Page 12 of Prime Time Romance

Josh lingers, giving me an Are you sure? look before nodding and then taking it into the kitchen. I fold my Snuggly over the back of the couch and search for the remote to shut off the TV. A picture of the cast sitting on the dock at the marina still lingers on the screen. I finally locate the remote under the coffee table. As I hit the power button, the room goes dark until I turn and see a tiny orange flame lingering near the kitchen.

It comes toward me like an eerie apparition until Josh’s face appears behind it.

He’s holding up a dinner plate with the cake with the single white birthday candle stuck in the middle.

“My nana always said that it’s not a birthday until you make a wish. So you have to at least have a bite tonight.” He hands me the plate. “Happy birthday, Brynn.”

My usually cynical self—the one who would normally roll her eyes at something so sentimental—is quieted by the orange licks of flame twisting and dancing in the dark.

A wish.

What single thing do I want more than anything else in this world?

To get back together with Matt? Um, no. That ship has sailed.

To find love again? Maybe…but finding love wasn’t my problem the first time. I want to keep it. I want my life to play out exactly as it’s supposed to for once. No plot twists. No Bumble jerks with cinnamon roll profiles. Just friends who understand me and will forever have my back.

I want to finally get the perfect happily ever after.

So I close my eyes, hold on to that feeling, and blow.

4

Brynn

I’m in a beautiful dream.

The sun is on my face. A warm breeze ruffles my curls as I breathe in the smells of salty sea air and leftover campfire. Waves crash softly on the shore, and I feel at peace. Like I’ve finally come home.

The beep beep beep of my phone alarm even sounds like the sharp squawk of a seagull, but I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping to cling to the last few moments before I have to wake up and start my day—or, I guess, now that I’m officially thirty, the next decade of my life.

No, Brynn. Don’t go there.

Even though it’s just a metaphor, it feels too heavy.

As the fuzzy edges of my dream fall away and I become more coherent, I realize I must have forgotten to close my blinds last night because the sun is blaring so brightly through the window that it’s painful to open my eyes. I lie with them closed for a few more moments and give props to the content creators on my meditation app because those ocean waves crooning through my phone sound very realistic.

I roll over to bury my face in my pillow but misjudge the distance to the edge of the bed. As I flip over onto my stomach, I start to free-fall.

“What the fudge—” My hands don’t brace in time, and I hit the floor in a belly flop, knocking the wind from my lungs and smacking my chin so hard my teeth chatter.

Ow! My body retracts into the fetal position.

“What the H-E-double-hockey-sticks just happened?”

Wait.

I can’t swear.

“Fudge. Shoot. What the ever-loving frick?”

Filthy profanities are being generated by my brain, but I cannot for the life of me make them come out of my mouth.

What is going on?

I roll onto my back, wondering if maybe I hit my head harder than I thought. But instead of the usual popcorn ceiling above, I’m staring at a puffy white cloud that looks like it came straight out of a picture book.

What is even happening?