Page 103 of The Perfect Rom-Com

Yun Hee: URINATING IN PUBLIC WILL COST YOU

Bryony: I’m on my way.

* * *

Thankfully, swinging by the thirty-three-mile-long route of the A Train with clues of “many trees by church” and “man with Snoopy balloon” was enough for my sleuthing skills, and it only took three hours to find Yun Hee and make my way to my flat, where I now drop my purse onto the floor.

I don’t know why I ended up back here.

I suppose it has something to do with the fact that Gloria is waiting at her place right now like a sweet puppy. Eager to hear how the meeting went. And I don’t have the heart to tell her.

Right now, I don’t have the heart to tell anyone anything.

I am at a new low.

One rung lower than needing to be around my sister to cheer me up. Now I just want to be alone.

Well, except for the random moments I have to wind my way through the city to rescue well-meaning students who thought it wise to “study” the metro system for the test in real life when they’ve been in America a total of two weeks.

That’s it.

I’ll have to start doing field trips to the subway with my classes. I mean, how many times do I have to go find a student stranded on the metro before I learn this lesson?

I begin to make a note about adding in a “field trip” when I stop myself.

But of course.

Never mind.

I order food in, and somewhere in the next six hours, eat it. The hum of a series of baking shows on television adds noise to the emptiness. I’ll probably shuffle back over to Gloria’s in the morning. It’s too depressing here. Who knows? I’ll probably take her up on the (continuous) offer to bunk together again. I’m on month-to-month now. About to be out of a job. Two jobs. Might as well.

I don’t know what exactly I was hoping to gain by being here, but whatever it was, it never came.

Inspiration?

Hardly.

Just bleak reality.

But then, in the middle of the night, I shoot up in bed.

With a solution.

Chapter 22

“What in the—”

Halfway down page 1, I’m a little surprised.

By the end of the chapter, a little disbelieving frown has settled on my face.

And by the second half of the manuscript, my shoulders have landed in a hunched position over my computer. Like a gremlin. One hand taps the down arrow as I continue to rake my eyes over the screen, while the other hand has settled over my lips. Like I’m a shocked witness to a hang-gliding tragedy.

Like a disbelieving athlete to an unbearably bad score at the Olympics.

I wrote this?

THIS?