My mother learned a new skill since I was last here. She can now boil water!
I note the stack of my novels prominently displayed on her coffee table. At least someone’s proud of my career choice, even if, after my first book was published, that certain someone suggested I get a “real job with benefits” or find a “real man with money.”
I guarantee she hasn’t so much as parted the pages or read a word. What matters are the words above my name, indicating that I’m a bestselling author.
Or was.
For her, having a daughter with that kind of accomplishment is social currency, even if she fundamentally disagrees with my career choice.
The thing to know about Monique Darling is that everything is for show.
“I’m fine, Mom. Justdeadline stress.”
She harrumphs and passes me a cup of tea.
“How’s life in the village?” I ask.
“Oh, you know. Bridge on Tuesdays, bingo on Thursdays, and Irene from 8E is definitely having an affair with the maintenance man. If you use that in one of your books, be sure to change the names to protect the innocent.” She sits across from me, her eyes bright with gossip.
I think she means “the guilty,” and my books never contain affairs—the men are upstanding and the women have class, even if they are a little feisty.
“Mildred, who runs the book club, has been reading your new series. She wants to know when will you find yourself a Clay Cassidy of your own?”
This question shouldn’t surprise me, but the specificity does and I nearly choke on my tea. Clay Cassidy is my most popular hero—a rugged cowboy with a heart of gold and with the kind of magnetic charm that causes readers to refer to him as their book boyfriend. At least that’s what they leave in reviews and what I’ve read in fan emails and on social media.
“Those men don’t exist in real life, Mom. That’s why they sell so well.”
“Nonsense. Your father was my Clay Cassidy.”
This surprises me. Dad passed when I was seventeen, and Mom rarely talks about him. The man in my memories is kind but ordinary—an engineer who wasn’t equipped to practice soccer with me and despite his focus on meticulous measurements, he made terrible pancakes on Sundays.
“Was he?” I ask softly.
She smiles, lost in a memory. “He brought me coffee in bed every morning for thirty years. Not because I asked, rather because he wanted to see me smile first thing. That’s romance, Bree.”
“Or was it because he knew when you madecoffee, grounds somehow always ended up in the pot?” I tease gently. This must be why she sticks to tea. To be honest, it’s a bit watery and tepid.
She chuckles because it’s true. We talk for a while longer—not truly as a mother-daughter pair who became friends after I grew up. She’s chummier with the ladies in the village community center than she is with me. It’s fine. I’m used to it. While love comes in many forms, I’ve accepted that it’s not something that’ll come my way—not the familial kind or romantic type either.
Cupid missed when he aimed his arrow at me.
Nonetheless, I leave Mom’s apartment with her words echoing in my head.
That’s romance, Bree.
Is it though?
All I’ve seen in my own love life is disappointment wrapped in false promises and missing a bow. It’s much easier to create fictional love stories than to risk my heart on a real one.
My phone buzzes. This time it’s not Meredith—it’s my landlord in Cheyenne telling me they’re keeping the security deposit. When I moved in, the closet door was broken, the tile in the shower was already moldy, and the microwave didn’t work. I promise!
I do the mental math I’ve been avoiding.
Savings account: depleted by living expenses.
Emergency fund: gone after the purchase of four new tires.
The advance from my last book: already spent on student loan payments I can’t defer anymore.
