The Rom Con

“So you’re saying she should be smart and capable, but in a nonthreatening way? Huh. Never heard that one before.” We share a knowing eye roll.

“I guess I just don’t want it to come across like she’s sacrificing her true self for him, you know?” I say, twisting my hair up into a messy bun and sticking a pen through it. “I want the reader to root for her.”

She nods, pondering that as she pets a softly purring Pyewacket. “I think you’re still looking at this the wrong way, like anything you do for a man means you’re losing part of yourself. A big part of relationships is sacrifice, of course, but it doesn’t have to diminish you. For example . . .”

I nod eagerly, fingers poised and ready atop my keyboard, and she smirks.

“For example, I used to touch up my makeup before your grandpa got home from work. I didn’t do it because I was afraid for him to see me without it, or because I thought he wanted me to look a certain way. I did it because I wanted him to know he was the worth the effort.” Her eyes soften, the hint of a smile playing on her lips. “And I didn’t view making him dinner as an imposition or an expectation; I did it because I wanted him to be excited to come home to me at night. I wanted him to feel as taken care of as he always made me feel.”

As she recounts the memories, she gets a dreamy, far-off look in her eyes, some color returning to her cheeks. “He did things for me, too, of course. He made me coffee every morning. He always let me pick the movie. He even read the books I liked so we could talk about them. If I wanted to leave a party, he’d make himself out to be the antisocial one, or invent some embarrassing story, like he had the runs.” She chuckles to herself, absentmindedly fingering the wedding ring she’s never taken off. “Every Saturday morning, he would run some errand with the boys—getting the car washed, going to the hardware store, whatever—just to give me some quiet time by myself. And they’d always come home with flowers.”

Just watching her reminisce, seeing the joy the memories still bring her, is enough to make my eyes well up. Aw hell, not again. I set my computer aside, leaning over to grab a tissue from the box on her nightstand.

“Oh sweetie, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to upset you,” she says, worry bracketing her eyes. I think my parents must have called some secret family meeting about me, because I’ve started to recognize everyone’s identical looks of concern, their unflagging commitment to cheerfulness in my presence. And I get it, I suppose—I’ve been so weepy these past few weeks, I feel permanently waterlogged. I’m a blubbering Diane Keaton in Something’s Gotta Give, only instead of looking out on a stunning Hamptons shoreline, I’m squatting in Gran’s guest bedroom.

“You just lived such an incredible love story,” I say, swiping at my tears. “I feel so far from that.”

She clucks her tongue in dissent. “I don’t think it’s as far away as you think it is.”

I groan through my sniffling. “Oh, come on.”

“What? You told me all the things you did for Jack. You went out of your way to make him feel special, to let him know you were thinking of him. You gave him the emotional support he wasn’t getting from other people in his life. You let your guard down with him in a way you haven’t with anyone else. You even cooked for him and didn’t spontaneously combust!” She pauses. “Well, kinda.”

Even I have to laugh a little at that one.

She finds my hand and squeezes it. “Most of the lies you told were meant to protect him. You made some mistakes, sure, but you had his best interests at heart. I think that’s a relationship to be proud of.”

“Is this supposed to be making me feel better?” I say miserably. “That I had a great love story and lost it?”

I flop back on the pillow next to her and heave a watery sigh, staring up at her popcorn ceiling like it’ll have the answers for me. I’m so tired of crying over him—especially since I know he’s not doing the same.

She reaches over to stroke my hair, and Pyewacket gives me the hairy eyeball, as if to say: Watch yourself, interloper. “You’ll have to forgive yourself eventually,” Gran says softly.

I pinch my eyes closed, as if doing so will somehow stop the tears from leaking out. This lump in my throat feels like a boulder. “I’m not the one who needs to forgive me,” I say thickly. “And anyway, who says I’ve forgiven him?”

She hums. “A man’s ego is a tricky thing. I was married for fifty years and I still managed to get on the wrong side of it a time or two. You both just have to be willing to work through the rough patches.”

“Is this where you’re gonna tell me not to go to bed angry?”

“No, I went to bed angry plenty of times. But anger is like fire—if you don’t feed it, it eventually burns out. You just need to give it a little time.”

I let out a hollow laugh. “Please, he’s had plenty of time. It’s been weeks and he hasn’t reached out once. I’d say that’s sending a pretty clear message.” If there’s one thing I refuse to do, it’s hang on to false hope. “I’m not going to sit around crying and staring out the window, pining for someone who can’t be bothered.”

She arches a brow, side-eyeing the soggy, crumpled tissue balled in my fist.

“Fine, I will occasionally still cry, but I draw the line at the pining. Pining is a bridge too far! I need to move on with my life,” I say firmly, hoisting myself up to a sitting position and sliding the computer back onto my lap. “And you need to hold me accountable.”

“In that case, my friend Dolores has a single grandson . . .” she singsongs, and I raise my hand to stop that train of thought in its tracks.

“Not that kind of moving on. The kind where I write a bestselling novel that takes the literary world by storm.” I squint at my screen, reading over the notes I just made.

“Ah. Well, I suppose that’s for the best right now anyway,” she sniffs, giving me a once-over. “Since no man would take a chance on someone who insists on wearing a blanket as clothing.”

I gasp in mock-offense. “It’s called a Snuggie! And it’s insanely comfortable.”

“It’s hideous, is what it is. Luckily I don’t judge.” She eyes me askance as she feels around on the bedspread for the remote. “Now if I did judge, I’d tell you it’s an abomination that would scare off any man within a ten-mile radius.”

I wave a hand dismissively. “Pfft. Who’s here to see it? No one.”

“I lost my mobility, not my eyesight,” she huffs. “Besides, why would you ever hide that adorable figure? It is an absolute crime. If I were you, I’d be prancing around in a bikini.”

“Oh really, in November?”

“Especially in November. Think of the attention you’d get! You wouldn’t need an old list of husband-catching tips, I can promise you that much.”

I bark a loud laugh, and Pyewacket signals her disapproval at the disturbance by arching her back. I scratch her head in apology.

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