Page 2

I swallow, the nerves inside of my body twisting into painful knots.

I cross my arms over my aching chest, all done trying to salvage any part of this date.

“You know what you are, Lance?” I say, because I need the last word.

Because I’ve been nice. I planned a perfectly lovely date that we will both be missing out on now. “You are a brunettist!”

He glances back, his brows furrowed and his poopy-brown eyes glowering.

“That’s right! The truth is out. You’re prejudiced against brunettes. Well, we’re people too! That’s right, you thick-headed man who can’t even spell buck-tracker, brunettes are people too!”

“Brunettes are people too?” Rosalie says. She’s giving me a pointed stare across this couch, one that makes me think she’s replaying the whole scene in her head. And yeah—I did not listen to myself. I told her the entire story, including how long it took me to ditch prejudice Lance.

She doesn’t seem to find it all that offensive though.

What does Rosalie know? She has hair the color of wheat that rains down her back like a waterfall.

Plus, she has the most romantic name in the history of ever.

Her parents were in tune with the gods of romance when they named her.

Mr. and Mrs. Conrad are the sweetest—of course they’d give their daughter a beautiful name.

While I am named Fran —Frances, if you want to get technical, after my grandfather . You heard that right—grand father . Does it get more masculine than that? Does it get any less romantic? It’s no wonder Lance said my name as if it were a dirty spoon, leaving a bad taste in his mouth.

The gods of romantic names were on break when I was named.

My mother wasn’t all that thrilled about giving birth to me.

My dad, who decided Mom was right all along about this parenting gig and ditched us eight years later, tried to cheer her up by telling her that she could be the one to name me.

He wouldn’t interfere. Gee, thanks, Dad.

Only Mom didn’t give a hoot about naming me.

She never once considered what I’d have to live with.

She was named Josephine—after her grandfather Joseph.

And so, when the nurse came in asking for a name, she laid the same fate on me.

Except that Josephine is perfectly beautiful and graceful.

Like Jo March, for heaven’s sake. Whereas Frances is practical, plain, and unpleasant.

“Fran,” Rosalie says, interrupting my thoughts.

I blink back to reality, my best friend coming into focus once more. “He’s a hairist, Rose.”

Rosalie slaps her forehead with the butt of her hand. “You’re making up words again.”

“I’m not. If I’d been blonde, he would have taken me to lunch—he basically said so himself!”

“Well, then you don’t want him, do you?” She sighs. It’s dramatic, but then I kind of like a little drama. It’s one reason remakes and I go so well together.

“You’re right. I don’t want him. Not in the least.” I bite my inner cheek, because while Lance may have been all wrong for me, I still wanted to finish out that date. I had lunch at a local bookshop waiting for us, with a Noel Streatfield book as the centerpiece.

She reaches across the couch and takes my hand. “Are you okay, sweetie?”

I sigh. “I’m fine.” And I am. “Just disappointed.”

“Fran, you’ve always been pretty into… your cause . But things have gotten a little out of hand. You and that app and those movies.”

“I didn’t even meet Lance on HeartLink. And why would you say it like that— those movies ,” I say, dramatizing her words as if I were a very stuffy British professor.

“Romance films are movies too. Like any other movie.” Only they are the very best kind of movie.

But I don’t mention that as I am currently preaching impartiality.

“Oh no. You don’t get to turn me into Lance’s sidekick. I’m just saying what you already know.”

I pull in a breath and stare past my best friend—all the way over to the old brown cuckoo clock that used to belong to Rosalie’s grandma.

It’s been in our apartment living room for two years, since Rose’s grandmother passed.

And it’s taken me two years to get used to the noise.

It goes off every hour. Every single hour .

It doesn’t care that Fran is sleeping at three a.m., it’s still going to cuckoo three times.

“I know. I am as consistent as your cuckoo,” I tell her. “But Rosalie?—”

“I know, sweetie. You believe in romance. You believe in happily ever after. It’s one of the things that I love about you.”

It’s how Rosalie and I bonded. Her freshman year of college, she came into the diner to study. I waited on her and told her everything about Sweet Home Alabama —scene by scene. Six months later, we were roommates. We’ve been together ever since.

Instead, she wraps one arm around me. “When are you coming to my school?”

“Not until next week. Is that okay?”

“Whenever you want. I will make sure that all of my second graders are prepared with love stories for you.”

I scoot close to my friend and lean my head against her shoulder. “Thanks, Rose.”

“You’ll find your person,” Rosalie says. “ And I know this research paper for Ellington has you stressed. But remember why you started all this in the first place.”

“Because I believe in love.”

“You do. You believe in love, you believe in the romcom, you believe in happily ever after.” Rosalie truly is the best friend a girl could ask for. She believes in me and my cause—no matter the color of my hair.