How to Find Love in the Cereal Aisle

Chapter 1 Now

Now

“So I see you weren’t kidding about the breakup bob,” Ross, my publicist, says, jaw practically hitting the pavement.

I tug at the blunt ends of my new haircut as if I can pull them back into the length I used to hide behind. “Is it really that bad?”

I never pictured myself with hair that doesn’t touch my shoulders, but I underestimated how much this breakup would affect me.

In the salon, draped in that clingy black cape, I felt bold enough—or maybe just numb enough—to ask for a version of myself that my ex wouldn’t recognize.

I watched in the oversize mirror, eyes tracing the harsh line of the bob, wondering if the stylist had snipped away more than just hair.

“No! I love it. I just didn’t think you had it in you,” Ross says, trying to reassure me.

We reach the entrance of the bookstore, where a chalkboard easel reads Meet romance author Ainsley Green tonight at 7 p.m.! in curly, whimsical handwriting.

“It was either this or bangs,” I say, catching my reflection in the glass. “Which do you think is worse?”

Ross doesn’t answer right away. His voice jumps half an octave when he finally does. “I mean…”

“Oh my god. It’s horrible, isn’t it?”

“No! Not horrible,” he insists. “The cut’s just very fresh.

Give it a month to settle in. Lived-in bob energy, you know?

” He holds the door open and then continues.

“Let’s make a pact. From now on, no major decisions for three months postbreakup, for either of us.

That means no impulsive haircuts, tattoos, or starting a podcast called something like Healing but Hot. ”

I smirk as I step inside. “But I already have the cover art and a guest list of men who’ve wronged me! Starting with Cole.”

“I was really hoping we could go the entire night without mentioning that guy,” Ross says with a dramatic eye roll. His tone is light, but the edge in his voice is giving him away. He’s over it and not just for my sake.

We walk into the bookstore, and it smells nostalgic.

The familiar mix of paperbacks and fresh coffee takes me back to all the Sundays I spent in places like this when I was younger.

Quail Ridge Books has been a favorite of mine since I graduated college.

For an indie bookstore, it’s surprisingly big.

I like to think of it as Raleigh, North Carolina’s own version of the Strand.

The walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with colorful spines, and the soft lighting against the dark wood makes the whole space feel even more intimate.

As we round the corner, I freeze mid-step. The rows of folding chairs aren’t just set up, they’re already nearly full. A sea of faces, some familiar, most not, all turned toward the tiny stage at the front.

They’re all here for me.

“Wow,” I whisper to Ross, my pulse quickening as my eyes dart around the room. “This is a much bigger crowd than I was expecting.”

He steps closer, a proud smile tugging at his lips. “You should be proud. This is an incredible turnout.”

I nod, but my throat feels tight.

This should be one of those once-in-a-lifetime moments.

The kind I used to fantasize about while staying up to write well past midnight or refreshing Goodreads reviews like a maniac.

But now that I’m here, I feel like I stepped into someone else’s life by mistake.

The truth is that I’m barely holding it together.

My relationship imploded. My friends took his side.

I cut off a foot of hair in a moment of panic.

And now I’m supposed to sit in front of a crowd and speak with confidence about something I no longer trust myself to believe in.

Who wants to hear from a romance author who doesn’t know how to make love last?

The version of me who wrote my first book felt sure of herself.

She was hopeful, wide-eyed, and maybe a little naive, but she believed in what she was saying.

She believed in love, in happy endings, in the idea that everything works out if you want it badly enough.

But I don’t feel like her anymore. I feel like a shell of that girl.

I’m wearing her clothes, showing up to her events, smiling when I’m supposed to, but the certainty is gone.

Most days I’m just trying to fake it until I make it.

At home alone in my apartment, I can get away with that.

But sitting in front of a room full of people pretending I still believe in all the things I used to?

That feels impossible. And considering my current state, there’s a chance I’ll stumble over my words or freeze up when someone asks a question that I can’t fake my way through.

The sight of so many faces here for me is both thrilling and terrifying. What if I fall flat? What if I disappoint them?

Ross must sense that I’m spiraling because he places a hand on my shoulder. “Relax. You’ve got this. Mila’s waiting in the back. You can take a few minutes to breathe and chat with her before showtime.”

I follow him past the crowd, conscious of the curious glances that follow as we move through the store.

My palms are damp, and I rub them against my cream-colored trousers.

The sound of laughter and the soft rustle of pages fades as Ross opens a door marked Staff Only, revealing a small room with two mismatched armchairs and a vintage-looking round table.

“Ainsley, so good to finally meet you IRL! Happy pub day! I bet you must be on cloud nine.” Mila, my moderator for the night, greets me with a smile and a quick hug.

“You too! I think my body’s on cloud nine, but my brain’s somewhere between panic and blackout. Thanks again for doing this event with me.”

“Are you kidding me? When Ross reached out, I was thrilled. Funny how we both ended up in publishing after The Gist.” She’s referring to the fast-paced digital media outlet they both used to work for, a sort of Cosmo-meets-BuzzFeed place known for their listicles, think pieces, and sex and dating advice.

“Which reminds me, McAlpine sent me with advanced copies of my book for both of you.”

She hands us each a red hardcover, and I run my fingers over the raised title: Cheaper Than Therapy: A Guide to Flirting, Feelings, and Friendships in Your 20s.

Am I imagining the pitying expression on her face as I take the book, or does everyone truly think I’m so much of a disaster that I need self-help mantras to get me through?

It’s fine. I’m fine! Totally fine. It’s not at all damning to receive this exact book on the day that my own personal crash-out tour kicks off.

I flip it over to skim the synopsis, and the glossy finish catches the light from a nearby lamp, momentarily blinding me. Fitting.

Whether you’re navigating first dates, friend breakups, or figuring out who you are outside a relationship, Cheaper Than Therapy is your go-to guide for surviving your twenties with your heart (mostly) intact.

Inside, you’ll find tips for how to flirt without spiraling, what to do when you’re the only single one in your friend group, and why healing doesn’t have to mean hiding. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll probably text your ex (don’t worry, we’ve got a chapter for that).

Take a deep breath. Trust the process. Find your people. And remember: You’re not alone in this.

Each sentence hits like it was personally written to make me unravel. Who knew that rock bottom came with assigned reading?

Tips for how to flirt without spiraling?

Bold of this book to assume I’ve stopped spiraling in the first place.

What to do when you’re the only single one in your friend group?

Try losing your friend group to the breakup; then you don’t have to worry about it.

And the phrase healing doesn’t have to mean hiding actually makes me want to scream.

Healing does mean hiding! It means crying on your bathroom floor while your sad girl songs playlist echoes off the cold tile.

It means DoorDashing food because you’re too lazy to go to the grocery store and then realizing you’re not hungry, wondering when the last time you ate was.

It means wearing the same sweat suit until it starts to smell bad enough that even your dog won’t cuddle with you.

Healing means doing whatever it takes to survive, and in my case, it’s all of the above.

It’s not that I’m not happy for Mila. Of course I am. It’s just that on a night when I’m barely convincing myself I still believe in the book I wrote, it’s hard not to feel like I’m wearing a giant T-shirt that says YES, I AM LOST AND SINGLE IN MY TWENTIES. THANKS!

“This couldn’t have come at a better time. I can’t wait to read it,” I say with a smile that feels just convincing enough.

“Two of my favorite girls doing big things,” Ross says before turning to me. “Do you wanna run through the questions one last time? And don’t forget, no tears. That guy doesn’t deserve them.”

That guy. That’s the second time tonight Ross has referred to Cole as that guy.

It’s jarring, hearing someone I loved for so long be reduced to that.

Like he was just a bad first date I never followed up with or someone I ghosted after a few texts.

Not the person I was building a life with.

Not the person I imagined a future with.

Not the person who ended it with a carefully rehearsed speech telling me that he had met someone else.

Ross wasn’t there for that part. The part where everything I thought I knew about love collapsed in under five minutes. The part where I realized I’d become background noise in my own relationship. I know he’s just trying to help, but tonight, it’s like we live on separate planets.