Page 34 of The Perfect Rom-Com

A little ding goes off on the bedside table from my phone and I look over at it, catching my eyes on the little frame of me with all my students from a surprise birthday party last summer. My hair was shorter then, and in my hands is a massive bouquet of yellow flowers—a generous gift from my students. The snapshot was taken just before Chen and Takeshi ended up heading back to Taiwan—a sweet moment before our little gang of students broke up and people moved on. Some on to the next level of courses. Some to jump that and go straight to their GED test and beyond. A few started community college courses. A few are still in my class, taking a slower, gentler route. But the beauty of them all is how we still keep in touch—even despite sometimes being a whole world away.

This. This is what I want.

My simple, sweet life of teaching.

But also writing books I love.

Oh, and also just casually falling into millions of dollars somehow and saving The Bridge from complete destruction.

No problem.

Chapter 6

“Now that’s the thing, Bryony. I did not trick you. Stop yelling that and get your head inside before I get pulled over. I did not kidnap you. I am just very casually, on this abysmally humid Friday in July, taking you out for dinner. You said you wanted to eat out of the city.”

“Referring to, oh, I don’t know,” I cry out as Jack cruises us over the bridge, spitting hair from my mouth as the wind beats my face, “maybe somewhere like Florence.”

“You said you were tired of eating at the regular spots. You said you were bored. So voilà”—he gestures at the fan vents—“air-conditioning enough to host an aurora of polar bears.”

He’s trying to distract me by using the interesting fact I learned during a research rabbit trail about a group of polar bears being called an aurora. It’s not going to work. I will not be deterred.

“You asked me if I was ‘in the mood for tomato pie,’” I spit out. “You did not say the tomato pie would be in Philly.” I watch as the sign for Philadelphia whips by.

“We both know you know the best tomato pie is at Gaeta’s on Singapore Avenue, which happens to be in Philly.” He frowns at something and adjusts the mirror. “Is that ketchup all down my shirt? Exactly how long have I had ketchup running down my shirt?”

“But I didn’t know it was for this!” I exclaim, ignoring his question, to which the answer is roughly four hours, since we stopped at the hot dog stand this afternoon—the stand I love that he hates.

“A mere two hours. It’ll fly by.” He grabs a wipe from his meticulously laid out console between us and begins wiping. I stare at the stretch of interstate ahead of us.

Something is suspicious in all this.

Something I’m missing.

We always end up taking each other places we’d rather not be. That’s kind of a staple of our agent-writer-colleague-friend-but-not-too-close-friend-support-system relationship. We are oil and water. City mouse and country mouse. A little too delicate and a little too cynical about life. I made him join a bowling league he hates, and he takes me to the trendiest, stupidest, appetizer-for-birds restaurants he wants to try out. It works.

But this?

This is something different.

There’s something here.

I frown.

“Amelia’s going to be there, isn’t she?”

And to this, to my incredulity, he gives a little shrug.

I’m already groaning before he can reply.

I’m a toddler, I know.

I’m throwing a temper tantrum, I know.

But really, my situation is much more legitimate when comparing it to a hostage situation.

I could swear I hear a click beneath my window as he surreptitiously relocks the door on the off chance I try to open, tuck, and roll.

I snap my fingers, remembering vaguely one of the millions of emails I end up CC’d on against my will. “She has some event tonight. At the Pennsylvania Convention Center.”