Page 22 of The Perfect Rom-Com

Soon enough, I—or rather Amelia—was landing on bestseller lists for unprecedented months that stretched into an eternity. The first three books were optioned to movies six months before they even released, and before I knew it, the other ghostwriters were long out of the picture. It was just me and Amelia. Amelia and me.

Stuck together by Gorilla-glued dollar bills.

I was able to move apartments. Get a place of my own with a view of rosebushes instead of the back side of buildings out the kitchen window. Walk barefoot around my own freshly restored hardwood living room.

I became an anonymous monthly donor to The Bridge—although, admittedly, I had deeply underestimated the depths of their financial straits. Turns out the operating budget of a twelve-thousand-square-foot rented building with twenty-two employees that serves 340 immigrants per year was much, much higher than my donations. And with government budget cuts cutting The Bridge’s services at the knees two weeks ago, the reality is that my donations were enough to bide a little time on a boat that was already sinking, but now time is up.

Now is the moment of reckoning.

“Ah! Teacher Bryony! Buna ziua!” the owner of Gok-Oguz says when we pull up twenty minutes later, clasping my hands warmly. “I thought you would be coming! You are in for a good game. Three minutes to halftime. Come in.” The longest pause in history occurs, and then he turns to Jack and says, “Jack.”

“Serghei.” Jack nods.

Serghei gives the briefest nod to Jack through such deeply slit eyes, you’d think he had closed them entirely. But then I cough and they open up, big, brown, friendly eyes around his tanned, deeply lined, highly spirited face. He walks us to a little table crammed into one corner of the small Moldovan restaurant, surrounded on all sides by eager Spanish soccer fans.

“What’s going on this week?” Jack’s eyes slide over the row of TV screens.

“UEFA Conference League Final,” I say without missing a beat, eyes running down the menu.

These are not facts I wish to know.

These are not facts I seek out.

But Gok-Oguz is a staple in town, not because the food knocks it out of the park (although it is good), not because the sticky, bleach water–smelling laminated tables are particularly nice, but because Serghei is a gem in the community. Larger-than-life personality. The kind of guy you meet once and he sees you. Really sees you. And remembers you. Makes you feel like you are important to him and, ergo, the world. Like your presence is something that makes his day brighter. Like you matter.

And that trumps sticky tables.

He was one of my earlier students (thirteen years ago?), which is funny because at the time I was nineteen and he was fifty, and while I helped him get through English classes specifically directed toward helping him get his GED, he always called me Teacher Bryony. For the first few rounds of students who went through my class, I tried to get them to call me Bryony. I was so young. I was so ignorant, really. They were the ones who had much, much more life experience. All I was doing was teaching them how to write a check for a test and on fun occasions throw in an idiom of the day.

But everybody called me Teacher Bryony.

Everybody around the world who differed in every way possible seemed to be in agreement on one thing: I was a teacher and a teacher gets respect. Permanently.

So here I am. Hundreds of students later and still known all around town as Teacher Bryony.

Or here, Teacher Bryony with, cue tiny growl, Jack.

“Half-and-half sweet tea for Teacher Bryony with extra lemon,” Serghei says, beaming down at me as he slides the tea my way. It’s stuffed to the brim with lemon slices, which I note with an appreciative grin.

“Thank you, Serghei.” I take a sip to show my gratitude.

“And Jack,” he says.

A cup of water drops on the table in front of Jack. Water droplets sprinkle onto the laminate of Jack’s menu.

Jack looks at it dubiously. “I believe I asked for bottled.”

“Bottled water.” Serghei waves a hand at the cup. “Opened for you.”

“Ah. Wonderful.” Jack eyes the cup of water that looks pretty much like lukewarm lake water. “Do you think you could add some ice cubes?”

“Fresh out,” he says, and turns toward the kitchen.

“I’ll take a Coke too!” Jack calls out as the kitchen doors swing in Serghei’s wake. He looks at me. “Do you think he got that?”

“I think you’re getting toilet water until you die,” I answer, halfway into spooning ice cubes and lemon slices into his cup from my own.

“You think he’d forgive me eventually.” He takes a paper napkin from the dispenser and wipes up the water from his menu.