by Lila Monroe
April finally cracks a smile. “The museum was our place,” she says, collapsing on our threadbare couch with a sigh. “Now I’m going to have to avoid it . . . and everywhere we used to go together.”
“This is why I don’t share my favorite spots until at least the four-month mark,” I agree. “Or date anyone in the neighborhood. Sure, it’s convenient to have them bring over takeout on a Friday night, but then you’re stuck wearing full makeup just to run errands, because the one day you’re in your grubbiest sweats is, of course, the one day you’re going to run into him and his gorgeous new fling.”
April squeezes my hand. “I’m sorry.”
“What? No, this is about you!” I insist. “And you can do so much better than Patrick. I never liked him,” I add, supportive. “He always ate his fries bare. No ketchup, no mayo . . . Who does that?”
“A psychopath, that’s who.” April smiles wider. “I know . . . He wasn’t the one, but we were still having fun. Or so I thought. But I guess I wasn’t fun enough . . .”
“Maybe you should have dressed up as a cave woman,” I joke, trying to cheer her up. “Done some sexy Neolithic roleplay to spice it up.”
April laughs. “At least now I won’t have to scrub myself down after work every time I have a date. Note to self: don’t date a guy with pollen allergies again.”
“Yeah, that should be a deal-breaker.” I look around our apartment, which, sure enough, is brimming with gorgeous bouquets. Just one of the perks of living with a floral designer. Sometimes, I wonder if she picked me from the stack of roommate applications just because of my name.
“Anyway, much as I love the fruits of your stress-cleaning, you need to have some fun,” I tell her, getting up. “And by fun, I mean mimosas.”
“It’s 9 a.m.!”
“It’s the weekend!” I reply.
“Well . . . Natalie did say something about press invites to some new rooftop bar opening . . . ?” April offers, looking perkier.
“Perfect! I have a meeting, but I’ll meet you guys there this afternoon,” I say, giving her a quick hug. “And I promise, you’ll be fine. We’ll find you a guy who loves condiments!”
* * *
I get dressed and head out for the day, saying hello to Mrs. Shen outside her market stall on the corner—and picking up some mango for the ride. Our apartment building is squeezed in a bustling corner between Chinatown and the Lower East Side; April loves it because she’s close to the flower market, and I love it because it’s still cheap enough to afford on my, umm, unpredictable income. Although, these days, business is really heating up—and not just because of my favorite manwhore, Dylan. Thanks to some hustle and word of mouth, I’ve managed to tap into a goldmine of rich but romantically challenged trust-fund guys. Now, most of my business is uptown . . . which is the reason I’m squished on the subway on a Saturday morning, between two packs of foreign tourists.
I hang on tight to the pole and stare at the wall . . . right at a poster for Dapper. I wince. It’s a men’s entertainment website where my ex, Tyler, works. Also known as the man who broke my heart.
Also, also known as the guy who sent me spiraling on a dark five-month binge of Tollhouse cookies and old episodes of Queer Eye.
Also, also, also known as the man I may occasionally still google-stalk at 2 a.m., hoping to find a news report that he’s lost both his balls in a freak jet-ski accident.
Ahem.
I should have seen the signs from the start. We met in line for a screening of Carrie at the old movie theater on Canal Street, but I had no idea I was about to wind up with the emotional equivalent of a bucket of pig’s blood dripping down my head. Because he was cute. Seriously cute. And funny, and charming, and had actual furniture in his tiny studio apartment—which, let me tell you, after dating a string of guys with a mattress in the corner and a broken Ikea futon, was no small thing. Plus, he knew the difference between Yeats and Keats, and would do this thing where he screwed up his nose trying to solve the crossword in the Sunday newspaper.
And did I mention how cute he was?
I was smitten. So smitten that I actually swallowed his lines about how our connection was so pure, we shouldn’t put a label on it. That monogamy is society’s way of keeping us in a prison. That real love doesn’t need definitions or boundaries holding it back.
What can I say? I did some dumb things when I was twenty-five.
And twenty-six.
And twenty-seven.
We must have broken up and gotten back together a dozen times, but it was the insecurity that killed me in the end. Always wondering if I maybe wasn’t enough for him to want to commit. Like he was just killing time with me, waiting for the real love of his life to show up.
I finally wrenched free of that particular emotional Brigadoon a year ago, and (aside from said occasional google-stalking) I haven’t looked back. Because the great thing about my job is that I actually get to see what love looks like up close. The kind of love that puts each other first, and is 100 percent sure they’re The One—at least, sure enough to hire me to write sixteen rhyming couplets about the first night they met. It helps remind me what it is I’m looking for . . . and not to settle for just another guy looking to make the barest minimum of effort—while also expecting me to happily fall into bed with him when he shows up drunk, unannounced at my door at 2 a.m.
Ah, the joys of dating.
“Seventy-seventh Street.”
I snap out of my reverie in time to make my stop on the Upper East Side. Five blocks from the subway, nestled on a quiet, tree-lined street, I find the brownstone building with an “office to rent” sign in the window.
The minute I step through the door, I want it.
I want it bad.
It’s a small, basement-level suite, but it’s bright and sunny, with a big window and gleaming wooden floors. There’s a small outer room, perfect for a waiting area, and the main office, with enough space to fit a big desk . . . some filing cabinets . . . my bookshelves of research poetry . . .
I look around and can see myself here already, meeting clients and maybe even hiring some extra staff in time as I build a whole empire.
Cupids Anonymous. The language of love.
“It’s a great location, close to the park,” the property manager says, sounding bored. “We need first, last, and full credit check.”
I take a peek at the dollar amount listed on the application and feel faint. “Is it negotiable at all?” I ask hopefully.
“Nope.”
“What about you?” I ask, changing tack. “Perhaps I could do some work in trade?”
The man gives me a stern look. “I’m a married man, missy.”
“What? No!” I blurt, red-faced. “I didn’t mean . . . that! Perhaps you’d like some help writing love letters for your partner? To celebrate a special occasion—birthday? Anniversary?”
“She’s not the reading type,” he replies. “Except those Sudoku books. She’s crazy about them. Can you write her one of those?”
I think about it for a moment, but even I know my limits. “Sorry. Nope.”
“Then the price is the price,” he shrugs.
* * *
“The place is perfect! And perfectly unaffordable,” I tell April and our friend, Natalie, when we’re settled at the bar with some consolation margaritas. The rooftop venue has gorgeous views of Manhattan—and of the crowd of beautiful young things, all showing off their tans as they snap selfies and enjoy the summer weekend. “It would be great for business,” I continue. “I mean, who would you trust with your romantic future: the woman waging war to try and grab a table at Starbucks, or the one with real business cards and elegant gold script across the window . . . ?”
“I’m a caffeine addict, so my vote doesn’t count,” Natalie says, giving me a sympathetic grin. “You’ll figure something out.”
“I know.” I sigh and take a gulp of my drink. “What about you? Thanks for grabbing us the invites, by the way.”<
br />
“And miss out on some prize hipster people-watching? Never!” Natalie grins. She sees something over my head, and blinks. “Handlebar moustache, three o’clock!”
We all turn. It’s not so much a moustache as two walrus tusks made out of facial hair.
“When did men think they could put that on their faces?” April asks, sounding awestruck.
“Somewhere out there is a girl saying, ‘you look amazing, sweetie,’ letting all of us down,” Natalie agrees.
“How would you even kiss around it?” I ask, tilting my head.
“Never mind the kissing, can you imagine that scratching up your thighs?” Natalie cracks, and we all laugh.
“Ouch!”
The man looks over and makes eye contact with April. “He likes you!” I whisper-shriek. “Go over there.”
“What? No!” April blushes.
“Why not?” Natalie urges. “You need a greasy pancake after Patrick.”
“A what now?” I blink.
“You know, when you make a batch of pancakes, the first one in the pan is always way too greasy and limp,” she explains.
“Now you’re really making him sound attractive.” I smirk.
Natalie laughs. “I’m just saying! She needs a good rebound to make her forget all about that asshole.”
“Because when I look at that guy, I don’t think ‘Natural History Museum’ at all?” April asks.
Natalie pauses. “Oh. Good point. What about him?” She points to a different guy, this one shirtless and waxed within an inch of his life . . . and his groin.
“He’s so slippery!” April laughs. “Like a seal!”
“Another round?” I ask, finishing my drink.
“Yes please!”
I leave them sizing up potential pancakes and make my way to the bar, which is crowded with thirsty patrons. I’m trying to figure my best approach—elbows, or the pogo move—when I hear a familiar voice behind me.
“Kombucha cooler or acai daiquiri?”
I turn. Dylan is strolling over, looking annoyingly handsome—and cool—in another crisp white shirt and Ray-Ban shades.
Does the man ever sweat?
“Or perhaps a matcha CBD mule,” he suggests.
“What language are you speaking?” I ask, only half-joking.
“The drinks menu,” Dylan explains, brandishing a piece of hemp-looking paper. “Everything here is healthy and organic—even the booze.”
“Just what I need, a healthy glow with my hangover,” I quip. “Whose genius idea was that?”
He grins. “A buddy of mine, actually. I have a stake in this place, too.”
“Whoops.” I laugh. “Well, good luck to you. It seems to be a hit with everyone else,” I add. “Clearly, I’m not down with the kids.”
“Or cool to the hip trends,” he replies, teasing. Dylan gestures to the bartender, and, of course, the girl comes over immediately, despite the fact she’s got a dozen other people waving for attention.
“VIP treatment, huh?” I ask.
Dylan smirks. “I was going to buy you drinks, but if you don’t want to trade on my status . . .”
“No!” I yelp. “Trade away. Three margaritas please—hold the kombucha.”
Dylan orders and then turns back to me. “So what are you up to today?” he asks. “Out trawling for new clients?”
“You make it sound so dirty,” I protest, remembering the property manager’s response. “Why does everyone think I’m some kind of whore today?”
“And it’s only 3 p.m.” Dylan smirks.
I hit him lightly on the arm. “For someone who depends on me to smooth his romantic life, you should be nicer. Otherwise, I’ll send someone a burial verse and you’ll never know the difference.”
“You’re right,” he agrees, the edges of his lips still turned up in a grin. Damn, the guy is handsome. Why is it I’ve never really noticed before . . . ? “Gigi might not like that,” he continues. “Or Lorelei. Or Sophie.”
Aaaand that’s why not.
I roll my eyes and grab my drinks, but just as I’m about to make an escape, Dylan goes stock-still beside me, like he’s seen a ghost. “Wait,” he says, grabbing my arm. “I have a new job for you.”
Of course he does. I’m tempted to turn him down, but that office isn’t going to pay for itself, so I put my game face on and bite back my snarky retort. Almost. “Who’s the poor girl this time?”
“Her.” Dylan nods behind me. I turn to see a woman posing for pics with a friend by the pool. She’s gorgeous, in a hippie, radiant kind of way: dark spiral curls and full lips, wearing a flowing maxi-dress that skims over a toned, curvy body. Just looking at her makes me feel like I should be taking yoga three times a week and downing celery juice shooters.
Just once, couldn’t this guy go hit on an introverted nerdy bookworm?
“Fine,” I sigh. “What do you want: the usual sonnet to message her? Surely you have enough old ones to just copy and paste at this point.”
But Dylan shakes his head. “No. Jasmine is different. I’m going to need something special. Pull out all the stops.”
“Stops, pulled. Got it.” I nod. I pull out my phone to make a note. “You said her name is Jasmine?”
“Jasmine Michaels,” he says, and I swear his voice gets almost reverent. “I’m serious, Poppy. You need to win her over for me. Whatever it takes.”
And then before I can ask anything more, Dylan turns on his heel and bolts for the exit, leaving me staring across the rooftop at this latest vision of gorgeousness. Jasmine is already surrounded by guys hanging off her every word. And I’m pretty sure I even recognize one of her hunky suitors as an actor from my favorite TV show.
And, perhaps, a few personal daydreams . . .
Clearly, I’ve got my work cut out for me. But that’s what I’m here for, right? Making strangers swoon with just the power of my pen . . . and a few well-chosen quotes. I’ve done it for Dylan half a dozen times over already.
The only thing I’m wondering is, what makes this woman different from all the rest?
3
Poppy
“I’m going to die,” I huff, every limb in my body screaming in complaint. “My obituary will read, Here lies Poppy Hathaway, victim of a medieval torture contraption. She will be missed by all.”
It’s the next morning, and I’m sweating through my oversized workout tee, strung up on something that is surely a violation of the Geneva Convention. Whoever said Pilates was relaxing should be forced to stretch their way through a beginner’s class after sitting on their ass for ooh, roughly the past six months. But, according to a quick google, Dylan’s crush Jasmine teaches here every week, so I figured it was the easiest way to get some inside intel for my Cyrano plans.
I was wrong about the “easy” part.
“First of all, what makes you think you’ll get an official obituary?” Natalie groans from the machine beside me. “Because I for one won’t be writing it, not after you’ve put me through this hell.”
“And second?” I pant, gripping the straps for dear life.
“I really shouldn’t have eaten that egg and cheese roll twenty minutes ago!”
“What are you guys talking about?” April asks, switching to the next move. “This is fun!”
We both turn to stare at her in disbelief. I’m already red-faced and damp-haired, but April looks like she’s having a ball—just like the rest of the super-toned, super-chic women around us. Someone should call the ad department at Lululemon, because their entire spring line is flexing right here in class.
“How’s everyone doing over here?”
I look up. Jasmine has wafted over, looking even more radiant up close. She’s wearing a pale pink workout bra and matching leggings I couldn’t dream of wearing, not unless I’d spent the past decade doing squats. “Umm, I think I’m doing this wrong,” I say. “It isn’t supposed to hurt this much, is it?”
Jasmine gives a warm laugh. “Not if you’re doing it
right. Here, let me correct your position.”
She leans over and nudges my shoulders back, and my hips a couple of inches over. Suddenly, everything feels longer and stretchier. “Oh!” I exclaim, surprised. “This isn’t entirely terrible.”
Jasmine grins. “Don’t worry, we all suck to begin with. You just have to commit to pushing through the suck. You’ll feel the results soon.” She adjusts me some more. “Let me guess, you spend a lot of time sitting at your computer?”
“Is my hunchback that bad?” I quip.
“Only to other former hunchies.” Jasmine gives me a wink. “I used to work a corporate job, I had the worst shoulder pain. Stretching is simple, but it really helps.”
“This is your studio, right?” I casually quiz her, trying to do a plank.
Trying, and failing. Badly.
“That’s right,” Jasmine replies. “I started it a couple of years ago, after I waved my office job goodbye for good. I also have a line of health tonics and creams, if you’re interested in checking them out. No pressure,” she adds quickly. “I hate to seem like I’m trying to sell anything. But I’ve found that wellness is a full-body journey. We create our happiness from the inside out.”
It’s a sign of just how friendly Jasmine seems that I don’t immediately think of a sarcastic comment. Because seriously, if there’s a tonic I could take to look like that? I’d chug the whole damn bottle.
“Are you online?” I ask. “I’d love to follow you.”
And sleuth for more clues, I silently add.
“Sure,” Jasmine beams. “I’m GlowGirl. Just search for the hashtag.” She nods to the wall, where sure enough, the letters are emblazoned on a pink neon sign.
“Great!” I gulp, trying not to collapse. “Thanks for the tip!”
The minute she breezes away to help some other poor soul, I drop to the mat with an exhausted “Oof!”
