Page 2 of Romantic

“I’m counting on it.” I’m really hoping this will be my year. It has to be.

“What is this?” Pepper steps next to me as I fill in the last bit of white space. The dangerous prediction is now defused to nothing more than a random red heart. Though I swear I can faintly see the words: Brandon kisses Annie. Or maybe it’s just that I stared at them so long they’re etched into my retinas.

“I’m just doodling,” I say. “We write predictions for the new year. It’s a tradition. The person who gets the most right wins a prize.”

“What’s the prize?” asks Pepper.

“It’s this vase shaped like a duck, but we call it the Silly Goose.” I point to a shelf stocked with pretty dishes, cake stands, tea pots, and vases. The ceramic duck has a white body with a yellow bill for the spout.

“Why don’t you call it the Lucky Duck?” asks Pepper. I pause. Leave it to Pepper to think of that.

“Ummm . . . because we needed you to set us straight. So now it’ll be the Lucky Duck. It’s full of last year’s predictions. We’ll pull them out at midnight and read the old ones over our late-night breakfast. We rarely have a winner. We have too much fun making outlandish predictions.”

“Like the one you just covered up,” Brandon says to me under his breath.

“Um . . . yes . . . exactly.” I can’t believe he said that in front of Pepper. Sure, he said it quietly. But little rabbits have big ears—especially this one. What if she heard and asked more questions? Also—rude! Is it really that outlandish for him to kiss me?

Pepper doesn’t seem to notice any of this. She’s busy reading the various predictions and writing one of her own.

Pepper and Brandon move to Norland Park.

“But where would you go to school?” asks Brandon.

“The same one Annie went to. She’s plenty smart.”

“True, but Grandma and Pops would miss you.” Brandon and his daughter live near his parents in Redwood City, a couple hours from here.

I write: Annie gets a real job.

“Don’t you have a job at the park?” asks Pepper.

“I only work part-time in the cafe,” I admit. When I graduated from Santa Barbara four years ago, the plan was that I would devote most of my days to writing. At the time, I was beyond grateful that my mom and sister believed enough in me and my poetry that they were willing to support me. With all of my professors claiming I was the most talented young poet they’d taught in years, I was certain I’d make a name for myself. But . . . spoiler: I haven’t. If anything, I’ve become more forgotten. With each new rejection adding to my mounting pile, my passion for writing has gone from a joy to a burden. Lately, every time I pick up my pen and notebook, ugly feelings of inadequacy and discouragement swarm me. To counter such thoughts, I cram my days with happy bright things like flowers, music, hiking, reading, and falling in love—but only a little bit. I’ve never fallen completely in love. I’m waiting for the man that will sweep me off my feet.

Last summer, faced with the prospect of losing our home, I was forced to do some serious soul searching. Maybe someday I’ll get back to writing poetry. But for now, I have to come up with a way to make a living.

“It’s time I become serious about life. Who knows, my sister and Edward might get married.” I point to the prediction foretelling just that. “I don’t think they’d like me living in Bumble Cottage with them as newlyweds.”

“What would you do? Where would you go?” asks a very concerned Pepper.

“I wish I knew,” I sigh.

“You’ll figure it out.” Brandon sounds far more confident than I feel. He has just finished writing a prediction. Annie will see a real otter.

“Those were otters!” I say picking up one of our favorite arguments. “I’m sorry that with your old eyes you can’t see things properly.” I snatch up a marker and scrawl. Brandon gets glasses.

“Daddy already wears glasses,” chimes in Pepper.

“You do?” I ask, surprised.

“I only wear them at night.” He crosses out his name and adds mine so it reads: Annie gets glasses.

“I’ll have you know, I have perfect vision. That’s why you should believe me about the otters.”

“Oh, I believe you think you saw otters.”

“Why is he such a wet blanket?” I ask Pepper.

“Imagine having to live with him,” she sympathizes. “No ice cream for breakfast. The trials I endure.”