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I click over to the recording software on my laptop and connect my microphone to the USB interface. Thankfully, there’s a format shift on the pitch correction plug-in, which allows me to alter the tone and vibe of my voice. I could sound like an eight-year-old girl or a sixty-year-old smoker.
Just on the off chance that someone local subscribes.
I draw in a breath, find my podcaster voice and then, I’m ready to go.
“Hello and welcome to The Hopeful Romantic, where we analyze, digest, and discuss all things romance. Today’s episode is brought to you by Glow Up, the Botox-free and easy way to get the extra plump your face deserves.
“All right, let’s get right to it, because today’s question is one I’m sure many of you will be able to relate to. It comes to us from Hopeful and Heartfelt in Hoboken.”
I read the letter, and then I pause to take a drink of water.
“Friends, you all know I love romance. I mean, look at the name of this podcast. I want to find adventure and romance, like Outlander Claire finds with Jamie on the Scottish hillsides. Like Julia Roberts, I want the fairy tale—okay, maybe not her profession, but the fire escape scene? Flowers and a public profession of love in the streets? Absolutely!
“We all want to be swept off our feet. It’s why romance novels, rom-coms, all of them, are so popular. Is it unrealistic? Maybe. But that doesn’t necessarily mean we can’t hope for it. We want the romantic hero to walk out of our dreams and straight into our lives. And I, for one, don’t think we should apologize for wanting that. We yearn for the guy who shows up with chicken soup to take care of us when we’re sick, like Tom Hanks in You’ve Got Mail. We want our guy to write us love letters and kiss us in the rain or ask us to slow dance in the middle of the street. That’s what I’m holding out for, and I won’t apologize for it.
“If you’re dating a perfectly fine guy, steady job, polite, and not leading some clandestine double life, but who will also never ask you to go stargazing in the back of a truck because he thinks it’s stupid—what is the rest of your relationship, and life together, going to look like? No spice? No spark? No feels? I’m not sure you’d want to live in a relationship without those. Don’t you deserve someone who occasionally cooks you dinner and brings you flowers—or better yet, coffee—just because?
“The answer, of course, is yes. I know it’s a high expectation. I hear that a lot from subscribers, it’s like every third email is about that very thing.
“But you have to believe you’re worth it. Because I don’t want to see you, or anyone for that matter, stuck in a relationship without romance. So, Hopeful and Heartfelt in Hoboken, ask yourself, what kind of relationship do you really want? If there’s no room for boomboxes held over your head or the delivery of a thousand of yellow daisies, maybe it’s time to move on.”
I click off the recording and think it over. It’s a high standard. I know this. Ninety-five percent of guys aren’t going to chase down an airplane already taking off on the tarmac just to return the dried flower that you gave him when he was eight.
But the last five percent? That’s what I’m holding out for. If he’s a unicorn, well, then, I’m going unicorn hunting.
If the novels I’ve devoured over the years have taught me anything, it’s that a good man will, every once in a while, slow dance in the street.
I hear the door downstairs. I’ll have to finish this episode later. I stash my equipment away and go to bed thinking about romantic gestures, hoping that one day my patience will pay off and I’ll be swept right off my feet.
Oddly, all I can think about is Owen.
The least romantic person ever.
He’s a main factor in why I’m so adamant about my Five Percent Guy in the first place.
I literally want the exact opposite in every way. I want someone communicative and open with his feelings. Someone who loves romantic gestures. Someone who isn’t afraid to make a fool of himself for me.
Tonight’s letter reminded me of that.
Owen might be handsome, stupidly so, and he might make a gooey mess of my insides. But that’s just attraction. Never mind that it’s a strong motivator and a little too demanding. Owen is not my perfect match, my soulmate, or my future.
Which is why he should stay in the past.
Where he belongs.
My mom’s always had an open kitchen policy, meaning, her dining table always has room for one more chair. She has a gift for hospitality, and she loves to entertain. But she isn’t fussy about it. Her mantra is, “Come as you are, and there will be food.”
A flaw, though, is that she thinks goulash is acceptable to serve to other people.
I can’t prove it, but I have visions of her grabbing every leftover in the kitchen (Pasta? Broccoli? Hamburger? Skittles? You betcha!) dumping them out on the counter, then holding a huge bowl under the lip and using her arm to scrape everything into it.
Sunday afternoon, after church, with my recording off to Ripper and my nerves properly rested, I go through the motions of baking the pie I promised. As I chop up apples and sprinkle cinnamon, I am constantly shoving the words “baked with love” out of my mind.
There is no love here. Only pie. And duty.
Duty pie.
But in spite of my many reminders, I feel myself getting nervous. Because yesterday, Owen brought up The Day That Shall Not Be Named.
