Page 10 of The One Where They Fall in Love

I acknowledge that not many people can say that about their workplace, but the reason I have survived in this industry is because I genuinely love what I do. Publishing is hard. There’s high turnover and so much burnout. I’m not saying I’ve never experienced frustration at my job, because I’ve had my fair share of it, but for the most part, I truly love it.

There are pros and cons to our open floor plan office setup. One of the cons is that there are many distractions, which is why I can usually be found with my earbuds in, blissfully ignorant to the world around me. More so now that Lucy is gone—I’ve never really made small talk with any of my other colleagues.

It’s nearing the end of the day on a dreary Wednesday. Anne, my boss, is working from home and I’m one of four members from our team that are in the office—Nadineand Terri, two of the more senior editors, and Callie, our publicist.

I have an hour to kill before I can go home for the day, so I open up my submission inbox and scour through some agent emails that I need to respond to. The second one I open is from an agent I’ve worked with several times. She knows my taste. She pitches the book as one of a duet—two books that center around the same characters and same central conflict. The heroine comes from a broken home and falls in love with an inner-city bad-boy who challenges her to open her mindset. But she is wary of trusting anyone because of the trauma she has experienced in her past.

I have always loved to read about heroines who were guarded. Leading women who had an angsty, troubled past, with some kind of “dark” secret that made them put their walls up and swear never to trust anyone again. I guess I found it relatable.

Growing up, I believed the fictional tales my mind got lost in. I believed if I hardened my heart, if I put those walls up, someone would come along and try to break them down, until I realized that they were who I had been waiting for my whole life. My walls would have been built for them to break. And I would find my person.

And yet, at thirty, I can’t help but feel disappointed that no one has even attempted to climb them.

It’s not that I’m not trying to find someone. I go on dates, but having identical getting to-know-you conversations has been painful lately. I want to find someone where that stage feels natural, where the conversation just flows, where I feel bubbly on the inside every time our hands touch. Someone who knows what will make me happy and will go outof their way to do it. Maybe I’m asking too much of the first few dates, but if I don’t feel that, I can’t keep seeing someone. It feels like a waste of time.

Who is that guy from Greek mythology that has to perpetually roll a boulder up a hill? Sassafras? No, that’s not it…

Sisyphus. Zeus makes him roll a boulder up a hill for eternity. Every time he gets the boulder to the top of the hill, it rolls back down.

I’m starting to really feel that guy.

I spend the next hour reading the submission and ruminating on the lack of love in my own life. I’m so different from Lucy because before she met Liam, she didn’t believe in happily ever after anymore. Me? I am a firm devotee of the HEA. I can’t help but fall for every love story put in front of me. I eat up the romance every time, and I yearn for it for myself.

But no matter what I do—live on my own, stand up for myself, get promoted—I still feel this weight, this heaviness, that I can’t shake. Lately, it’s Lucy and wedding plans, the thought of actually having to go to her wedding and put my sidekick show on, all while trying to pretend I’m not that lonely. That I can handle being alone. Sometimes I wish I could have my own me: a hype girl, a sidekick, someone to lift some of the weight off for me.

And with every love story I read, I just hope that I haven’t lost my chance.

When five-thirty rolls around and the office starts to empty, I shut down my computer and put my laptop in my backpack, so I can finish the submission at home. I already know I want to acquire this book. It’s my own personalbrand of click-bait. The angst is palpable through the pages, the sexual tension is fantastic, and I already think I know how the slow burn will come to a head. And of course, there’s a perfect amount of family drama, which is always right up my alley.

I think about my own family drama—my childhood spent doing my brother’s laundry or planning dinner for the week. Most kids got the chance to be kids, but that was my reality, and I dealt with it. From the time I was a child, I was the caretaker. It’s ingrained in me. And sometimes I feel like I’m never going to escape it.

When I walk out onto the city street, a damp, cold chill in the air, something feels empty inside of me. I walk by a couple holding hands and try not to let it bother me, but I feel the sting in my chest anyway.

It’s just so hard to feel hopeful about love when all I see scrolling through Instagram are people getting engaged, married, or posting pictures of their babies with adorable age-related signs from Etsy placed next to them. And then there’s me—in this sort of limbo, waiting for someone to come and sweep me off of my feet. Even though I’m discouraged, I won’t give up.

Because I know what I want: someone to take care of me for a change. Is that selfish? Maybe. But when I think about my life, what I want more than anything is a partner. Someone to go hiking with, to go out to dinner, go on vacations, go to one of those hatchet-throwing places. I want to enjoy my life with someone. Because it’s my turn to.

When I get back to the apartment, I’m emotionally exhausted. Too tired to do anything else, I heat up a pre-made meal from Whole Foods and sink into my belovedgreen chair. My whole body relaxes like I haven’t sat down in ages, when the reality is I sat down at work all day. But before I can even turn on the TV to really settle in, I’m jolted upright by a moan so pathetic my heart breaks.

That jerk left that poor dog alone again.

I might actually break down the door this time.

Six

Oliver

No. No. No. No. “No!”

The final “no”—the one that I didn’t realize I’d said out loud—wakes her up.

She jumps from the timbre of my voice, and the innocent look in those giant brown eyes makes her look like a startled deer. I almost feel bad for waking her up. She brought a full getup this time—blanket, pillow, the works. She’s curled facing the bottom of my door, her fingers sneaking under the door itself.

I swear if she was trying to hold the damn dog’s paw…

“You,” she growls, and my guilt evaporates. Of course my mind also takes this moment to consider how absolutely filthy this floor probably is. Does she realize that people track germs on their shoes? And who knows what else? God, I hope she takes a shower when she gets back to her apartment…

“Me?” I say, actually pointing at my chest in disbelief. “No, no,lady, there is no universe in which I am the badguy in this scenario,” I say somewhat harshly. As soon as the word “lady” leaves my lips, her eyes widen like I’ve just slapped her across the face. In the back of my mind, I’m trying to discern if “lady” is better or worse than “ma’am.”