The Rom Con
Devon Daniels
For two extraordinary women and exceptional matriarchs, my grandmothers, Cassie and Lucy
Chapter 1
So, let me just make sure I’ve got this. You’re telling me you can’t come with me to my grandmother’s party this weekend because Saturdays are ‘for the bros’？”
I stop short on the sidewalk, my voice—and spine—stiff with indignation. Brett and I have just arrived back at my apartment building after grabbing a late dinner, one of a handful of dates we’ve been on since meeting a couple of months ago at Skye Verde, a rooftop bar my coworker and roommate Natalia had insisted we try out for her twenty-ninth birthday. He’d impressed me that night, as much due to his easygoing personality and wry sense of humor as to the fact that I never once caught him checking out other women over my shoulder （a transgression that should be the exception but, as all women know, is far more often the rule）。 I peer at his face now under the glare of the streetlamp to confirm this isn’t some misguided attempt at humor, but all signs point to him being serious. Just great.
Things had been going deceptively well until now, too. Brett’s gainfully employed as a lawyer （who doesn’t need free legal advice?）， more than holds his own conversationally, texts back quickly, and hasn’t sent me any unsolicited dick pics. Perhaps not the highest bar, but he’s definitely the most impressive guy I’ve dated in months. I’d even been hopeful enough about his potential longevity to extend an invite to a family function—not a step I take lightly.
Brett massages the back of his neck, clearly annoyed. “I warned you that Saturdays are off-limits. I haven’t missed a Hokies game in six years, and I’m not about to start now. I was very up-front with you about this.”
I blink and step back. And to think I’d planned on inviting him up.
“Yes, I recall your dramatic monologue about ‘Sacred Saturdays.’ I assumed it was satire.”
“I don’t joke about football.”
“Evidently.”
He raises his hands defensively. “Look, you wouldn’t want me there anyway. I’d be distracted the whole time.”
I’m tempted to laugh. So gaslighting is his weapon of choice. “Actually, I did want you there. Hence the reason I invited you.”
There’s a beat of silence as we face each other in a stubborn standoff.
“Sorry, Cassidy, but I refuse to feel guilty about this.” He crosses his arms over his chest, his body language anything but apologetic. Strike two. “Saturday’s the one day per week that’s off-limits for me. Pick any other day.”
I stare at him. “I didn’t pick the day. It’s her ninetieth birthday.”
“Just as easy to have a party on a Sunday as a Saturday.”
Aaand strike three.
“Mm-kay.” I rummage in my bag for my keys. “You know what? Forget it. You’re off the hook.”
He drops his arms and his face relaxes, relief replacing irritation. Easygoing Brett has returned. “Thanks for understanding. You wouldn’t believe how many women won’t cut me any slack on this. I’m always the bad guy.”
This time, I do laugh. “I meant you’re off the hook permanently. Consider your Saturdays wide open from now on. And your Sundays, and your Mondays, and every other day that ends in -y. We’re done.”
Now he’s the one blinking at me. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. You made that decision very easy.” I reach past him to grab the door handle. “But I hope you enjoy your game,” I say, syrupy-sweet, and pat his arm before letting the door swing shut in his face.
And another one bites the dust.
I block and delete his number from my phone before I can second-guess myself, then shake my head in disgust as the elevator lurches upward to my floor. Despite my righteous indignation back there, I’m disappointed. Brett was the rarest of breeds: good-looking, smart, successful—and what’s more, he actually seemed to want a relationship （practically an endangered species in the urban jungle that is New York）。 But if he doesn’t know how important my grandmother is to me, then he hasn’t been listening . . . and the last thing I need is to sign up for a lifetime as a weekend sports widow. No thank you.
I sigh as I key into my apartment, setting my purse down on the console table in our entry and calling out for Nat. There’s no answer; not a surprise since she spends most nights at her boyfriend’s in Williamsburg. I usually don’t mind being home alone, though I wouldn’t mind having someone to commiserate with right about now.
As I brush my teeth in our shared bathroom, I peer into Natalia’s dark, empty bedroom, the pit in my stomach growing larger when I think about how close she is to getting engaged—and how I’ll be forced to find yet another new roommate, my fourth in five years. It’s become a running joke in our friend group: “Want your boyfriend to pop the question? Just move in with Cassidy! You’ll be engaged in no time.” I laugh right along with them, even if I’m crying inside. Don’t get me wrong, most of the time I’m happily single and embrace my independence, but even the most confident among us would be unnerved by pulling bridesmaid duty six times in three years. It’s not a great feeling to watch everyone around you stairstep into the next phase of life while you seem to be running in place.
Though my bed and Instagram feed are calling my name, I plop into my desk chair and open my laptop instead, forcing myself to tap out some thoughts before the memory of that Brett confrontation fades. While I don’t much feel like wallowing in my disappointment, it’s true what they say: Everything is copy （and by “they,” I mean the queen herself, Nora Ephron）。 Emotional turmoil fuels creativity, and when the Muse knocks, one must answer. I close my eyes and channel my inner Carrie Bradshaw: I thought I’d picked a winner, but when a man values football over family, I can’t help but wonder—in the game of love, will I always come out the loser?
Something Brett said niggles at my brain, so I open a new tab and google “Sacred Saturdays”—then groan out loud.
Of course.
* * *
“BOY, I’D GIVE my eyeteeth to have seen the look on your face.”
“Right? I don’t see how I could have reacted any differently.”
“I might’ve added a smack for good measure. You’d be surprised how quickly a well-timed slap can knock some sense into a man.” There’s a mischievous glint in Gran’s eye as she slices a hand through the air to demonstrate. “Besides, who would pass up the chance to meet me? I’m delightful.”
I snort. “Obviously.”
It’s early Saturday evening and my grandmother’s party’s just ended, the last of my extended family members trickling out in a flurry of Tupperware, overstimulated toddlers, and goodbye hugs. I stayed late to chat and catch up—and rehash all the fresh family gossip, of course.
My grandmother and I have had a unique bond from the time I was young, perhaps because like recognizes like and she sees herself in my quiet bookishness. Growing up I often felt out of place among my extroverted sister Christine and my natural athlete brother Colin, but Gran always paid me special attention, never letting me fade into the background or feel like the introverted nerd I surely was.