Page 69 of The Perfect Rom-Com

“Right, well,” Gloria says, when I’ve finished and I’m now hastily dotting my cheeks with blush while simultaneously continuing to curl my hair, “to answer your question, no, I do not think this is all in your head. If you’ll recall, I’ve been telling you he’s had feelings for you for years.”

“Yes, but—”

“As evidenced by the fact he’s been making up names of females to pretend to date the past year. A year, Bryony? You have to ask yourself, why? Who’s he waiting for? And maybe think, Oh, I don’t know, perhaps he’s waiting on the girl he has dinner with every week under the guise of ‘friendship.’ And no, I don’t think this is all just a case of temporary insanity because you’re stuck on a bus—even if Amelia does make you crazy.”

My eyes jerk toward the door as I notch the volume down two more levels. Even her name in my ear in this place is loud enough to echo.

“And no, I do not think this falls under the category of rebounding. The law of rebounding clearly omits instances of long-distance relationships where one guy is a cheating idiot. But you know what? Who cares if it is? Who cares? You’ve wasted two years waiting for this guy across the planet, turning down dates left and right—”

Well, that’s a stretch.

“—throwing aside every guy who’s turned up at your door—”

Which would be none.

“—and you have a lot of time to make up. A lot.”

I sniff. I mean, I wasn’t like some knitting lady glued to the sofa all these years. I had a laptop. I was a laptop lady glued to the sofa all these years. Which is categorically much better.

She slathers on layers of compliments, as she does, and for a few more minutes I listen while managing to wind up a few more strands of hair while burning myself on the arm twice.

When she hangs up, I uncurl the last strand and stare at myself in the mirror. There is a crazed look in my eye. It’s all so very adrenaline kicking, uncertain. So very . . . scary, not knowing what my next step looks like, or even if I want to go there.

What if this date goes wrong?

What if this date ends horribly, and instead of getting to run back home and hide in my apartment, in another town, for a few days until the awkwardness wears off, we both end up back here—together—where we continue to see each other every second of the day? And night? Would we ever recover? Would we damage anything beyond repair?

Is there a case study I could turn to? Somebody else out there in the world who has done anything just as weird as this and has a recovery story to tell?

I wince at the very obvious display of shimmery golden shadow I just added across my eyelids and rub it out as Penny knocks on the door. “Bryony? D’you know how much longer you’ll be?”

Perfect. I’m turning into Amelia.

I open the door. “Sorry, Penny.”

“Wow,” she says, taken aback. “Don’t you look nice.” Her eyes cut to my outfit and then a look of alarm runs across her face. “There’s not an event tonight?” She scrambles for the electronic planner glued to her side.

“No, no,” I say hurriedly. “I just . . . wanted to get some fresh air. Take a breather from the bus.”

“Oh. Right. The bus,” she says knowledgeably, then slides her eyes toward the closed back door where Amelia has been busy doing “manifestations” the past hour—which basically amounts to her declaring all the things she wants like a child on Santa’s lap while listening to ocean music.

The rest of us have taken to referring to Amelia as the bus.

Sometimes the bus is acting uniquely punchy.

Sometimes the bus needs to refuel and it’d be wise to let it have the last doughnut.

Sometimes the bus needs to take a nap or else the rest of us will lose our ever-loving minds.

Frankly, it’s incredible how much attitude the bus has.

“Good for you.” Penny gives me a look that screams, “Help! I’m a captive here. Please take me with you!”

“Do you . . .” I hesitate, but her brown eyes are so big and hopeful I can’t help myself. “Want . . . to come with us . . . in a little bit? We could swing back and pick you up later?”

The RV door opens and Jack steps back onto the bus and up the stairs to our little living area.

“Hey.” We lock eyes. And I hear it, my own little surprised intake of breath. It’s not that he’s changed clothes. His shirt actually bears a tiny mustard stain neither of us noticed after lunch. Even his expression is one of carefree ease.