The Rom Con(3)
“Come on, just one that’ll restore my faith in men and prove that true love still exists.”
“Just one of those, huh?” she says with a laugh, then hums as she thinks for a minute. “Let’s see. There was this one time when we were newlyweds, and we’d just been transferred to a base in Texas. So we were in this brand-new place, didn’t know a soul, and I caught some bug. Maybe it was food poisoning, I can’t remember. Anyway, I got sick, and I mean really sick. You know, vomiting and . . . the other thing,” she says, raising her eyebrows and giving me a wide-eyed look, and I have to stifle a laugh. She’s so proper, she can’t even bring herself to say the word diarrhea. “And in those days, we were very private about such things. None of this ‘open door’ stuff you kids are into. I’m not even sure he’d seen me without my face on before we got married!
“So I was really in a state, just terribly embarrassed,” she continues. “I locked the door and tried to keep him from seeing me like that, but he wouldn’t have it. He demanded I open the door, and then he sat with me, and rubbed my back, and brought me ginger ale. He doted on me,” she says simply, the faraway look in her eyes tinged with sadness. “And I remember thinking, Boy, did I choose the right one.”
“Pop-Pop was a gem.”
“True enough.” She smiles at the memory. “So there’s my advice for the day: Pick a man who’ll hold your hair back.”
“Duly noted.”
She picks up her teacup again. “Now, enough of my blathering. What else is new with you? How’s work?”
“It’s good,” I tell her, the question earning a genuine smile. “Busy as always.”
For the last four years, I’ve worked as an editor at Siren, a female-run, female-focused news and entertainment website that covers everything from current events to fashion to relationship trends to pop culture. My boss, Cynthia Barnes-Cooke, founded the site out of her apartment nearly ten years ago, though today Siren employs more than twenty full-time editors and two hundred contract writers. We produce at a punishing pace, publishing more than two hundred pieces of content a day, and I love everything about it: the responsibility of managing a team of writers, the diversity of content I get to work on, helping shape the growth strategy. In our last funding round, the site was valued at more than $200 million.
“Any update on the book? How’s it coming?” Gran asks casually, focusing studiously on dipping her tea bag instead of on me. Even so, I feel myself deflate.
Gran is one of the few people to whom I’ve confessed my ultimate career ambition: to write the next great American novel—or at least, something buzzy enough to get picked for Reese’s Book Club or O magazine’s list of “Summer’s Hottest Beach Reads.” Natalia thinks I’m psyching myself out by starting with such lofty expectations, but I hardly think I’m setting the bar too high (and as Gran’s so impartially pointed out, Reese or Jenna or Oprah would be lucky to have me). The only problem? I have no clue what to write about. I know what it takes to stand out in the publishing world, and none of my ideas feels fresh or high-concept enough. What’s the point of writing a book if it’s just going to fade into the background like some sort of literary wallflower?
I’m a wannabe author with writer’s block. I hate myself for the cliché.
“No update. Still searching for a topic that’ll set the publishing world on fire.”
Gran hums noncommittally, sipping her tea.
“I’m going to be in another wedding,” I blurt before she can work her way up to a follow-up question I won’t have an answer for.
“What number is this one?”
I wince. “Lucky number seven.”
“Pretty soon you’ll be the girl in that movie, with all the bridesmaid dresses.” She looks tickled.
“I will not be that girl, because I sell all the dresses before the couple even gets back from their honeymoon.” Thanks to a bridesmaid’s best friends, eBay and Poshmark. “But you’re gonna love this next part.”
Her eyes light up. “Is it a destination wedding?”
“The Caribbean.”
She claps her hands in delight. “Can I be your plus-one?”
“You know what, maybe. I’d certainly have more fun with you than as the perpetual third wheel with all my couple friends.”
“I wouldn’t want to steal the spotlight from the bride,” she says, deadpan.
“With great power comes great responsibility,” I respond, just as seriously.
“Or maybe you’ll meet someone by then!” Ever the optimist.
“Maybe I’ll win the lottery, too,” I say dryly. And frankly, I’m gonna need to if I have a prayer of continuing to afford the never-ending merry-go-round of bachelorette parties, bridal showers, and tropical nuptials I’m forced to attend. I have half a mind to start a GoFundMe to finance my lifestyle as a serial bridesmaid. No one would be able to resist my tear-jerking backstory: destitution via wedding gift.
I heave a sigh. I hate that I’m starting to hate weddings. “Let’s face it, weddings just aren’t any fun without a significant other. It’s like they’re designed to make single people feel pathetic and inadequate. And you know I hate saying that out loud, because it goes against everything I stand for.”