Chapter 9 Now
Now
I wake up in my childhood bedroom to a notification that says my flight’s been canceled, so I’ve been booked on another one. Maybe this is the universe’s way of telling me I’m not ready to face everything that’s waiting for me back home yet.
I don’t know if I have it in me.
Outside, a lawn mower growls. Inside, it smells like fabric softener and my mom’s Bath & Body Works cinnamon plug-ins.
I pull the floral comforter over my head and contemplate going back to sleep until lunch.
But then I hear voices downstairs, the clatter of pans, and my mom saying something about a BOGO at Wegmans.
I groan. The last thing I want is to drag myself to the grocery store.
I want to burrow deeper into my blanket fort and forget that I’m inching closer to thirty, hiding out in my childhood bedroom, and that I somehow promised Elizabeth I had an amazing meet-cute cooked up when I’ve got absolutely nothing.
And then it clicks. Of course. Wegmans. The place where my parents met—their origin story. The one that inspired my book in the first place. If a love story could start in the cereal aisle thirty years ago, maybe one could start there again.
I throw the covers back, suddenly more awake than I’ve been in days, and head downstairs like I never moved out.
“Morning, peanut,” my dad says when I walk into the kitchen. He’s standing over the stove like he always does on Sundays, flipping scrambled eggs with way too much cheese. “Heard the airport’s a mess. Your mom’s got the news on.”
“I’m not watching the news,” she yells from the living room. “I’m watching Jenna! There’s a difference.”
“Yeah, my flight was canceled. I got on another one tonight though,” I say, sliding onto a barstool.
“Same thing,” my dad mutters, then gestures at the plate he’s making. “Breakfast?”
I nod, my legs sticking to the vinyl seat. Only then do I realize I’m still in the same ratty shorts I used to sleep in during high school.
My mom appears in the doorway, mug in hand, eyes narrowing like she’s already plotting my day. “Good. You can come with me to Wegmans.”
“Was that an invitation or a threat?”
She grins. “Both. We’re out of coffee, and we both know your father doesn’t want to witness what happens if I go without it. Plus, there’s a BOGO on blueberries.”
My dad shakes his head. “She hears buy one get one and thinks the world is ending if she doesn’t stock up.”
“Don’t listen to him,” my mom says, waving a dismissive hand. “It’ll be fun. A little field trip.”
“Can’t wait,” I deadpan, but I can’t help smiling.
* * *
Wegmans is packed. Of course it is. It’s a Sunday, and everyone’s moving through the aisles like their entire week depends on getting exactly the right rotisserie chicken before noon.
I trail behind my mom, pushing the cart while she debates between two different containers of pre-sliced mango. She thinks we’re grocery shopping, but I’m here for something else entirely—storyline scouting.
So I scan the aisles the way she’s scanning the fruit.
The man in loafers carefully checking bananas?
Too old. The guy in a baseball cap juggling twin toddlers while trying to bag apples?
Too taken. A teenager tossing strawberries into his mom’s cart?
Too illegal. I sip my iced coffee and keep moving, waiting for a maybe.
And then I see him.
He’s tan, tall, a little scruffy, and wearing cargo shorts that should be a red flag but somehow aren’t.
He’s holding a pack of Gatorade and laughing at something.
I squint to get a better look when I realize he has AirPods in.
Is it a phone call? A podcast? Either way, I decide that now is my opportunity.
Everyone else I’ve encountered this morning is taken or pushing sixty, so it’s either him or return home still inspirationless.
The headphones make it a little harder though. I’ll need to cause some sort of scene to get him to notice me. But what?
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a display of toilet paper stacked up in the middle of two aisles, right where he seems to be headed. Bingo. One damsel in distress coming up. I beeline it over at a pace that ensures I’ll beat him to it.
I nudge my cart a little closer to the edge of the display, darting my eyes left and right like I’m plotting an actual heist. And then, before I can lose my nerve, I give it a shove.
The entire pyramid of Charmin collapses in slow motion, exploding in quiet, cushioned four-ply glory. Sealed packs tumble and bounce down the aisle, a few even making a break for the frozen section. It’s a full-on disaster.
I press a hand to my forehead, more for dramatic effect than anything else, trying to sell my best oops, how clumsy of me face.
Too much? Absolutely. Do I care? Not even a little. This is it.
This is the moment he looks up. Says something clever. Offers to help me restack. We banter. We laugh. Inspiration for my next book drops neatly into my lap via a stream of bathroom product. Cue the happily ever after.
Except that’s not what happens.
He doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t glance my way. Doesn’t pause. He just keeps walking, still deep in conversation with his invisible AirPod friend.
I stare after him, mouth slightly ajar, surrounded by the aftermath of my own stunt.
“Um,” a voice says behind me.
I whirl around to find a teenage employee in a black polo staring at me with the flattest expression I’ve ever seen.
“Are you gonna clean that up? Because I ain’t.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “Oh yeah. Totally. So sorry.”
I crouch down, scooping roll after roll, my brain sprinting to come up with something—anything—to make this less humiliating.
“Would you believe me if I said I did that for a book I’m writing?” I try, forcing a weak smile.
He blinks. “No.”
Fair enough.
Once I’ve wrestled the last package back into place,I abandon the empty cart and make a quick escape down the next aisle, ducking behind an endcap like the world’s most pathetic spy.
Anything to avoid another run-in with AirPods guy—though he wouldn’t know why—or the Gen Z hall monitor in a polo who’s probably already filing a report about me.
Okay, so that didn’t go great, but I’m already here. I’ve already humiliated myself once today and am no closer to the meet-cute that I promised Elizabeth I already had. I might as well try again, right? No chaos this time. Just a simple conversation.
In the coffee aisle, a guy is staring at a shelf of grounds like he’s waiting for a bag to leap into his arms in glee.
If I had to guess, I’d say he’s in his early thirties, and by the running shorts and cutoff tank, he probably just finished up at the gym.
Usually I stand by the statement that men should always wear sleeves, but in this case, I’ll make an exception.
“Café Bustelo is my go-to if you’re looking for something strong but not too overpowering,” I offer.
He turns to face me. “I get so thrown off by the branding. I’m buying coffee for the taste, not the aesthetic, but anything that’s not Starbucks or Peet’s looks so pretentious.”
“I feel the same way about all the alcoholic seltzers. At what point are we drinking the same product, just with different labels?”
He laughs. “I’ll ride for High Noons though. Nothing compares.”
I nod, completely agreeing. “Do you actually know how to make good coffee, or do you just like pretending you do?” I ask, turning back to the selection in front of us.
“Oh no,” he says. “I fully pretend. But the barista at the place near my office makes it perfectly, so I’ve been trying to reverse engineer it for months. At this point, I wonder if I like the coffee as much as I do only because she starts making it before I even order.”
“I totally get what you mean.”
We exchange a smile. He picks up a bag of Café Bustelo and then walks down the aisle toward the protein bars.
In the back of my mind, maybe I thought he’d ask for my number or offer to show me another aisle.
That’d be the mark of a successful meet-cute, right?
But even without that, something about our interaction sticks with me as I make my way through the store to find my mom.
It hums under my skin, a kind of electricity that’s impossible to shake.
Not love at first sight, not even close, but proof that a spark is still possible.
By the time I spot her in the checkout line, I’ve already pulled out my phone and opened my notes app. My thumbs fly: Barista love story. He makes her order without asking. The kind of love you don’t notice until it’s already yours.
It’s not a complete idea and maybe not even a good one to start. Tess would probably say it doesn’t have that defined narrative arc we’re looking for that my previous books had. But still, it’s something, and I can’t help but smile at even the smallest fraction of success.
Maybe these meet-cutes won’t be disasters after all.
* * *
We get back home, and my mom starts to unpack the groceries. Instead of offering to help her—because, let’s be honest, I’ve done enough damage for one day—I plop onto the couch to doomscroll.
The first story that catches my eye is from Lucas. It’s a photo of a plane window that says: homebound. Kind of an odd post for him. Then I remember he’s supposed to be in Boston for at least another week. So why was he already on his way home?
I find our message thread and shoot him a text. Knowing it won’t deliver until he lands, I switch apps back to Instagram. The second post I see is a Deadline deal report from an author I was on a panel with last year. The caption reads: MY CHARACTERS ARE COMING TO THE BIG SCREEN!
Thousands of likes. Hundreds of comments. A collab post with a streaming service.
I hate that my first thought is: Why isn’t this me?
“Ainsley honey,” my mom calls from the kitchen. “Did you forget the coffee?”
I groan and drag a throw pillow over my face. “It’s literally the only thing you asked me to get.”
“Well, I wasn’t going to say it,” she says cheerfully, the sound of pantry doors opening and closing behind her. “But yes, it was. And somehow, you did forget it.”
I peel the pillow off my face and glance toward the clock on the mantel. Still four hours until I have to leave for the airport. Too much time to just sit here. Not enough to feel like starting anything that might actually make me feel productive.
So I keep scrolling.
And because the algorithm is cruel, the next thing it serves me is a photo of Grace and Savannah.
They’re on a rooftop in downtown Raleigh, drinks in hand, sunglasses on, sporting smug, soft smiles.
It’s the kind of photo you post when you want someone specific to see it.
In this case, I know that someone is me.
I still don’t know what stung worse—what Cole did or the fact that Grace and Savannah stayed close to him after.
Grace swears she was stuck in the middle, that she didn’t have a choice being that Tucker is Cole’s best friend.
Savannah kept saying I should try to see it from her side.
But from where I’m standing, the choice looks pretty clear.
So I stepped back. I refused to engage while I knew they were hanging out with him.
I denied the brunch invite. Now I just get to watch from the outside while they laugh over cocktails with my ex.
The small spark I felt earlier fizzles out instantly, replaced by the familiar ache in my stomach. I lock my phone and head upstairs, suddenly desperate for something to do with the pit that photo left behind.
My bedroom door still creaks the same way it did when I was in high school, always betraying me during late-night snack runs or secret phone calls with boys who definitely weren’t worth it.
I drop my bag on the floor and flop onto the bed, curling onto my side for a second before I force myself upright again.
If I’m going to be stuck here, I might as well channel it somewhere.
I open my laptop and double-click the Word document in the top corner of my screen. I’m just about to dive into writing about the first time I brought Cole home when my phone buzzes somewhere in the sheets.
Ainsley: Trip cut short?
Lucas: Broke up with Margo
Just that. No punctuation. No context. No follow-up.
I stare at it for a long moment. Is it bad to admit I was maybe waiting for this? Like if he was going through it too, it would make everything I’ve been feeling a little less pathetic. Less lonely. If it wasn’t just me, then maybe it wasn’t all my fault.
But there’s also something more there. Almost a sense of understanding.
Breakups happen all the time. But for some reason, going through it alone makes it feel like a personal failure. Like everyone else is moving on and I’m the only one still stuck. But if someone like Lucas is also in the trenches with me, then maybe it’s not so scary.
Maybe I’m not the only one still figuring out how to start over.