Page 1

One

I’m living a romcom. Right here. Right now.

I stand on the corner of Lavender Drive and Grove Way, waiting by the flower garden that’s grown there.

I am Tom Hanks waiting for Meg Ryan to round the corner, only genders reversed.

All I need is a golden retriever at my side.

I don’t own a dog, and Rosalie, my roommate and bestie, refused to let me buy one for today.

Still… this is legit . The set-up couldn’t be more perfect.

My adrenaline rushes. I feel it in my veins—it’s a good feeling. I like this feeling. It says, Something exciting, powerful, and life-changing is about to happen to you, Fran Fairchild .

I pull out my phone and make a note.

1:25 p.m. Adrenaline rush.

I lick my lips, and the sweet essence of the strawberry oil washes over my tongue.

I run my hands down the pleats of my robin’s-egg blue skirt, letting my fingers slide over the light rayon fabric.

A slight breeze whirls around my bare knees, calves, and ankles.

I dig the toe of one white tennis shoe into the hard dirt path I stand on, contemplating whether I should have dyed my hair blonde for this date.

Leading ladies are so often blonde. I saved my tips from the diner, and I got a haircut—at an actual salon.

I didn’t force Rosalie to do it for me. Just a two-inch trim, but now my hair sits on my shoulders. However, it’s still brown.

The thing is, I like my warm chestnut brown. It’s charming in an Anne Hathaway One Day sort of way. At least, that’s what I’m going for. That, and dye was way out of my budget. So my hair may not be blonde, but it’s already naturally a happy color and a happy cut. Why mess with that?

But then… is it a happy Meg Ryan cut?

I’m not sure.

Looks should be irrelevant though. Shouldn’t they? I’m not looking for a Cary Grant or Ryan Gosling, just a good human. A storybook romance. Someone who will complete me in every possible way and make me happy. Someone I can love and bring joy to in return.

Is that too much to ask for?

I’m spiraling. Over hair. It feels less great than the anticipation adrenaline rush of before…

I bite my cheek and tap the screen of my phone to make another note when I see him , and I pause all typing.

My breath hitches. 1:29 p.m. I shove my phone into my pocket—I’ll need to remember to write that down. For research. It’s an excited breath hitching.

Lance isn’t wearing a baseball cap today. He wears one to the diner every now and then. Today, his hair is combed back and to the side. He’s styled it with gel, marking this day a special occasion.

And—he’s smiling.

Smiling !

Smiling is always a good sign.

Mental note: 1:30 p.m. Lance smiles and my heart beats faster.

Smiling means something. I am certain. I told Professor Ellington that once, and she laughed. The woman must have a heart—she’s married. Someone liked her enough to propose. Isn’t that proof that once upon a time, Ellington had a heart and smiled?

I really thought an English professor would appreciate my literary hypothesis more. Ellington says she loves all literature. But she laughed at me. It’s one of the reasons I’m turning my theory into a research paper. She’ll see. I will have time-stamped proof.

1:31 p.m. I keep my eyes on the prize.

Lance pads up the path until his brown eyes—or maybe they’re a charming hazel—lift.

Either way, Lance’s lovely eyes meet mine.

I am the only woman standing on this corner.

I am the only one in a blue skirt, white eyelet top, and white tennis shoes, which is the exact description I gave him.

Yes, I purposely wore his favorite color.

Details, people. I am excellent at details.

1:32 p.m. His brow narrows and his smile falters.

Scratch that note—it’s obsolete.

That smile is going to return. We just need to speak to one another.

“ Fran ?” he says, and his mouth is doing that Elvis cringy curl .

I’m not sure I love it, but I don’t hate it. It could be cute, attractive, even… I could get used to it. Maybe .

“Fran from the café?” Yes, he’s just figured out that our blind date isn’t all that blind.

I hold out my arms like the gift that I am—because I am delightful, people. Utterly, freaking delightful. “Surprise!”

The curl in his lip persists. And it’s official—I am not a fan. “You’re hopelessly devoted?” He says, calling me by my email address.

“Surprise,” I lamely say for the second time. It’s the curl in his lip. It’s throwing me off. If Lance would just smile again, I’m certain I could think of something else to say.

“Wait,” he says, and I’m happy to say that the curl falters with his words. His lips flatten out into a straight line. He’s still holding back on the smile. “You knew it was going to be me?”

I wrinkle my nose and grin. “You caught me.” I hold my hands together, mentally scanning how I feel about revealing this secret to Lance.

Huh . The jury is out.

Until—

“So, you knew this whole time?” he says again, only this time that curl is on steroids, and he sounds a little… hmm … what’s the word? Pissed ?

“Actually, yes.” My fingers grapple at my skirt. The very one I wore just to please him.

“We’ve been emailing for two weeks?—”

“And talking at the café for a month and a half!” I add, because it feels important. He’s fond of Fran the server who always keeps his coffee topped off.

“Exactly,” he says as if the fact condemns me more than it helps me. “And this whole time, you knew you were emailing me?”

I clear my throat. Because anger is not how I expected this romcom remake to go.

“How did you get my email address? I thought it was an accident. You said you added one too many R’s in bucktrackerr. Is that true?”

I clamp my teeth down on my bottom lip. Every time I do a remake, there’s a bit of fabrication involved. I’m not a liar. I’m a strategist. “Remember a couple weeks ago when you filled out that newsletter form for the café?”

His eyes search the ground, and I see it the minute he recalls. His eyes flick up to me. “The free pancake form?”

“Yeah,” I say, my tone brightening because I’m certain I can save this date after all.

But Lance scoffs. He shouldn’t, it’s so not attractive on him. There is nothing Tom Hanks about that scoff. “So, you stole my email from the free pancake form?”

“Not stole.” I shake my head. “You handed it right over to me, remember?”

Lance throws back his head, those dirty brown eyes (without a speck of hazel) darting up to the clear blue sky. He laughs sardonically. “You stole my email and pretended not to know who I was while sending me message after message after message.”

“Well, when you say it like that—” I start, but quickly rush to defend myself. “You sent me just as many messages. I just replied!”

He runs a hand through his hair, only he’s gelled it expertly and it doesn’t give. It’s like running his hand into a man-made rock wall on top of his head. “You tricked me into meeting you?— ”

“ You are the one who suggested we meet!” I spout.

But he isn’t listening. “Yet all this time, you knew that we’d already met.” Lance shakes his head, and while I’m not a mind reader, I would venture that he isn’t thrilled at the moment. “Are you like some kind of catfishing stalker?”

“Cat—” I cough—at 1:36 p.m. I choke on the word ‘catfish’ and skip to the second insult in that title. “Stalker? I’m not a stalker. I thought we had a connection. You said we had a connection!”

“I thought I was emailing a stranger. I thought you were a student, not a waitress.”

“I am a student. I go to the university?—”

“And,” he says, eyes piercing me, “I thought you were blonde .”

I pull in a gasp and muster all my energy into not feeling offended. But it’s difficult. So, so difficult.

I shake my head and try to salvage this date that truly hasn’t even begun. I have plans! Things set in place that I’d really like to play out. “Have you never seen You’ve Got Mail ?”

He grunts, that curling lip reappearing. “No.”

“It’s a classic. It’s about enemies who become friends who become more, and it all starts with them sending emails.

” I soften my tone and smile at him, offering him a little grace after that blonde comment.

I’m not gonna lie, it takes every ounce of compassion in me to do it. “It’s sweet and romantic and?—”

“Does she catfish him too?”

“There’s no catfishing! Not here and not in that movie.

In the film, he’s the one who knows who she is.

And when they meet up, and she realizes who he is and that she’s been talking to him the entire time, she is perfectly lovely about it all.

She’s happy, even. She throws her arms around him, and she kisses him.

” She does not accuse him of lying about his hair color—but I don’t mention that.

No, I stare at Lance, waiting for his apology so we can begin this amazing date I’ve planned. I’m too far in to give up now.

“So, there is catfishing involved. And you find that romantic?”

I stomp my foot—just a little twenty-five-year-old tantrum. It’s not my fault. Lance is being a dummy. “How many times do I have to say this? I didn’t catfish you! Everything I said in those emails was true.”

“Except—” He holds up one finger—one condemning finger. “You aren’t blonde.”

“I never said I was blonde!”

Lance throws a hand my way and grumbles, “I’m pretty sure you did.” He scowls and peers all around me—head, shoulders, knees, and toes—but never does he meet my eyes. “I’m out of here,” he says.

“Wait! Aren’t we going to lunch?” Yes—I’m still trying. I promise myself here and now to never tell Rosalie.

Another scoff as he backs two steps away from me. “That’s not happening. Not now. Not ever. Thanks for ruining my afternoon as well as my favorite coffee shop. I won’t be back.”

The western sun shines down on us, but instead of warming me, it’s melting me. I am going to be a puddle of sticky, icky goo for someone to step in at any moment.