Chapter 1 Now #3
I smile, glancing at the crowd. This was my favorite question—a softball that I knew I could hit out of the park.
“The idea came from my parents’ most iconic story to tell—the story of how they met.
I think I’ve heard it at least a few hundred times.
They’ve been married for over thirty years, and my mom still swears it was fate that she and my dad reached for the same box of Lucky Charms at the grocery store that day. ”
That’s the version I’ve been practicing in the mirror for the past few weeks.
It’s simple, sweet, fated. But what I don’t say is how my dad made some cringey pun about being charmed to meet her (such a dad joke, by the way) and my mom rolled her eyes so hard she wanted to disappear.
Or how she changed aisles just to avoid him, and he literally followed her to the dairy section, convinced he could win her over with a smile and a coupon for yogurt.
Whenever they tell the story, they talk over each other, both swearing that the other has it wrong.
My mom always acts like she wasn’t impressed, but I’ve seen the way she softens when she thinks no one’s looking.
And my dad always wiggles his eyebrows like of course he immediately won her over, hook, line, and sinker.
It’s not just the story. It’s the way they still look at each other while telling it that made me believe that love can actually last.
“I wanted to write about the kind of love that doesn’t come from some big dramatic moment,” I say, returning to my practiced answer. “It’s not fireworks. Instead, it’s grocery store trips, inside jokes, and being there for each other when it matters.”
“What do your parents think about the book? Have they read it yet?” Mila asks, leaning in with curiosity.
“They have!” I reply. “I gave them an early copy, and my dad called me afterward and said, ‘You made me cry, peanut. I didn’t know books could do that.’ My mom’s entire book club is coming to my hometown signing in Virginia. It’s all they’ve been talking about for months.”
I’m feeling good, the answers are coming smoothly, and I can hardly even notice the Cole-and-friends betrayal knot still settled in my stomach. I can do this. Soon, the audience Q and A begins, and the first few questions start off easy.
“What’s your writing process?”
I smile and give the usual answer about outlining when I can and writing in short, concentrated bursts. (Binge Love Island. Panic at midnight when the guilt kicks in. Repeat.)
“Do you ever get writer’s block?”
I nod. “All the time.” (Currently, in fact.)
“Will there be a third book?”
I offer a tight smile. “I hope so.” (Does a love story have to have love in it? Asking for a friend.)
Each answer earns a laugh, and I find myself slipping into a comfortable flow until a younger woman in the middle row stands up, her voice clear and curious.
“Your novels read so personally. I know this one is based on your parents’ love story, but do you ever use your own experiences to pull emotion or inspiration for your writing?”
There it is. A variation of exactly what I was hoping to avoid.
My throat tightens. “Well, um,” I start, but my voice is shaky. “I think as writers, we pull from all aspects of our lives. Emotions and experiences shape all the stories we tell. So I guess you could say that—” I pause, feeling my cheeks burn. “That’s true to an extent.”
I can tell that answer doesn’t totally satisfy her because she doesn’t sit back down yet. Instead she asks a follow-up.
“Your first book was dedicated to someone named Cole, right? Would you ever write about your own love story?”
My stomach drops, and my silence lengthens. The crowd goes quiet. My mind couldn’t be louder.
Of course she remembers the dedication. How could she not?
I made sure of it. I posted a dedication reveal a few months before the release, on our anniversary.
The caption was something nauseating like this book wouldn’t exist without you.
At the time, it felt romantic, like the ultimate love letter, like I was cementing us in literary history.
Now I can see how ridiculous it was. Who dedicates a whole novel to their boyfriend of two years?
But when you’re that in love, there’s no talking sense into you.
His name is printed in every single copy, a forever I thought I wanted but can’t undo, and that’s completely on me.
I fumble for words, any words, my hands gripping the arms of the chair. Do I tell them the truth? Don’t I owe them that? Or does telling them the truth just solidify the fact that I’m a fraud?
My eyes catch on Lucas. He gives a small nod like he knows exactly what I’m about to do and that I need to do it.
Before I can stop myself, the words fall out. “We broke up.”
Then they just keep coming.
“Yeah, so we broke up, and it was bad, and I don’t have the relationship anymore or even the friends I thought came with it.
I spent the last three nights ugly-crying over The Notebook and Gracie Abrams’s new album, but it’s fine.
I’m fine. Or I know I will be, because isn’t everyone after a breakup? Eventually I mean.”
And because I don’t know when to quit, I keep going.
“Breakups are like, I don’t know, they’re like moving out of an apartment you thought you’d live in forever.
You start realizing how much junk you accumulated, and suddenly you’re sitting on the floor with a half-empty box crying over a broken mug you didn’t even like that much.
That’s what it feels like. And honestly, I thought I was handling it well until my Uber driver last weekend asked if I was okay, which means I’ve apparently reached the level of heartbreak where strangers feel compelled to intervene. So yeah. I guess that’s my love story.”
The room is dead silent. Not the polite waiting-for-an-answer kind of silence. This is more like a stunned car-crash silence. I blink at the crowd, cheeks burning. My hands grip the arms of the chair like they might hold me up.
That’s when Ross strides up to us, moving like he’s done this before. “All right, folks, let’s give Ainsley a quick breather,” he says smoothly, leading me away from the crowd.
Behind us, Mila seizes the mic like she’s been waiting for her moment.
“And that, my friends, is exactly why my book is called Cheaper Than Therapy. Preorders are open now.” Her timing is flawless, her laugh contagious, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she sells more books than I do tonight, because what the fuck was that?
I thought I was at my lowest before, but I was wrong. This is it. Career, love life, dignity. All of it. Rock. Bottom.
Ross steers me down the hall, one hand on my elbow, like I might trip if he lets go. The back room is quiet, too quiet, and my stomach is still somewhere on that stage.
“Oh my god,” I whisper, pressing my palms over my face. “Tell me I didn’t actually say all that out loud.”
Normally this is where Ross would make a joke, something about how it was good stand-up material, or ask if I can reenact the breakdown for TikTok. But instead he just crouches down so we’re at eye level and hands me a cold water bottle.
“You did,” he says. “But you’re okay. Just breathe for a second.”
“How am I supposed to fix it?” I ask.
“You don’t have to fix it,” he says. “You just have to finish it. Go sign their books. Let them see you. That’s all anyone wants.”
For a second, I just stare at him. My pulse is still racing, cheeks hot, mascara stinging the corners of my eyes. I want to argue with him and say that finishing isn’t enough because I’ve already ruined everything, but the words just sit in my throat.
Ross has never looked at me like this before.
No smirk tugging at his mouth, no sarcasm in his voice.
Instead, he’s got the kind of calm and steady patience that you offer to someone on the verge of breaking.
And that’s how I know it’s bad. Because if Ross is handling me like I might shatter, then I must have really done it.
Then an even worse thought ricochets in my head: Was someone recording?
Any second now, my word vomit could be clipped into a thirty-second TikTok captioned author meltdown, trending under #BookTokDrama.
I can practically see my face on some gossip blog headline: Romance Author Confesses to Relationship Meltdown on Tour.
I want to crawl under the table, to rewind the last hour, to disappear entirely. But instead I nod, shaky, because he’s right—there’s nothing else I can do besides go out there and finish what I started.
By the time we step back out, Mila has the mic again, holding the room with ease while I try to remember how to breathe.
“Don’t even get me started on the Barbie movie discourse,” she says, earning a wave of laughter. “Half the internet wants to write their thesis on it. The other half still thinks Ken was the main character. I mean, he literally sang a song called ‘I’m Just Ken.’ What are we doing here?”
The crowd laughs, and I feel the pressure lessen. Mila winks at me as Ross pulls out my chair. The applause that follows is soft and careful, but at least it’s there.
I sit, uncap my Sharpie, and try not to think about how many phones are angled in my direction. Every click, every glow of a screen feels like I’m one tap away from becoming the next viral meme.
The first woman in line steps forward, sliding her copy across the table. “For what it’s worth, I ugly-cry through The Notebook any time I get stood up by a Hinge date, which is way more often than I’d like to admit.”
My lips twitch into a small smile. “Good to know I’m in excellent company,” I say, signing my name across the title page.
By the time the signing is over, my cheeks ache from forcing smiles, and my marker is nearly dry. The people in line were kind, some even confessed their own heartbreaks, but it didn’t erase the weight of what happened onstage. If anything, their pity made it heavier.