Page 91 of The Perfect Rom-Com

“How about we pop by that little store that has all those candles before we head home? I’ve been wanting to get a few more beeswax tapers.”

Gloria does not need more candles. No, Gloria needs a label maker and a storage bin so she can remember where exactly she has her hundred tapers at home and no longer “pops in” to buy more candles once a week.

Honestly, though, I’m pretty sure she just likes having a reason to shop so much that she would just “forget” where the candle bin was anyway.

I agree for her sake, and we make our way to Glow. Gloria insists we walk, despite the fact that it’s at least a forty-minute stroll, and I’m fairly certain she’s masterminding the whole plan just to get some vitamin D on my face and fresh air in my lungs.

The stretch does feel good, however. I’ll give her that.

My legs welcome the movement after the hibernation that has lasted the week and, honestly, most of the week before that. All those hours on the bus were constraining. People romanticize road trips, but the long hours confined to sitting or pacing the narrow five feet are enough to make the average person feel anxious and an outdoorsy person absolutely feral.

It doesn’t take too long to get off the beaten path, and once we tuck ourselves into the quieter strips of the city, I can feel myself taking in deeper breaths. Letting my thoughts wander from the topic pressing on the forefront of my mind for the first time in a long time.

Gloria turns us onto Mary Street, and I know she’s done it on purpose. I always love this street. Rows of townhomes in various colors of brick with grand arches over bay windows and concrete decorations on front lawns. Little pots with lemon trees sitting out for the summer by front doors and window boxes on second and third levels covered in dangling ivy. Ivory curtains pulled back to showcase impressive living spaces. Artwork in big, gaudy golden frames.

These are the kind of people who wrap their TV in a golden frame and hide it among a wall of framed art. I’m certain that half the people on this street end up going to the Boston Marathon each year, because every time we walk here tenants are either going for or coming from a jog. Maybe it’s part of a clause on their HOA contract. Maybe below the section about mandatory wrapping of TVs in gold frames it says: Must run twenty miles a week.

Gloria and I like to have conversations about the rooms, deciding which homes we’d take for ours. Critiquing the expensive interiors as if we ourselves weren’t living in flats with electronic keyboards tucked underneath our beds. Considering quite seriously if that color of oak around their banisters was the right choice when carpet covers our own floors. It’s always a fun game.

Sometimes, after we’ve picked our own homes, we play the game again, but for others.

“Gran would absolutely pick that one, no question,” Gloria says fervently, pointing at the door with the golden squirrel knocker.

“She would not. She’d never go for that color brick. It’s pink.”

“It’s salmon,” Gloria says.

“Just another word for pink.”

An older man at the house two doors down locks his door and descends the steps. “You’re both wrong,” he says, passing by. “She says it’s strawberry gelato.”

“Thank you!” Gloria calls after him, and without turning, he drops his hand to his side for a little wave.

I imagine he gets this kind of thing a lot.

No doubt the pink versus salmon debate is a hotly discussed topic down on Mary Street.

I’m smiling slightly when I feel the vibration in my pocket.

And it jolts me back to reality.

To the angst.

To the reminders of what all is going on.

To the world outside debates of pink brick.

I pull out my phone, bracing myself as I pull up the notification. Calm down, Bryony. It’s probably a spam email about some “vital eye cream discovered in the algae of a mysterious lake.” Or a reminder that “with only four payments of $650, you too can own this deluxe water desk with real goldfish!”

But then my heart stops beating.

It’s from Florence Peters.

Dear Bryony,

I’m so sorry for rushing off the other day and thank you so much for reaching out—I was just thinking about how I wished I had your contact information to do just the same thing, so your message is convenient timing! It was lovely meeting you, and of course any client of Jack’s is a welcome friend of mine. Would love to talk more about this intriguing manuscript of yours. How about the three of us set something up? I can email Jack if you prefer we discuss through him. I’ll be traveling for a work conference at the end of next week but am fairly flexible until I leave on the 6th. Would you be free to squeeze in lunch beforehand? If not I can make myself available after the 12th.

Looking forward to it!