Recommended Reading

Prologue

Say Anything … But That

I should have known better than to put my trust in a blow-up horse. Especially a unicorn, a famously mythical, elusive, and mysterious beast. They’re a lot like me. I never should have reasonably expected one to be reined in.

So, when my inflatable rainbow unicorn sails past its mark and my meticulously laid plans instantly go to hell, it shouldn’t have come as any surprise. The problem with planning everything down to the second is it only takes one second to throw it all off. Instead of the flash mob parting and several theatre students lifting me out of the fountain by my arms like a glorious treasure to be presented to my love, my rogue steed decides to veer under the curtain of water cascading from the fountain’s bottom tier. I am soggy. Treasures do not sog.

I wipe the water out of my eyes, my outfit drenched from my bow tie down to my brand-new real fake-crystal-encrusted bedroom loafers. My carefully composed ensemble, meant to highlight and flatter my curvaceous body in an alluring way, instead clings and sticks to my every roll and crevice. There are two big dark spots where my shirt has gone see-through, my nipples on prominent display for anyone who looks. And they are looking. I orchestrated this whole thing so they would.

The dancers no longer twirl, step, and spin. They’ve missed their cues and keep looking from me to one another. A Calvin Harris remix of Madonna’s “True Blue,” the song I picked to confess my deepest, undying love for Truman, my Tru, continues to play across Little Elm College’s main courtyard from Campus Books’ speaker system, a system I took the liberty of hijacking for today’s spectacle. Madonna is the only one who hasn’t missed a beat.

Desperate to get back on course, I resign myself to paddling. My steed is starting to deflate, his head collapsing into itself. The current sends us arcing around the fountain. I only have one choice, a dismount. My unicorn has other plans. It bucks and rears, the water making everything slippery. My ride dumps me into the fountain.

Surfacing, I catch sight of Truman coming out of Campus Books, a frown on his face. Thankfully, he’s the type who would come outside his place of work to see what was going on upon hearing a commotion if only to put a stop to it. I knew he would. My plan relied on it. He’s a touch predictable, although I prefer to view him as reliable.

Tru has been the object of my adoration since I managed to land a spot in Little Elm’s exclusive book club held at Campus Books. My feelings only strengthened after he gave me clear and unmistakable signs of his interest delivered in my preferred love language, books. He told me since I was a romance reader, I should give the greats a go. Austen. The Bront?s. Tolstoy. As if that weren’t direct enough, he even recommended poetry. Shakespearean sonnets. Keats. Neruda, which is borderline pornographic. Fact: no man recommends love poems to another guy without an ulterior motive.

And after all my carefully laid plans for the perfect summer and all my assistance in helping the residents of Little Elm find their happy endings over the years, it’s high time I nudged my own along and let Truman know the flirtation going on between us is one hundred percent requited. Who better to play my Prince Charming than him? My path to true love is laid out before me and I am willing to traverse it. I dare any person in town to claim they’ve read as many romance novels as I have or watched and rewatched as many rom-coms. Nobody has the track record or expertise I do.

So, I’d come up with my proclamation-of-love plan like a scene out of one of my favorite movies and gone all grand gesture on steroids while flexing. It had to be a boom box above my head, mambo to a ballad at the end of the summer, running through a traffic jam clogging the streets of New York, meeting at the top of the Empire State Building, kissing in an unexpected torrential downpour. Doesn’t my Tru deserve that? And just as important, don’t I?

And like a movie, my breath should have caught the moment I saw Truman in his jacket with the suede shoulder patches, arms crossed, chewing his bottom lip, brows furrowed. Except I’m busy coughing up fountain water. He watches me get up, slip on coins underfoot, land on my knees, and indecorously waddle across the fountain until I hoist myself over its edge. Water sloshes onto the cobbles as I get out. The look on Tru’s face makes it clear he’s worried about me. He cares deeply.

I signal to my best friend, Wanda, to cut the music as I step forward a few feet, bridging the distance between Tru and me, between the fountain and Campus Books. Madonna goes silent. Wanda points at her laptop then holds up both hands and shrugs.

I shake my head, letting her know to keep the cameras we positioned around the courtyard streaming. I need her on tech, not worrying about my rampant aquatic equine.

My former friend and current frenemy, Evie Bosendorfer, is watching too with her usual smug look, her phone, recording every second, clutched in her French-tipped grip. Well, good. Wait until Tru and I move from book club will-they-won’t-they duo and ascend to the power couple around Little Elm College in a way that future generations will speak of like the legends we are. Because Tru and me, we’re not only moving from friends to lovers, we’re also the strongest romance of all, the meant-to-bes, the top-tier evolution of #relationshipgoals.

I clear my throat. A dancer nods, remembering what he’s supposed to do, and hands me a rose. I get on one knee.

“Truman,” I call across the space between us loud enough that the crowd and cameras can hear me. “Tru, would you do me the great honor of—”

“Bobby, please. Don’t,” Truman cuts in. “Get up. Let’s get you dried off.”

He’s so perfect, thinking about my well-being and comfort first. But dryness can wait.

I open my mouth to finish my speech, but some guy steps out of the Campus Books doorway and places a hand on Truman’s shoulder.

I recognize him from the back cover of the latest it-lit book everyone’s talking about. A book I saw Truman carrying around. The Gondolier’s Oarlock , written by local author Scott Horatio. It’s the upcoming book club selection and is rumored to be in contention for the awards circuits.

Scott leans in and asks Truman, “You ok?”

Truman pats Scott’s hand and nods. Scott steps back.

I make a mental note to skip the next book club meeting.

Unexpected, but Scott is just one more wrench in my plans. So what if there’s another guy? Every relationship has its obstacles and I’m sure I can turn this love triangle in my favor. And no big deal if he’s kind of a literary celebrity. I’ve got choreography.

I flick my dripping hair out of my eyes. “Tru,” I continue, jumping ahead in my speech. “Like other great lovers, Dante and Beatrice, Antony and Cleopatra, Zendaya and Tom—”

Truman covers his face with a hand. “Let’s not do this here. Let’s go inside. Somewhere less public.”

But I can’t. This is a public declaration of my feelings. It needs to be done in front of people. I can feel all eyes on me. The bewilderment of the dancers wondering if they should pick up where they got interrupted is apparent from their faces. Wanda glances from me to the camera feeds. Evie smirks.

I hold the rose out farther, begging, willing him to step forward and take it. My weeks of orchestrating this moment can all work out. My plans for our future happiness together can work out too. He only has to step forward.

“Tru,” I repeat.

“Come inside, Bobby.” Truman steps back, turns, and begins to walk into Campus Books.

“Truman, Tru, please,” I call out.

I know if there’s a last chance, a Hail Mary, I need to stop him and do it fast. I get up, my head swinging, eyes darting, searching for something, anything that will get him to pause, to come back to me and take the rose.

I see stones by the base of the fountain and rush over, my loafers and the water making it a deadly scurry. I grab a handful of small stones, thinking of my favorite romance book, Pebbles Tossed at a Window . It’s the one romance Truman has read at my insistence. Even he said it was cute . I spin around and begin tossing pebbles at Campus Books’ etched glass front window. I miss but the few that hit are barely audible.

I search the ground again and see a bigger stone, more rock-like than pebble. It probably came from one of the flower beds around the courtyard. But if I want it to work like in the book, I need to commit.

All it takes is one second to throw off the most carefully laid plans and for me to realize that throwing rocks at a window, no matter how romantic it seems in a book or movie, is in reality a terrible idea. It takes a single second more for a pair of bargain loafers and some wet cobblestones to send me reeling, arms flailing, grasping at nothing. I fall backward over the fountain’s ledge. The rock sails out of my hand.

I hear a crack. For a moment, silence, then the crashing of breaking glass. A shriek from somewhere. The water surges up around me and yanks me down, my head colliding with something. I flounder, sounds of splashing joining the burbling of the fountain. Some of the dancers grip me by the arms and pull me out. My knees collide hard with the cobblestones. I reach up to my aching head. When I pull my hand back, it’s red.

The sun tucks behind the Gothic buildings typical of this part of campus, the last slants of its rays breaking off as the fairy lights draped from buildings, trees, and awnings blink into life above us. One more part of my grand gesture as planned.

The Books’ front window which spanned the entire length of the building is no longer there. Staff and customers appear from inside the store, peering out through the now-empty space. Pieces of the shattered window have shot across the cobblestones, dotting the ground like glitter.

Truman does turn back around now, glass crunching and crackling underfoot as he approaches. He crouches near me, head hung, eyes in shadow. He reaches out to touch my head but draws his hand away before he does. Tiny bits of broken glass rest on his shoulders like starlight, so close I could brush them off. He cups his hands and lifts the rose from the cobbles, droplets clinging to it like dew. It’s slightly crushed but still fine. He leans forward, lips parted, coming closer, closer.

I can smell his clove cigarettes still lingering on him, mixing with the scent of flowers coming into bloom around the courtyard. The breeze cuts through my wet clothing and chills me. I hold my breath. It’s as if everyone here does too, watching, waiting for him to slide his arms around my shivering body and press his lips against mine. I stare into his eyes and will him to close the distance between us. We could still have our happily ever after. I know he feels it too. It would take just one second to tame this rogue, deflated unicorn and make everything right again. Please, Tru. Take it. Take me.

Eyes wide, Truman looks around. He notices the red lights of the cameras, my eyes now reflecting their scarlet glimmer along my bottom lids.

He leans past me and drops the rose in a puddle on the fountain’s ledge. With it drops my heart.

“Turn those off. Now,” he orders. “Bobby, we need to speak. In private.”