“No. It’s kind of depressing, actually.”
For proof, I show him the first profile that comes up. It’s a thirty-four-year-old named Ted with a teardrop tattoo. I reckon he’s killed before. Next is a guy in a corduroy newsboy cap, which could be acceptable if I were into the gaunt-faced, troubled, and egotistical academic types.
“You’re being picky. Look at this one.” He points to the third guy, Dax, who is rocking a skinny polka-dot tie. He’s above average in looks, with tired yet gentle eyes, a little nerdy, innocent. And will probably shatter my brittle heart to pieces all the same. “His bio says he likes chicken nuggets and quantum physics. You practically live off chicken nuggets. This could be your soul mate.”
“I don’t think my soul mate is on Tinder. And he looks like his mom still cuts his nuggets for him into tiny bite-size pieces.”
“If you say so.”
I show him the next guy. “And then there’s this one. With the dog.”
“What’s wrong with the dog?”
“He doesn’t look like a dog guy to me, which tells me he’s a manipulative sociopath who stole someone’s dog to masquerade as his own.”
Trevor lets out a soft sigh and heads into the hallway. “Well, I’d love to stand here and make sweeping, very specific judgments about internet strangers, but I’m heading out for errands. Need anything at the grocery store? Fruits or vegetables, perhaps?” he asks teasingly.
I follow him to the entryway. “Hey, I eat a perfectly balanced, healthy diet. And you certainly haven’t been complaining about my cupcakes.” I’ve gotten into the habit of baking Betty Crocker cupcakes from the box every weekend out of pure boredom (and gluttony). Each batch has been devoured quickly, thanks to Trevor.
He levels me with a knowing look. “Name one fruit or vegetable you like.”
I rack my brain. My entire life, I’ve been a notoriously picky eater. Dad used to make me sit at the table for hours until I finished my dinner. I’d hold out until he’d cave and make me something I liked, like nuggets. Even two weeks ago, Crystal and Scott tried to make me eat a piece of cooked asparagus and I almost cried because of the texture.
“I like pickles,” I announce.
“Pickles?” A smile flirts at the corner of his lips for a fraction of a second as he slips his arm into his jacket. “Fine. I’ll buy you a jar.”
“Oh, okay, but make sure they’re dill pickles. I don’t like sweet—”
A knock at the door interrupts me. Trevor pulls it open to reveal Grandma Flo.
? chapter four
GRANDMA FLO IS here for our Live video session a solid forty-five minutes early to “prepare.”
As she slips off her extra-grip orthopedic winter boots, I take one of her grocery bags. This one is full of yarn and a box of digestive biscuits. “Grandma, this is my roommate, Trevor.”
Grandma Flo tosses her coat at me and scrutinizes him with her sharp hazel eyes for an uncomfortable amount of time. “Roommate? Your new roommate is a man?” she asks, aghast.
“He’s a colleague of Scott’s. At the firehouse,” I emphasize, in an attempt to lessen the shock, lest she assume he’s some unvetted Craigslist stranger who’s angling to roast my bones to make a ceremonial broth.
Her expression softens, as I knew it would. “You’re a firefighter? My husband, Marty, is a career firefighter. Retired now, of course.”
“I’ve worked at the BFD with Scotty for about ten years now,” Trevor says.
His overt hide-your-wife-kids-and-extended-family vibes aside, Flo seems satisfied by Trevor’s public service career. She shakes his hand and even gives him the afghan she knit me as a housewarming gift. It’s a vibrant green, white, and orange, to remind me of my half-Irish heritage. When I make a show of draping it over the entire length of the couch, Trevor pretends to stroke it lovingly while subtly eyeing it like an evil object.
Grandma admires Trevor as she makes herself comfortable on the couch. “You know, you could be one of those shirtless male models on a book cover. Tara, do you have any connections? Maybe you can get this man some modeling work.”
Unsure how to respond to that, Trevor flashes me a funny, closed-mouth grin.
“Grandma, I told you I don’t have real publishing connections. I’m a book reviewer,” I remind her. Ever since I managed to get her an early copy of a new Danielle Steel book, she’s under the false impression that I have some sort of clout in the publishing industry at large.
She waves me off. “Trevor, would you like to join us for our Live video? We’re talking about romance books.” She bounces her thin penciled brows to entice him.
“I’d love to, ma’am,” he says, all kind-eyed and gentlemanlike, “but I’m going grocery shopping. I’ve gotta pick up some fruits and vegetables for Tara before she dies of malnutrition.”
I meet his smart-ass smile with a glower, because I know exactly how Grandma Flo is going to react: with another lecture about how I’ll never find a husband if I don’t cook.
As expected, she’s severely disappointed in me, shaking her head as though she’s failed as a grandmother. “Tara has never been one for domestic life. Certainly doesn’t take after me. You know, at age ten, I could whip up a gourmet meal. Any meal. From memory,” she brags, tapping her head. “I take it you still haven’t made use of the cookbook I gave you?” she asks me. For my thirtieth birthday, she gifted me a cookbook she found at a yard sale titled Easy-Peasy Recipes for One.
“Um, yeah. I’ve used it,” I lie, dodging eye contact entirely.
Ignoring me, she begins to indulge Trevor with some tales of my personal failings in the kitchen, including the time I microwaved tinfoil. Trevor finds this all too amusing.
“Dear, did you find a dress for your big Valentine’s Day gala yet?” Grandma asks me eagerly.
My stomach fills with dread at the mere mention of the gala, despite the fact that Valentine’s Day is my favorite holiday. The gala is an annual Boston Children’s Hospital fundraiser for medical research. This year, it happens to fall on Valentine’s Day. In keeping with the theme, the money will go toward the Children’s Heart Center.
The hospital staff treat this event like it’s senior prom. I’m talking formal wear, makeup, updos, and limo rentals. Last year was the first time I elected to work instead (due to life implosion). And while I toyed with the idea of skipping it again this year in favor of self-loathing on the couch in a haze of Cheeto dust, spending Valentine’s Day alone feels a little too depressing.
I give her a wary look. “How did you even know about it?”
“I saw you clicked Attending on the Facebook,” she says flippantly. “I could crochet you a dress if you’d like.”
I pretend not to be horrified at the prospect of a hand-knit evening gown. “I was thinking of buying something, Grandma. But thank you.”
Luckily, she doesn’t appear too put out by my decline of her crochet services. She quickly gets sidetracked with a story about how she once crocheted an outfit for my mom and how Mom didn’t appreciate the craftsmanship because she isn’t a “domestic goddess,” either. At some point during the rant, Trevor manages to make his quiet escape.
Once he’s gone, Grandma Flo tells me about her new Instagram account, LoopsWithFlo. It seems Crystal and I are no longer the only social media influencers in the family.
“I already have fifty friends,” she gloats, shoving her iPad an inch from my face to prove it.
I pace the living room, scrolling through her feed. She’s documented all her latest creations: hats, blankets, scarves, mittens. She’s even gotten the hang of filters and hashtags (#knittersofinstagram, #wool, #makersgonnamake). “They’re called followers on Instagram, Grandma.”
She takes a tiny bird bite of her digestive biscuit. “I want to learn how to get more friends.”
“Crystal would know more than me, but it looks like you’re only posting once every few days,” I say, passing the iPad back to her. “You have to post consistently, daily even, to get maximum exposure.”
She one-finger types ask crystal about friends in her Notes app while I set up my tripod and phone in front of the couch. Once Grandma Flo is satisfied the angle doesn’t accentuate her neck wrinkles, it’s showtime.
LIVE WITH TARAROMANCEQUEEN—SECOND-CHANCE ROMANCE
EXCERPT FROM TRANSCRIPT
[Tara and Grandma Flo sit side by side on a leather couch, knit afghan draped over their laps. Flo sips tea and scrutinizes her own image. Tara smiles happily into the camera.]