Page 110 of The Perfect Rom-Com

Everybody had an opinion and emotions got involved, but in the end, editorial (of all departments) and Susanna specifically was the one to convince the team that while The Seven-Year Holiday is strong, Meet Me Under the Bridge is going to be the big hit. The wonderbook. The, in her words, “perfect rom-com to satisfy hearts and minds.”

They even got the graphic designers to throw all projects aside to focus solely on creating the perfect cover for the announcement.

When I saw it, I cried.

It’s unlike any of Amelia’s previous books. More tame in colors. More muted in palette. A watercolor rendering of the building. Still illustrated, as rom-com covers are, but simpler. Two figures beneath the bridge. A cascading stream falling gently on either side of Amelia’s name at the bottom.

It’s the most beautiful cover I have ever seen.

Perfectly fitting for the story.

Setting the expectations well. People will find love in this story. People will laugh, I can only hope, at the surprising characters who fill up the pages. In time they will fall in love with the characters. But there is also something deeper to be expected in Meet Me Under the Bridge. Something to learn about cultures. About growing and widening your world beyond your neighbor’s fence line. About forgiveness. And letting go. And healing.

And for all of those things I am grateful. I am grateful that today I will get to see it shared with the world. Even if from behind a wall.

Like a mouse, watching the scene unfold from a quiet corner.

“I don’t like this shade of yellow. I said specifically ‘honey-butter yellow.’ Not whatever—whatever this is.”

Amelia’s voice creeps out of the cluster of people in the corner, and in a glimpse I catch her ensemble. To be fair, she does look like one of Barbie’s guests invited to a midnight neon roller-skating party. Her highlighter-yellow pencil skirt looks three inches too short and boxy. The tweed yellow blazer over the yellow blouse looks like someone did indeed color it inch-by-inch moments ago. In fact, there almost seem to be strikes of highlighter crisscrossing all over the shirt.

“Oh dear.” Penny brushes a hair from her face. She looks rather smart today. And at ease. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her looking so happy. “I’ll just—go see what I can find. Hello, Bryony.”

And to my shock, I hear a little snap and can swear I see the tip of a highlighter peeking out of her trouser pocket as she slips her hand in. She gives me a crazed smile. Everything about her is off today. She even seems unsurprised to see me. Like I’ve been here all along. Which, I don’t know . . .

“Do that,” Amelia spits after her.

You know, I never did understand those people who talk about color complementing. How oranges suit some people’s skin color while reds or greens suit others. It all just sounded like the kind of thing bored middle school girls did at a sleepover for fun. Like those personality tests where the answers are all pretty much the same. Just now you’re defined by a different color. Or animal. Or tree.

But today? Looking at Amelia?

I get it.

Yellow does not suit her.

Her face looks pale and sickly between the bright yellow of her ensemble and the bright yellow of her hair. The pink on her lips looks vibrant—too vibrant. She looks a little like a two-dimensional sketch a child would make. Circle for the head. Choppy yellow hair that curls at the ends in one massive, 1950s flight attendant swoop. Blocky yellow clothes. Sticks for legs.

Huh.

Well, isn’t that interesting? Learn something new every day.

A door swings opens and a man strides in, glances up at one of the many clocks on the wall, and claps his hands. He seems like a busy man. The kind of man who loves to glance up at clocks and find he’s ten seconds away from being late and destroying his career and everything he’s ever held dear. An adrenaline junkie, perfect for a career in television.

“Let’s take you back, ladies!” the man says, and before I know it, I’m being pressed from behind toward Amelia and the door off to the side of the receptionist desk.

“Oh dear. Well, I guess we’re out of time.” Penny wheels around to face the door, completely unsympathetic despite the tsk-tsk she’s given. In fact, she looks absolutely euphoric.

Poor dear.

She’s snapping. Snapping before my very eyes.

Amelia is fuming. People are tugging at her from behind, too, and if her hair wasn’t so massive right now, I wouldn’t be surprised to find steam shooting from her ears.

At least there’s no sign of Jack here.

I’m surprised.

But relieved.