One
Romance is for schmucks.You heard me correctly. Romance is for all the people too moon-eyed and stubborn to realize it’ll all fall apart in their face one day. Romance gets you nowhere. Snarking on romance, however, will get youeverywhere.
Assuming you’re any good at it.
The navigation app on my phone tells me to turn left. I slow my old Jeep down to a crawl, wondering where exactly the left turn is, finally finding it tucked away in the thick brush of trees that line this old Texas county road. Eyes on the rear-view mirror, I check to make sure the rented box trailer hitched to my car stays there. It’s all I have left after my life exploded and I can’t lose it. I’ve never towed anything before, much less all of my precious belongings in an ugly rented box that’s not even the least bit aerodynamic. The guy at the rental place warned me not to take sharp turns, so I’ve spent this entire ten-hour trip worried that the trailer and my Jeep will go tumbling into the ditch each time there’s a bend in the road.
So far, so good. And now I’m almost here. Almosthome.
The last year of my life has been a total disaster. Living in the city didn’t help one bit, because when you’re in a depressed funk, it’s no fun seeing a million other people living their best lives all day long. Who am I kidding? It was no fun seeingoneperson live his best life. In the same apartment complex.
Jason ruined our engagement with his affair, but then he ruined my living situation by shacking up with his new girl in the same downtown apartment complex. Just one hallway over. Then he ruined my career.
It took me ten years to become a recognized name in the romance industry. I poured my soul in to my romance novels, breathing life into my fictionalized characters, dreaming up swoony romances, and giving my readers couples to root for. I even had a TV network negotiating the rights to adapt my six book city romance series into a cute, romantic television show.
The day I discovered Jason was cheating on me was the day I realized I couldn’t write romance anymore. I wanted to. My livelihood depended on the money I get from writing. But I just couldn’t. The wool over my eyes had been removed, revealing the truth—that all that sappy, silly romance I had once loved was just a lie.
I shake my head. I won’t think about all that I lost. I will only look forward and focus on what I have right now. I catch sight of myself in the rear-view mirror and grin. After weeks of looking for the perfect place to live, I finally found it. The GPS says I’m 2.3 miles away from my new home. My dream home.
Butterflies light up in my stomach as I drive down the small road, which is flanked on either side by thick trees. I roll down my window and take in the clean, crisp air. It’s a stark difference from the exhaust-filled city air I’m used to. I breathe in deeply, catching sight of my hair in the mirror as it whips around my face.
I had the same boring hairstyle forever, long and straight just like Jason liked it, until a week ago when I got it cut into long layers with light brown highlights to give more definition to my otherwise boring brown hair.
My friends called it a breakup haircut. It’s not a breakup haircut, though. It’s the haircut a woman gets when she’s finally living for herself.
As I drive further down this small road, the thick pine trees part, revealing the hidden beauty of Lake Sterling. The photos online haven’t done it justice. It takes my breath away. The afternoon sun glimmers on the deep blue water. The lake is dotted with cottages, all waterfront properties with big back yards, plenty of room around them so you’re not too close to the neighbors. I don’t need the GPS to find my new home now; I’ve spent days staring at its picture online.
The white cottage has one bedroom with an extra studio space that I’ll use for an office, an open floor plan, and a huge wraparound back porch that faces the water. Little stepping stones lead from the driveway to the front door, and lush, vibrant flowers decorate front of the small home. It is a picture-perfect home. It should be on postcards and puzzles.
I park, trying not to stress about how I’m going to back out of the small gravel driveway with this box trailer attached to my Jeep. I went the entire trip without going in reverse, and I’m not even sure how to take it off the trailer hitch thingy on the back of my car. There’s a rental return place located a few miles away in the small town of Sterling, so I’m hoping to unload my stuff and get it turned in tomorrow morning.
My heart races as I step out and stretch my legs, gazing up at the gorgeous place that is now my own for the next two years. Snagging this rental property was a miracle. Sterling, Texas was voted one of the most charming small towns last year, and it shows. The real estate here sells for way more than it would anywhere else, and homes rarely ever come up for sale or rent. The people who live here, love it here.
As much as I loathe my ex, Jason did do something good for me. All the anger and pain I felt during or breakup might have ruined my romance writing career, but it started me on the path to a brand new journey. I was kind of joking when I pounded out an entire anti-romance novel in just fifteen days—a record for me—throwing all my bitter emotions into my made up character, Private Investigator Rosa Ramirez, the man-hating vixen who seeks out and destroys men who cheat on their partners. But my agent loved it and sold it to a publisher just days later—another record for me.
The first book in my Love Sucks series became an instant bestseller and my publisher wanted me to make it into a series. I just got a massive book advance for the next three books, which gave me the money to plunk down two years’ worth of rent at once, which put me in the running to rent my dream home, a small cottage on the lake. I know a dozen other people were hoping to get it, but it’s mine now. All mine.
I close my eyes and breathe in deeply, inhaling the sweet scent of the flowers, the crisp spring air, the woodsy pine trees.
“Well, hello, darlin’. What brings you to Sterling?”
The unexpected, somewhat gravelly voice startles me. I yelp, turning around. The woman smiling at me looks to be in her sixties, with bright red lipstick and dark black hair piled into a messy bun on top of her head.
Not everyone in Texas talks like that. I would know, I was born and raised in Dallas and I have never once called someonedarlin’.
“I’m, uh,” I swallow then force a smile and gesture toward my new house. I want to belong here, blend into small town life away from the hustle of the city. Now that I’m here talking to a local, I’m worried she’ll know I don’t fit in. “I’m new here. I’m moving in today.”
“Well then,welcome, my dear. I didn’t even know the house was ready to be rented!” She holds out her hand. When I go to shake it, she pulls me in for a hug that smells like floral perfume and coffee. “I’m Lina. I live down the road on the left. Blue house, white door. I like to take a walk each evening. Keeps me fit,” she says, finally releasing me.
“Nice to meet you.”
“I’ll let ‘cha get back to it,” she says, waving as she starts to walk away. “You holler if you need anything, hun.”
My landlady lives in Arizona, so we’ve only communicated through phone and email. She told me the keys would be under a decorative turtle figurine on the back porch. Excitement pulses through me as I make my way across the beautifully green grass yard and into the back yard. I never had a yard in Dallas. It was just concrete as far as you could see.
I step up on to the back porch and gaze out at the lake in front of me. This is stunning. Beautiful. Perfect. I picture sitting out here, sipping coffee and writing my books to the morning sunrise, the sound of birds and nature keeping me company while I fall into my fictional world with P.I. Rosa Ramirez.
I do a little dance on my new back porch. I close my eyes and wiggle and shake, letting loose back here because no one can see me anyway. Just months ago, my life felt like a tragedy. Now I’m thriving. This is my place, in my own little slice of heaven. Jason is a distant memory. In fact, all men are a distant memory.
