pink. Hated it. But grandma said Dead People didn’t care what color their coffin was. She told me to sit down, be quiet and shut up. My dad didn’t say anything at all. He hadn’t said anything for nearly a week.

When Grandma came, she saw that I hadn’t eaten, or had a bath, or put on clean clothes for days.

Not since Mom died.

I’d been eating from the jar of pickles in the fridge. It was the only food left. Grandma took me to the bakery, bought me a ham sandwich and a glass of milk, and then back at home she screamed Dad back to life. After Mom’s funeral and after Grandma left, Dad still didn’t talk, but he never left the fridge empty again.

But that day, as I sat on the hard church pew in a scratchy dress, with an aching head, I kept quiet and I kept still and no matter how bad I wanted to cry and itch and let loose my hair and throw off my dress and tell everyone that the dead woman in the coffin wasn’t my mom because my mom had curly hair, not smooth hair and my mom had pink cheeks, not orange-beige cheeks, I didn’t. I kept quiet. I kept still. I imagined that somehow my mom wasn’t really dead. That somehow she was still there, I just couldn’t see her anymore.

When my dad and the others carried the pink coffin out, I ran from the church. I kicked off the shoes and the tights. I yanked out my braids. I tore off the itchy black dress so I was only in my cotton petticoat.

I ran and ran and ran. Until I ended up back home. But instead of going inside, I ran to the field. My chest ached and my legs were burning and itching from the run and my eyes stung from the sweat dripping.

I wiped at my eyes and sniffed.

“You’re ugly.”

I whipped my head up. There was a boy standing less than 10 feet away. He was my age and had on a formal navy blue school uniform.

I looked down at myself. My skin was blotchy and red, and my petticoat was old and dingy brown instead of white.

“I’m not,” I said. My mom had always said I looked like her and my mom was beautiful.

“You are.” Then the boy ran at me, an angry expression on his face. I stood still. Frozen by the snarl on his lips.

His hands hit my chest and he shoved me. Hard.

I flew back, my arms pinwheeling, and I hit the ground. I landed in the wet mud of the spongey springtime earth. The cold mud soaked through my petticoat and coated my legs and back. I tried to drag in a breath but I couldn’t. The whole world was spinning and roaring. The boy came and stood over me.

“Told you so,” he said.

Finally I pulled in a breath. Then I pushed it back out. He shrugged and walked away. I lay in the mud until the cold made my toes and fingers numb. When I sat up there was another boy there.

He looked the same as the last boy, except he had longer, shaggy hair and was wearing muddy jeans and a T-shirt.

“What’re you doing?” he asked.

He cocked his head to the side and studied me. He didn’t seem mean like the last boy, so I stood up and shrugged.

“Are you a twin?”

“Yes,” he said defiantly. Then, “Wanna climb that tree with me?”

I looked at the big towering tree but didn’t say anything. The boy gave me a half-smile, uncertain but friendly. Then he jogged to the tree and scrambled up.

I watched as his feet dangled from a limb and he kicked his legs back and forth.

“Come on,” he shouted.

Suddenly, there was nothing I wanted more than to climb into the tall tree and leave the world behind. If I were high up, I’d be closer to my mom. I was the clumsiest climber, and by the time I reached the boy I was scratched and bleeding. He didn’t mind. He grinned at me.

“You did it,” he said. “We should be friends.”

I looked at his soft smile, one front tooth missing, his shaggy, wild hair, and his bright blue eyes and I started to cry. I sniffed and used the back of my mud-caked arm to wipe my eyes.

The boy squirmed next to me and dug in his pocket. He pulled out a piece of string, a marble, a toy car, and finally a small navy blue hanky.

“Here. Sorry it’s dirty. I used it to hold a field mouse this morning. I named her Mimi.”

I took the handkerchief and wiped my eyes like a lady in an old movie.

“My mom died,” I said. I don’t know why I told him. I turned and looked through the leaves across the field.

“My mom left,” he said finally. “She left last month. My dad says it’s because she didn’t love us.”

“My mom loved me,” I said.

He nodded solemnly. Then he took my hand and held it. I watched the breeze blow the bright green spring leaves and then I watched the high clouds speed by.

Finally he turned to me and said, “We can be friends if you want. Since both our moms are gone, we can take care of each other.”

“Okay,” I whispered.

Then I scrambled down from the tree. He followed, hopping down to the grass next to me. I bent down and snapped the stem of a bright blue chicory flower.

“Here,” I held it out to him. “Friends.”

He took it and we stood still. I felt something shift inside me, and although the horrible grief was still there, a small space had opened to let in hope. He did that for me. And that’s when I knew. I loved him.

“Gavin,” I heard a man yell.

The boy whipped his head around.

“I have to go,” he said. “Bye.”

He started to run, then stopped. “What’s your name?” he called.

“Jessie. I live there.” I pointed out the trailer across the field.

He grinned, waved the flower, and sprinted away toward huge mansion.

“Gavin,” I whispered to myself. “Gavin.” The name was a ray of hope on my lips.

He didn’t come back.

Not the next day, not the next week, not for four years. And when Gavin did come back, he didn’t seem to remember me at all. He was wild and fun. A bright light that danced into Romeo for a week or two every few years. I loved those weeks. Seeing him always reminded me of hope and friendship and having someone there even on the worst day of your life.

I pick up my wine glass and raise it in the air.

“I’d like to give a toast.”

Veronica, Chloe and Ferran raise their glasses.

“To finding soul mates, to true love, and to friendship.”

“To friendship,” says Ferran.

“And soul mates,” says Chloe.

“To true love,” says Veronica.

We clink glasses and I swallow the local red wine. It has a bright berry flavor that I like.

Ferran clears her throat. “So, correct me if I’m wrong, but you haven’t interacted with him since you were fourteen, right?”

“You’re not wrong.”

I served him a heart sugar cookie that said “Be Mine” at the Sweetheart’s Day baking contest. He told me it was the best cookie he’d ever had. I blushed and stuttered and he sauntered away.

“So how do you know you actually should be with him?” asks Ferran.

“What?”

She shrugs and plays with the stem of her wineglass. “I know I’m the outlier here, but I think you should be careful or you’ll end up choosing the wrong guy and the wrong life because someone else told you it was what you wanted and you listened when you should’ve questioned.”

I sit still, stunned by what she’s saying. I love my life, my job, and even before Erma confirmed it, I loved Gavin.

“I’ve known since I was a kid. And now Miss Erma has seen it. You should be happy for me.”

Ferran grimaces. “Sorry, Jess. I’m just worried about you. Sometimes when you have an objective you get blinders.”

I cross my arms over my chest, uncomfortable with what she’s saying. Then I admit it. “You’re right.”

Veronica smiles. “Like that time she organized the book drive to raise money for the senior citizen zipline trip and all the seniors hated the idea of a zipline, but she wouldn’t listen?”

I groan. That was a terrible idea. In my defense, I meant well.

“Or that time,” says Chloe, “when she tried for weeks to start a cat-walking business in high school and she wouldn’t listen when we told her a dog-walking business would work better.”

I laugh. “Fine. Yes. I have flaws.”

“We have many examples,” says Veronica. “Don’t make me bring up the tsunami preparedness and hurricane drills.”

They all laugh and I roll my eyes. We live in upstate New York, far, far from the ocean. “I was 10.”

“Still should’ve known better,” says Ferran.

I fill my glass and signal Juliet for another bottle.

“Putting the past behind us, let’s presume Miss Erma is right, because she’s always right, and let’s presume my twenty years of feelings for Gavin are also right, and let’s form a plan.”

“What kind of plan?” Chloe asks.

I point to the stack of books. “I have a week to get Gavin to notice me and fall in love with me. I’m going to use the guru tips of romantic literature and cinema to make it happen.”

“You’ve lost your mind,” Veronica says.

“No, it’s a good idea,” I argue. “For example, what does every romance have that jumpstarts the chemistry?”

“A sexy male lead?” asks Veronica.

“A meet-cute,” Chloe says.

“Right! A clumsy heroine who literally falls into the hero’s arms. I’m going to orchestrate a meet-cute.”

“Oh no. This won’t end well,” Veronica says.

But Chloe and Ferran are into it. A full bottle of wine later, we’ve scoured plots, meet-cutes, romantic scenes, declarations of love, and all the ways book and movie characters fall in love and we have our list.

“Okay, here it is,” I say.

I hold up my phone and glance at my notes screen.

“Everything I need to do for Gavin to realize I’m his one true love and then live happily ever after is right here. First step, the meet-cute.”

“It’s never going to work,” Veronica says.

“Of course it will. It’s meant to be. Nothing and no one can stop true love.”