The Romeo Effect

by Monroe, Lila

  And by busy, what I really mean is heartbroken. But I put on my best face for my friends.

  After the donut (which ended up being donuts—plural—because: getting dumped), I leave my friends and take advantage of the clear weather to walk along the High Line back to my shop. It’s like picking at a scab, because of course it makes me think more of Seth. And hot dogs. And Seth with hot dogs.

  My heart aches. It felt so real. He cared, I could tell. Guys who just want to get laid don’t spend all day planning the perfect botanical field trip or remember your waffle order every time. They don’t want to touch you constantly in public. They don’t take you home to meet their family.

  I reach the hot dog vendor and nearly burst into tears.

  It can’t be over. But it is. And I still don’t understand why.

  I always thought that when I met the right guy, everything would just fall into place. Simple. Easy. My romantic tribulations over the years had been because the guys were all wrong for me, but as soon as Mr. Right rolled around, it would be smooth sailing.

  At least, that was the theory.

  So, does the fact Seth left me in the dust mean that he was all wrong, too? Or that I should be fighting for us, doing my best to figure out why he bolted—and finding a way to change his mind?

  When do you know when to quit—or keep on trying?

  I’m still mulling the impossible question when my phone buzzes. Seth? I hope as I pull it out.

  No. It’s Remy: Time to get ready for the Brides event!

  Oh yeah. That.

  A few hours later, after letting Katie shove me into a cute dress and boots, I arrive at the Bridal List cocktail party. I wish I were more in the mood for a celebration, but I’m determined not to let my heartache wreck any more of this big deal. Plus, I’ve already had an epic pep talk from my cousin.

  “This is your night! You’ve earned it! Don’t let some stupid guy wreck your victory lap!”

  I’m not exactly at a hundred percent, but hey, I washed my hair and I’m wearing mascara, ready to schmooze with the best of them. I’m greeted at the door by one of the magazine’s editors, congratulating me as she hands me a name tag, swag bag, and glass of champagne. “Enjoy yourself, and congratulations again!” she says, her smile wide.

  “Thanks.” I step into the event space at the magazine HQ. It’s been decorated especially for the party, with a DJ, massive displays, and a delicious-looking buffet I make a note to attack later.

  But first, networking!

  Referrals are everything in the wedding industry. Every top wedding planner and stylist has their go-to list of vendors, so I drift over to a friendly-looking trio of middle-aged women.

  They look over at me approaching. It’s too late to bolt. “Hi,” I say, pasting on a bright smile. “I’m April, owner of Bloom Florals.”

  “Lovely to meet you,” the one closest to me says, sticking out her hand. “I’m Sandy, president of Empire Ice—we do ice sculptures and specialized punch bowls.”

  “Oh, that’s amazing,” I say. “The ice bowls with the flowers embedded in them? Stunning.” She preens at my praise.

  The other women, Maureen, a bridal consultant, and Kathy, a caterer, introduce themselves, too.

  “Have you already seen an increase in your businesses?” I ask. “This is my first time, but already it’s been amazing.”

  The women all nod but it’s Maureen who speaks. “This is my second year on the list, so I knew what to expect, but these two are first-timers like you.”

  Sandy takes a sip of her champagne. “And it only took me six years to get noticed.”

  Six years?

  Kathy laughs. “Only six? Hold my beer,” she says, miming passing her drink to Sandy. “It was ten for me.”

  Oh my God, seriously? Six years for an ice sculpture person to get on the list? How many ice sculpture companies could there even be? I’m one of what, a million florists in Manhattan alone?

  I suddenly get a very bad feeling. Do I even deserve to be on this list, or did I cheat my way onto it? Seth made it seem so simple, but can manipulating people into thinking something ever be right?

  I keep circulating, trying to ignore that whisper of guilt, but now, I feel really, really out of place. Everyone here is a major name in the wedding industry, and my imposter’s syndrome only grows when I hear people gossiping about the other florists on the list.

  “She did Jennifer’s wedding, of course. Gorgeous displays. They were all over People magazine”

  “And I heard Toni got flown to Europe for a very royal occasion . . .”

  “Well, of course. But I don’t understand why Lottie didn’t make it on this year. You’d think designing the flowers for the biggest Hollywood wedding of the year would count for something. They held four ceremonies in three countries, and she pulled them all off impeccably!”

  I stand there out of sight around the chocolate fountain, feeling two inches tall. I don’t deserve to be on the list or here, celebrating.

  I didn’t earn it. Seth manipulated my way in. I always thought his meet-cutes were shady enough, but then I turned around and I basically did the same thing: trapping the Brides staff with my flower arrangements, whether they wanted them or not!

  I look around, and I’m about to bolt when I see the executive editor—Elaine Meyers. She’s talking to someone in the corner, but then they move off, leaving her alone.

  I feel a lurch. Oh God. I can’t believe I’m about to do this, but I know I have to.

  I make my way over. “Umm, Ms. Meyers?”

  She smiles. “Hello . . . April,” she says, reading my nametag. “Oh yes, Bloom Florals. A first-timer. Congratulations!”

  I gulp.

  “I’m really, really sorry, but I don’t belong here,” I blurt. “I can’t accept my place on the list. I don’t know if you can print a retraction, or if it’s too late, but, there are so many other fantastic florists who actually deserve it. I should never have gone along with the plan, but I wanted it so badly, and it seemed to make sense at the time. I mean, yes, it was slightly stalkery, tracking your manicures and coffee routines, but he said it was just like Facebook, and—”

  “Whoa,” Elaine finally interrupts me, looking taken aback. “My manicures? What’s all this about?”

  I suck in a much-needed breath. “I cheated my way onto the list,” I say miserably. “I don’t deserve it. You need to remove my listing.”

  “Cheated?” She frowns. “That’s not possible, I selected you myself.”

  “But only because we gave out fake prizes and tracked your routine and got your favorite coffee shop to stock them. You think you picked me out of nowhere, but we staged the whole thing.”

  Elaine shook her head, bemused. “I noticed you because of those gorgeous displays you did for my sister’s party.”

  “Your . . . what?” I stare at her in surprise.

  “Lindsay Kirshbaum,” Elaine explains. “You did her gender reveal party. I was just stunned at the gorgeous displays.”

  “Oh my God,” I manage. “So . . . you really did mean to pick me?”

  “I really did.” Elaine smiles. “Actually, she said you must be a saint. She told me she ordered two thousand pink roses and then realized at the last minute that her pregnancy brain made her mess up and that she needed blue ones. She was so embarrassed! She said you were such a pro that you didn’t even flinch or mention it at all, and just brought the blue ones. Very professional. That’s what we’re looking for on our list.”

  “Oh,” I say again. I can’t believe it. First, that it wasn’t our screwup, after all. And second, that I really do belong on the list.

  “Anyway,” Elaine continues, “I’m sorry my sister put you through that. But I didn’t just go on one customer,” she adds. “I’ve been hearing your name for a while now. I’m always looking for fresh talent to spotlight, and this year seemed like the perfect time for you.”

  Whoa.

  “Thank you,” I breathe
, amazed.

  “I can see you’re not convinced.” She gives me a smile. “But April, get over your imposter syndrome. You deserve this. Go.” She shoos me toward the party. “Enjoy your evening. Enjoy the boon to your business. You earned it.”

  I shake her hand and thank her about a million more times before I rejoin the party. But even if I do deserve to be on the list, I can’t help but feel the win is hollow. It’s missing something.

  As I sip my champagne and look around the room, I know that something is really someone. Seth. The guy who built me my own floral murder board, who wanted me to get on the list almost as much as I did. He helped make it happen, even if it was only really by helping me spray those two thousand roses. But he was there for me, helping when needed and cheering from the sidelines.

  But where is he tonight?

  Not here celebrating with me.

  And that hurts more than anything.

  23

  Seth

  BANG, BANG, BANG.

  “Seth!” Bex hollers as she pounds on my closed bedroom door. The handle jiggles. Thankfully, I’ve locked it, knowing she’s not great with boundaries. “Your phone keeps ringing!”

  “Just ignore it.”

  “It’s driving us crazy!” she barks.

  “So turn it off!” I yell back. “I thought you were a problem solver.”

  “Seth!” She bangs again, undeterred. “You’ve been holed up in your room for like a week. You can’t stay in there forever!”

  “Wanna bet?” I mutter, rolling over and burying my head under a pillow. “Leave me alone.”

  “Look,” she says, less muffled, like her mouth is right at the jamb. “If you want to wither away and die from starvation or whatever, that’s your call. But you need to do it elsewhere. I will never get the smell of corpse out once you start to decompose in there.”

  Ugh.

  I pull the covers over my head.

  “I love you like a brother,” she continues, “and I’m sorry that you’re all heartbroken and shit, but I am not forfeiting my security deposit because you’ve selfishly died in there.”

  “For fuck’s sake,” I grind out, hauling my sad, listless ass out of bed, if only to get her off my case. I unlock the door and yank it open.

  She takes a step back, cringing. “Okaaaaay. So you’ve already started the decomposition process.”

  I scowl and silently push past her to the bathroom, where a glance in the mirror tells me she’s not exactly wrong. I reluctantly shower and brush my teeth, and when I emerge in my bathrobe, I find her with Lars, hanging out on the couch. They’re on opposite ends of the couch, facing each other. They’re each reading a book, legs overlapping in the middle. They look comfortable, so at ease with each other it makes my heart ache.

  That was me and April, not so long ago.

  “It lives,” Bex cracks when she sees me.

  “Very funny.” I sigh and turn back toward my room. “I don’t need this shit.”

  Bex jumps up. “Come on. Hang out with us. At least to let your room air out a little.”

  “I don’t want your sympathy hang,” I mutter, but it’s been a while since I shoved any junk food in my face, so I shuffle over to the kitchen and search the refrigerator for leftovers. Two-day pizza? Score!

  When I look up, Bex is waving Lars over to me. “I, uh, heard about you and April,” he says. “Sorry, man.”

  “That’s OK,” I tell him, shoving pizza in my mouth and trying to avoid any bro-talk.

  But the truth is, it’s not.

  Not anywhere close to being OK.

  It’s not just that I miss April. I mean, I do. More than I thought I could miss anyone. But what I hate myself most for is that I hurt her, when she didn’t deserve any of it. Fuck, April deserves nothing but sunshine and roses and a hot dog vendor on every corner, and what did I give her?

  Nothing but weakass excuses and a whole boatload of pain.

  It was to protect her from whatever clusterfuck James was planning, sure, but it’s still killing me. It was my fault she got into this mess, and my fault I let her down on the way out.

  Not to mention that my own heart is shredded over losing her.

  Clearly, karma is having a field day with me.

  I keep demolishing the congealed pizza. Lars sends a helpless look at Bex, who rolls her eyes and comes to join us. “Why don’t you try to fix things?” she asks me gently, which is just about my undoing.

  I shake my head. “There is no fixing it. I fucked up. I fucked her over. It’s done.”

  “Well, at least we’re clear on that,” Bex jokes.

  I take my shitty pizza and retreat back to my room, where my cellphone is waiting with approximately eleventy thousand messages—none of which are from the person I want to hear from most.

  I go through my voicemail. Nearly every call is from Winston or one of my fellow Romeos. The ones from my boss start out casual enough: “Don’t forget the staff check-in today,” to somewhat concerned: “Why weren’t you at the client meeting? Everything OK?” to downright pissed: “You’ve been blowing off clients all week? You had better be dead or I will kill you myself!”

  The final one from Winston is a mixture of extreme concern and anger, time-stamped eight minutes ago: “OK, Seth, no more fucking around. I do hope you’re not dead. But if you can hear this message, you’d better fucking be at today’s meeting. No goddamn excuses!”

  I shove my hand through my hair. There’s no putting him off any longer—not if I want to keep paying my rent, at least. So, I put on some real clothes and head to the meeting, which Winston is hosting back at his club again.

  It’s already well underway by the time I arrive, so I sneak in the back, hoping nobody notices.

  Fat chance.

  Winston looks up from his notes and sees me skulking behind a potted palm. “Let’s all welcome Seth, who’s deigned to grace us with his presence today,” he says, sounding a lot more jovial than the death stare he’s shooting in my direction. “I guess you’re not dead after all.”

  “Nope,” I mutter, taking my seat. “Carry on.”

  “Why, thank you. And stay after the meeting. I need a few words with you.”

  As pissed as he is, he won’t totally humiliate me in front of the others. I appreciate that. Though I could have done without the sarcasm. He has no idea what I’ve been through this last week. To be fair, I haven’t tried to fill him in.

  Winston returns to his leather-bound schedule. “Alright, before we start with new clients, we need another crack at reconciling Garth O’Hara with his ex. It appears three hours stuck on a ferry together wasn’t enough to reignite the spark. But good try, Serge,” he adds, nodding approval to one of the newer Romeo recruits.

  “I did my best,” Serge says. “Garth had hot cocoa waiting and a spare scarf. The ferry sound system played their old favorite songs . . . It was even cold out, so they would have to snuggle together for warmth, but . . . No dice. She preferred to huddle up on the lower deck with a group of nuns instead.”

  “It was a noble attempt,” Winston reassures him. “We clearly need to think bigger next time.” He looks around the room. “Any suggestions?”

  “We could tell her she’s won a helicopter ride of the city, and once they take off, he turns around to reveal, he’s the pilot?” someone suggests.

  “Can he even pilot one of those things?”

  “Good point.”

  “Or maybe pretend Garth collapsed, and have the hospital call her as his emergency contact,” someone else speaks up. “She’d be so relieved he’s alright in the end, it could remind her of how much she loves him.”

  “What about an elevator job?” Nico suggests. “Like, in the Empire State? I have a buddy in maintenance there. If we make it so they’re the only two people, she won’t be able to get away.”

  “Are you guys even listening to yourselves?”

  I speak before I can stop myself. Suddenly, all heads turn to look at me. I take a b
reath, but I’m not in the mood for this bullshit. Not after everything James tried to pull with April. “I mean, come on. A casual brush past at their favorite coffee shop is one thing, but this? How would you all like to be trapped in a confined space with your ex?”

  “That would be awesome,” Nico says wistfully. I quell him with a look.

  “I know we’re trying to make people fall in love, but it’s not romantic to force someone to be in a confined space with their ex. Or anyone! It’s manipulative and wrong, and for all we know, it could be dangerous, too. I mean, has anyone looked into this Garth guy? Why is he so obsessed with her? Clearly, she’d rather hang out with some nuns than deal with him!”

  “Seth,” Winston says, his tone ice cold. “We create opportunities. There’s nothing dangerous in what we do. We create stories that couples bond over. Shared experiences that strengthen relationships and last a lifetime.”

  “And then what?” I ask, challenging him. “Because relationships aren’t just about beginnings. They take work, and trust, and honesty, and maybe we’re setting all our clients up to fail, because the whole thing is going to be based on a lie!”

  The room is silent. Everyone’s staring at me in total shock.

  “Maybe setting up a meet-cute doesn’t seem like a big lie,” I continue. “But it’s still a lie. Wanting to be with someone shouldn’t be about manipulating them into a situation. Especially when one person is completely in the dark about what’s happening.”

  I stop. I figure my foot is pretty much jammed in my mouth now, anyway. And from the look on everyone’s faces, I’m alone in feeling this way.

  “Well then,” Winston says, still ice cold. “If that’s the way you feel about what we do here, perhaps you don’t belong here anymore. Perhaps, it’s best if your time as a Romeo comes to an end. After all, we wouldn’t want you manipulating anyone into a situation now, would we?”