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 islegit. 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 ofmy 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 HathawayOne Daysort 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 seehim, 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 combedback 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 lovesallliterature. 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’slovelyeyes 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.
