Page 7 of The Romance Rivalry

Three instalove

“Okay, so explain to me who this guy is again?”

“He’s my nemesis,” I say, grabbing an egg salad sandwich from the refrigerated shelf and putting it on my tray. I decided

to meet Jeannette outside her lecture hall so we could walk to the cafeteria together. I also needed to process my feelings

about the morning. The entire walk, I mumbled to myself about how I have the worst luck and how the world is out to get me

and how there’s no way I will survive the semester with Aiden Jeon, of all people, as my project partner.

I grab an apple and, in a last-second decision, because I’m feeling out of sorts, a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos displayed by

the register.

“And how do you know him?” Jeannette asks as she pays for her chili, corn bread, side salad, Jell-O bowl, chocolate chip cookie,

and KIND bar for later. The metabolism on this girl.

“He’s a fellow romance reviewer. He’s kinda skyrocketed in the past year because he’s a guy and he’s contrarian, at least he is with all my reviews, and—”

“And he’s hot.”

I pass my dining card to the cashier while shooting a side-eyed glare at Jeannette. “I mean, if you’re into that type,” I

mumble.

“I think the words you used to describe him were ‘tall, lean, dimpled, shoulders for days’... is anyone not into that type?”

“That’s not fair. You picked and chose my words to make it seem like I find him attractive or something. That’s not how I

meant it when I was describing him.”

“Hmmm,” she says.

“You’re not helping,” I say.

“And he reads romance books? I mean, he’s the living, breathing, on-campus version of that IG account Hot Dudes Reading.”

I love that account. Now I’m depressed.

“What irritates me is, he’s always copying me.”

“What, like he plagiarizes your content?”

“No, not exactly. Not word for word. But he reads the same books that I do. He never has an original selection.” When I first

noticed this, I just wrote it off as us both reviewing new releases. But even when I read and post about a backlist book,

Aiden does the same shortly after.

“You know what they say, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery,” Jeannette says. “Maybe he’s not even doing it on purpose.”

I look into Jeannette’s big doe eyes and wonder if she has ever had an enemy in her life. I must protect her at all costs.

We take our trays and find a table in the corner by the window. I unwrap my sandwich and take a huge bite out of it. All this

angst is making me starving.

“I can’t believe this was the first time the two of you have met in person. What are the odds that you have this online rivalry

and end up at the same school, and as project partners, no less? Honestly, I know you told me you hate enemies-to-lovers,

but this whole setup is prime for a college romance, Irene. It’s not just the trope. It’s the fact that this is all real.

Two people who share the same passion, who disagree about things but clearly have a spark...”

“We do not have a spark,” I say through a mouthful of egg salad. Which probably looks as gross as it sounds.

“Irene, he’s got you totally bent out of shape. You know what this means. It means you care about what he thinks.”

“Actually, I think it means I find him utterly annoying,” I reply. And it’s not that special—I care about what everyone thinks.

I’m a chronic people pleaser.

“But why, though? Is there a reason both of you can’t exist in the romance-reviewing space?”

It’s a totally fair question. I like and respect so many other reviewers. And I have no problem with men being in the space, as long as they respect and enjoy the genre. I also don’t find it at all odd that Aiden and I are two of the very few Korean reviewers out there.

So why does he press every one of my buttons? Something about Aiden’s existence makes me feel very...

“He makes me nervous,” I admit.

“Hmmm,” she responds again, a knowing smile on her face.

I roll my eyes, shrug, and go back to work on my sandwich.

What are the odds of me and Aiden being at the same school, in the same class, even? Forget odds. I just have really bad luck.

“Anyways, how were your classes this morning?” I ask.

Jeannette wipes her mouth with her napkin, and when her eyes meet mine, I suddenly feel sorry I asked. My full-of-light roommate

looks very dark.

“I think I’m in over my head,” she says. Her downturned mouth, the droop of her shoulders, the tiny worry line forming between

her eyes. This is all very bad. I’ve never—in the three days we’ve known each other—seen Jeannette like this.

I want to tell her that I kinda know how she feels. That I don’t know what I’m doing. That my Intro to Lit class, which I

thought would be a dream, has me totally confused already. That I miss my family, even Cybil, kinda sorta. That I may have

been fooling myself into thinking I’m ever gonna find a boyfriend, despite my foolproof plan.

But I don’t say any of that.

“It’s just the first day. It’ll totally get better,” I say instead.

Jeannette’s frown lifts into a smile, and I swear to god, it looks like she believes me. I hope life doesn’t make a liar of

me.

“Hey, if you two are interested, we’re having our first meeting of the Brighton Book Club Thursday night at the Commons.”

I look up into the green eyes of a guy clearly in talks to star in some new CW show. He’s gorgeous, in the way that no one

should have the right to be—tanned skin, long, straight nose, wearing the private-school-coed uniform of light blue cotton

button-down and khaki pants.

My mouth goes dry.

My eyeballs have bazoonga’d out of their sockets.

Jeannette is equally and uncharacteristically quiet. When I sneak a peek in her direction, her eyes are rounded, mouth slack-jawed,

and I think I hear an audible gulp.

I’m starting to think this school pays good-looking people to come on campus and recruit people into their...

“Wait, did you say book club?” I ask. I reach and take the flyer he’s been holding out toward us for what has probably been

a minute or two too long for polite company.

I face my internal struggle of being curious about what’s listed about this book club on the paper but not wanting to pull my eyes away from this stunning man in front of me for even one moment of my life.

I make the choice. I look away and read the flyer.

“I did,” he says, in what is of course a low, melodic voice saved for the angels. “Do you like to read?”

Talk dirty to me.

“I do,” I say back. Oh god, his beauty has limited me to a mere two words. But when I look up into his eyes, I see the sparkle...

the kind I’ve only ever read about in, well, books. He thinks I’m flirting. I’m not flirting. I’m too mesmerized to flirt.

I don’t flirt on my best days.

I’m certainly not flirting after having eaten an egg salad sandwich and now being faced with a deity offering me an invite

to the promised land.

“Irene is a famous book reviewer,” Jeannette says. I’ve not only gained a roommate, I’ve also gotten a new hype girl.

His emerald eyes widen in surprise. He tilts his head in a nod in my direction. I have been perceived by the Lord of Good

Looks of the Book Club Realm. “Really? That is very impressive. I’m gonna have to look you up. Where can I find you?”

My back straightens and I lift my chin. My book channels are the one place I can be the impressive one. Where I get a sense

of confidence I don’t usually have any other time in my life. You want to look me up, handsome? You’re gonna like what you

find.

“I’m @irene.loves.love.books across all platforms,” I say, my voice strong. I am the chosen one.

“Well, just to warn you, we’re not professional literary critics or anything. We just read and question and discuss. It’s

a great exploration of stories. We’d love for you to join us. We don’t limit to a specific genre, which makes the conversations

spirited and enlightened.”

“Sounds great,” I say, looking down at the flyer again. I make a mental note to add the meeting to my calendar to check it

out. Though I wonder if they’d let me come only on the weeks we read romance. “I’ll be there.”

He leans his body slightly in toward me. “I really hope so, @irene.loves.love.books,” he says. He looks at Jeannette and smiles.

Then one last glance at me. And, oh god, he does it. He winks.

Okay, so I cringe slightly, because it’s weird to wink at strangers. But I bury the ever-so-minor misstep so I don’t miss

the chance to gawk at his ass as he walks away.

“Be right back,” Jeannette says to me. “Gotta go change my panties.”

A couple nights later, when I should be back in my dorm room unburying myself from the already massive load of studying I’ve been assigned in only the first week of classes, I head out, instead, to the Brighton Book Club. The Commons is on the other side of campus from my dorm room, and I leave extra early to make sure I get a good seat. One never knows how big a book club meeting can get. I’m hoping, since I’m at a liberal arts college, that it will be sufficiently attended, buzzing and spirited.

I hadn’t had the chance to read the book, a thriller, but I figure since this is my first meeting, I can just sit back and

watch. Take it in.

After all, book people are the best people. It’s sure to be a good time.

I had trouble finding the right outfit to wear to the event. Jeannette, in her first sign of doubting my abilities, frowned

when she saw me in my The answer is always “just one bed” T-shirt and ripped jeans. I thought it gave off just the right vibe.

Jeannette thought I should rethink what vibe it gave off.

I ended up sticking with the jeans and going with a plain white T-shirt and gray cardigan. The outfit screams “fashionable

literary mind.” Okay, so maybe it’s more of a loud whisper than a scream, but it’ll do.

It’s quiet as I walk through the greenway that runs down the center of campus. In what feels like the first time since I got

here, I settle my mind. I take in the trees and the lushness of all that’s around me. Brighton is gorgeous. I’m in college.

My future is mine to make...

“Where you headed?”

I jerk my head around to the voice that has been tormenting me in my mind and on my screen during the (many) times I’ve (re)watched his posts (for research). Best to know everything you can about the enemy.

“Are you following me?” I ask.

“Please.” I don’t have to even look at him to see his eye roll. It’s like I can actually hear it. “I’m heading in the same

direction.”

I stop in my tracks. “No. You are not going to book club.” If I don’t ask the question, if I just make the statement, it will

be true, right?

“I actually am going to book club. And I’m guessing so are you. This should be fun,” Aiden says.

“Fun like a root canal,” I say under my breath.

He throws his head back and laughs, again, like I’ve just said the most original comeback of all time. It’s an evil sound,

his laugh. I don’t trust it one bit.

I also ignore the sense of satisfaction I feel for earning that laugh.

“You know, I’ve always wanted to talk to you about how it is that we never seem to agree on a book. At first, I thought it

was odd. No way our tastes are that opposed. But now I actually think it’s kinda cool. We look at books from such different

angles,” he muses.

“It is odd. Almost like you’re doing it on purpose,” I say. I don’t mean it. I actually think it’s fine that we have different tastes in reading. But the comments from his followers sting; they feel personal. And with each new review, it feels like they’re coming in more frequently.

“Why would I do something like that on purpose? Nope, we’re just built differently, I guess. But I totally respect your reviews.

Sometimes, I consider changing my tune on a book based on what you’ve highlighted and the way you see it. You make me think.”

My feet stagger and I almost trip over air. I’m taken by surprise by this bit of news. He respects my reviews? He’s open to

my point of view?

“It’s no wonder you have so many followers. You’re always so pleasant when you review books. You’d think you didn’t have a

mean bone in your body to say anything bad,” he says.

I sense this is a dig. Rude. He doesn’t get to dig at me. “Oh, my body can be plenty bad,” I say back.

The silence lasts for eighty-five years.

He tucks his lips between his teeth, holding back the wicked smile I’m certain is fighting to be released.

I want to stomp my foot. Shake my fist in the air. Anything to release the embarrassment.

“That’s not what I meant,” I croak out instead.

“I don’t know, Irene. I’m wondering if that’s exactly what you meant,” he teases.

I consider turning around and ditching book club altogether. Going back to my dorm room and hiding under the covers, erasing

any memory of this conversation.

But I’ve got instalove on the brain, and I have to play it out and see where it goes. I need to see the guy from the cafeteria again. I think I’ve managed to get over the wink. I’m up for some more flirting.

So I pick up the pace and don’t say another word to the gnat next to me.

His long strides easily keep up, and he seems totally at peace with the silent treatment. Does this guy ever lose his cool?

I open the front door to the flat, wide, gray, nondescript building. For all the beautiful brick and ivy around campus, the

Commons seems to have gotten the short end of the stick.

I enter the main room, where there are a bunch of wooden desk chairs haphazardly gathered in a corner. No one else is here.

I walk back out the door and take another look at the lettering on the front: The Commons .

I’m in the right place.

I look down at my watch.

6:59 p.m.

I’m still one minute early.

Standing in the middle of this large, empty space, a tiny prickling builds at the back of my neck.

Do I think that maybe college book clubbers just might not be that punctual?

Do I wonder if maybe I’ve gotten the wrong day?

Do I consider that there may be another room here in the Commons where the book club is actually meeting?

No.

Instead, my mind goes to all the places it usually does when I fear I’ve been people-ing incorrectly: This was all an elaborate

scheme to make the odd freshman girl look like a fool. I was targeted in the cafeteria as the one to be punked. Everyone saw

me coming and thought, No, not her , and quickly left out the back door.

My breath quickens and my chest is tight. I struggle to take in air. Because even though I know rationally that all of that

is likely untrue, my social anxiety whispers all these outrageous what-ifs.

And though book people are supposed to be my safe space, I rarely get to meet any of them in person. Maybe I’m not so safe

after all.

A hand settles gently at the small of my back. “Guess we’re early,” Aiden says softly. In the midst of my internal meltdown,

I forgot he was even here.

It’s oddly comforting, his barely there touch and his steady voice.

The front door opens, and I swing my head around as a group of people enters. I quickly take a step away from Aiden.

They’re chitchatting, friendly, smiling. Not one of them looks like they’re about to say “gotcha” and laugh in my face.

The guy from the cafeteria approaches me with two others. “Irene, I’m glad you came. I was just telling the others here that you’re a famous book reviewer online.”

He’s dressed in well-worn blue jeans, a plain white T-shirt, and a gray cardigan.

Oh.

It’s like looking in a mirror.

Awkward.

He has on thick tortoiseshell glasses that make his green eyes pop. And to top it all off, perfectly side-combed hair, complete

with a yellow pencil, fresh red eraser, tucked behind his ear.

He looks like he walked off the pages of a dictionary under the word “collegiate scholar.” Unintentional couples outfit aside,

I can’t take my eyes off him.

“Also, I don’t think I properly introduced myself this afternoon. I’m Garrett.” He holds out his hand, and just as I’m about

to shake it, I’m cut off at the pass. My handshake-to-lovers quest has been cockblocked by none other than Aiden Jeon.

“What’s up, man, I’m Aiden.”

“Hey, nice to meet you.” The two shake hands like they’re long-lost lovers and I’m just here to clean their chamber pots.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” one of the others says, reaching out her hand toward me. I grab it immediately before it can

be stolen from me and shake a bit too vigorously. “I’m Jenna. I follow you online and your reviews are the best. We align

on almost everything.”

“Hi, Jenna,” I say, finally releasing her hand. “So you read romance, then?”

She nods, and with each bob of her head, I feel my chest loosening and my shoulders relaxing.

More voices make their way into the Commons, and in short order, a group of about twenty of us has gathered, grabbing random

chairs and sitting in a blob-shaped formation.

I sit down. Garrett takes a seat to my right and, you guessed it, winks at me. Again. And it’s not any less weird now that

I know his name.

I feel the air turn frigid and black to my left. I don’t even have to look to know that Aiden has taken the other seat next

to me. I can smell him.

I hate that he smells so good.

I find out that most of the group has met for years, all of them coming in and out as they’ve attended Brighton College. There’s

a nice camaraderie here, and I remind myself that I’m one of them, a book person, even though this is one of the first times

I’ve been this person face-to-face with others, instead of behind a screen.

“Let me kick us off since I was the one who chose this month’s selection. Hopefully you had time to read it over the summer

break,” someone I haven’t yet met says to the group, giving a pointed look in everyone’s general direction. “I’ve been itching

for us to get into a classic horror novel, so I felt Salem’s Lot was the perfect choice. Do you agree?”

Nods around the room.

“Hey, sorry to interrupt you, Jackson, man, but do you think we could do quick introductions first? We’ve got a couple new

people joining us today,” Garrett says. “I’ll go first? I’m Garrett Karl, fourth-year philosophy major. My favorite authors

are Kerouac, Vonnegut, and George R. R. Martin, in that order.”

Fourth-year. Older man. Age gap. Dude-bro taste in books aside, this could be interesting.

He holds his hand out to me, palm up. Does he want me to hold his hand, stand up and come sit on his lap, what? What are these

social cues I’m unaccustomed to?

He nods, encouraging me.

“Um, yes, sorry, hi, I’m Irene. I’m a freshman here at Brighton studying contemporary literature. And my favorite authors

are Nalini Singh, Ms. Beverly Jenkins, and Queen Nora Roberts...”

“Amen,” Jenna says.

I also hear a few snickers around the room. Just wait until the club pick is a romance book. We’ll see who’s snickering then.

“I, um, haven’t had a chance to read the book. But I’m excited to be here.”

I hold my breath for a second once I’m done, hoping no one is disappointed or calls me out for not reading this week’s book

choice.

But all eyes quickly move on to my left.

“Hey, I’m Aiden. I’m actually newer to reading. Didn’t really grow up with books or anything, so now I’m devouring anything

and everything to catch up. I’m particularly loving romance novels, so I’m open to recs. I can’t narrow down my favorites

to just three authors. Call me easy, I like to play the field.”

Everyone laughs at Aiden’s easy intro. Of course they do.

We go around the circle and the rest of the group introduce themselves. Everyone seems harmless enough. This might end up

being a permanent thing. Look at me colleging like the best of them.

“Okay, can we get on to talking about King, please?”

And so it goes... my first book club meeting only sneaking stares at Garrett the Fourth Year every ten minutes or so, while

avoiding throwing daggers at Aiden the First Year the entire time.

“Did you have a good time? Have we convinced you to read King?”

I turn around from the refreshments table with my hands full of Danish butter cookies, the kind that come in the round blue

tin and only seem to make an appearance during the holidays.

“Um, yes, I had a really good time. It’s fascinating to me how people can read the exact same words and come away with very different ideas of what the story is about. I love that about books,” I say. Garrett’s eyes lock on mine, looking deeply at me in a way that would have me physically swooning, if I knew what that actually looked like.

Instead, I swallow and try hard not to break the connection. Damn, these cookies are dry.

Garrett continues to stare. One second, two, three. Um. His gaze should make me feel... considered, seen, interesting.

But honestly, I feel more... uncomfortable, under a spotlight, suspicious.

What could a guy like Garrett possibly see in someone like me?

“I checked out some of your reviews online before I came. A million followers, that’s incredible,” he says. “I’d love to get

some romance book recs from you sometime. Are you free for dinner? I promise to save you from the school cafeteria.”

Everything about him is perfect.

So why isn’t my heart racing? Why aren’t I willing to throw all caution to the wind? In a last-minute audible, I decide to

switch the trope in my head from instalove to age-gap romance. I look at Garrett through a different lens. Older, more experienced,

caretaker... I can go with this. I can be the inexperienced ingenue.

“Yeah, I’d love to go out for dinner,” I say. “And of course, I’m happy to recommend some novels for you to read to dip your toe into the genre. But only if you can recommend some of your favorites in return.”

“Perfect. Let’s plan for next Tuesday night. There’s a really great Italian place just off campus, Lupa Trattoria, that you’ll

love.”

He says the words with an Italian flair. He’s probably well traveled. He tells me I’ll love it, because he himself has tried

it and can open up my taste buds to only the best foods.

I smile at Garrett, only briefly distracted by seeing Aiden’s familiar back heading quickly out the door.

Okay, age-gap romance. Let’s do this. I am ready.