Page 1 of The Business of Love Box Set 1: Books 1 - 4

VANESSA

A red light blinked obnoxiously at me as I pulled my headphones down over my head. The tinny echo of the studio was muted for a brief moment and I stretched out my arm, letting my finger hover over the little red light.

I pushed it.

“Hi there, caller.” My own voice was fed back to me through the headphones.

When I first started this gig, I’d been thrown off by it.

Everyone hated the sound of their own voice.

Add that to the crippling anxiety that used to grip me before I was live on the air, and there you have it, a perfect recipe for disaster and epic word fumbles.

Luckily for me, my producers thought I was too charming to give up on.

“You know how this shtick works. Let’s start with your name and the reason you’re calling, and I’ll do my best to help heal your heart.

” The words tumbled out of me in the same chipper cadence they always did as I pressed my earphones closer to my head.

“Nessa? Is it really you?” A long girly sigh filled my ears.

“The one and only.” Literally. One and only.

A bit of guilt tugged at me. No, maybe not guilt, but rather something a little harder to pinpoint than that.

It was a new feeling I hadn’t experienced before, but over the last couple of weeks, I’d begun to feel a little bit like a fraud.

Some diligent nightly internet scrolling with a glass of wine and a sandalwood candle burning close by suggested I was suffering from a very common professional ailment: Imposter Syndrome.

“Hi. Wow. I can’t believe I got through to you. Um. Okay. Here goes.” There was a breathy pause on the other end as my caller organized her thoughts.

I was used to this. Callers never really expected to get through to me. In the beginning, years ago? Sure. But now the lines were flooded with calls every night and she knew just how lucky she was to be on the air with yours truly.

She cleared her throat. “My name is Margaret. I’ve been trying to get through to you for weeks.”

Another pause filled the line between us.

I realized it was my turn to speak. “Tell me what you’re experiencing in your relationship, Margaret.

” I added a softness to my voice that I’d been practicing for years and wondered if my callers ever felt like I was too rehearsed.

I definitely felt that way sometimes. Add that to my Imposter Syndrome and I was a walking, talking fraudster.

Margaret let out a defeated sigh. “My boyfriend doesn’t want to get married. He has commitment phobia.”

I wondered dimly if Margaret would want my advice if she knew the reason for my Imposter Syndrome. I was an obscenely popular romance guru whose own romantic life was nonexistent. My vagina had not been touched by something other than my aqua-colored vibrator.

“It’s an illness many suffer from.” I leaned forward and crossed my arms on the desk. I tried to ignore the half dozen steadily blinking red lights that were all cries for help from desperate callers. This same call had come in over and over. “How long have you guys been together?”

“About twelve years.”

Twelve years! Holy baskets of balls.

“That’s great.” It wasn’t. Twelve years and no promise of there being something more on the horizon? Yikes.

I caught Doug’s bemused expression through the thick-paned glass in front of me. My manager lifted an eyebrow, smirked, and ran his fingers through his graying hair. I’d worked with him long enough to know he was thinking the exact same thing as me: it’s time to bounce, Margaret.

“I guess.” There was a distinct hint of sadness in Margaret’s voice. She’d clearly had years of practice and had skills in disguising her disappointment, but as a professional who saw this kind of thing all the time, I had an attuned ear to relationship blues.

“I assume you’ve talked to your man about the benefits of being married?” I put on my black-framed, Lisa Loeb glasses. A calmness settled over me as I completely fell into the disposition of my radio personality, Nessa Night.

Doug’s shoulders bobbed up and down with laughter on the other side of the glass.

I flipped him off. No one understood my quirks in the studio.

“I have, but he blows me off every time. There’s always something suddenly super important he has to do when the topic of marriage comes up.

Like tightening a leaky sink or helping his buddy who just got a flat tire.

It’s so frustrating. All my girlfriends say I’m wasting my time, but how can I walk away from something I’ve invested twelve years into?

We have a life together. I mean, I’ve half-raised the guy. ”

I licked my lips. “So are you calling for me to tell you that your friends are wrong, or that they’re right?”

“I don’t know. I mean, they care about me. I know they’re not trying to ruin my relationship. They’re… they’re trying to save me from it.”

“It sounds like you have good friends.”

“They are.”

“Margaret, I think you know what you need to do. This is about you. Not about him. You have to put yourself first and decide what you want out of life. Will you be happy five years from now if you’re in the same spot and not married?

Or will this breed resentment? Will this impact other aspects of your life, such as children? ”

Margaret sniffled. “I think it’s over. It has been for a long time.”

“I think so too. And I think you knew what you wanted to do before you even called me. It’s time to dump his ass.” Sometimes, when I knew a caller was ready to hear it, the truth could be as sharp as a punch to the gut. And Margaret certainly needed to hear it.

Lying every night to my callers had been getting harder and harder these past few weeks and months, but helping someone like Margaret made it a little more bittersweet.

Sure, I still felt like an imposter talking to her about leaving a man she used to love when I’d never known what that felt like, but someone had to do the dirty work.

I told myself my lack of experience made me the perfect person for this role. I wasn’t biased. I didn’t have baggage that clouded my judgment. I had nothing.

Margaret let out a shaky laugh to disguise her pain.

“I think you’re right, Nessa. He likes his freedom too much to settle down into the life I’ve always wanted.

I should’ve thrown the towel in the minute he brought up the whole pineapple thing.

” This last sentence was a mumbled afterthought, but it caught my attention.

“Pineapple thing?” I sat up straight and smiled back at Doug. Never a dull moment in this gig.

Her sighs were becoming the preface to her next words. “In our neighborhood—”

“Where are you guys located in general?” My Mountain Dew was within reach and still cold.

The donuts that were left out for me before every show—a variety of white icing and rainbow sprinkles or chocolate-dipped—were long gone.

I eyed the crumbs on the plate as I tilted my head back and sipped my Mountain Dew.

“It’s a real bougie neighborhood. Wealthy older people mostly.” I could almost feel Margaret shrug as she spoke. “My boyfriend makes a lot of money in construction and he knew I always wanted the gated community life.”

“Keep going.” I twisted the cap back on my soda. At least Margaret had the house of her dreams. I had Pinterest boards full of inspiration for my ideal home, bright and airy, a grand fireplace, a high-ceilinged dining room. I was a glutton for luxury as much as I was for donuts.

“Well, there’s this deal in the neighborhood where the swinger-club members put a pineapple on their porch or in their yard. It’s kind of a calling card.”

“Are you guys swingers?” I asked with a monotone voice. No need to make her feel something she wasn’t already feeling.

“No! Heavens no.” She let out a shaky laugh.

I took a long swig of my drink. “Is your boyfriend a swinger?”

“No. Yes.” Margaret groaned in dramatic exasperation.

I flashed a smile at Doug, who was shaking his head with mirth.

We both knew our listeners were enjoying the hell out of this segment as they drove home from their night shifts or sat at their kitchen tables.

“I don’t know. It feels like he’s trying to tell me that he’s interested in trying it out—and by ‘it’ I mean other women.

He brings home pineapple stuff all the time, being silly about it, but it’s not funny.

It’s—I don’t know. It kind of spoils whatever confidence you might have left.

Which, I might add, isn’t much when the man you’ve been with for a dozen years doesn’t want to marry you. ”

My heart ached for her. No one should have to suffer through that kind of uncertainty in a relationship.

Love should make things better, not worse.

I had to help her, and I had to do it quickly.

She was struggling over there, and for a brief second, I was grateful that there wasn’t a man in my life to make me feel so unworthy.

“Here’s what I would do, Margaret. Bring up the swingers club.

Ask him if he’s interested in getting involved.

Hold him to answering it. He’s a big boy.

The least he can do is offer you an honest yes or no.

If he says yes and you’re as appalled as you seem to be about it, then kick his ass out or leave yourself.

Otherwise, drop your keys in the bowl and enjoy. ”

I could almost feel Doug’s snort from the other room. Being a staunch rule follower, he wouldn’t understand the fun of a little promiscuity if it kicked him in the crack of his ass.

“He’s going to say he wants to try it. And I don’t. I’m a stand by your man kinda gal.”