Chapter 12 Now
Now
I wake up with my cheek pressed into the couch cushion, one leg dangling off the side, and a pounding in my head so intense, it feels like my brain is trying to escape through my temples.
Everything hurts. My mouth tastes like stale champagne and regret.
My tongue is dry, my hoodie is twisted around me like a straitjacket, and the light sneaking through the blinds feels like a personal attack.
Winston is sitting three feet away, perfectly still, watching me like I’m the final scene in a documentary called How Not to Get Over Your Ex: The Ainsley Green Story. His leash is curled up next to the front door like he tried to be subtle about it, but we both know he’s been waiting.
“I know,” I mumble, voice scratchy. “Give me, like, two to four business days.”
My phone is wedged between the couch cushions, vibrating every few seconds. Like Winston, it probably feels offended that I’ve been ignoring it. I feel around blindly until my hand lands on it.
8,147 new followers.
Seventeen missed texts.
Five missed calls.
And an ungodly number of social media notifications.
Oh god. What did I do?
The brightness stings my eyes as I unlock the phone, but I tap over to TikTok anyway, already bracing myself.
There I am. On-screen. Hair wet, hoodie wrinkled, eyes full of vengeance, announcing to the world that I’m entering my rom-com era because my ex-boyfriend blocked me on Instagram. Well, that last part they don’t know.
I cringe, but just as the hangxiety starts to set in, I pause. The comments aren’t what I expected them to be.
@maincharacterenergy28: This is the content we deserve.
@situationshipsurvivor: You’re my Roman Empire.
@bookgirlie99: ENEMIES TO LOVERS!!! I’m begging!
@ashleyparkman: Suddenly I’m craving Lucky Charms
@booktokisc00l: You just soft-launched the next bestseller I can feel it.
@tropebookshop: Try fake dating next PLEASE.
Even my DMs are wild. A few people are pitching tropes like they’re submitting to a writer’s room.
Some guy with no profile picture and the username @gymbro69 offered to help me “recreate forced proximity,” which feels like a Law & Order SVU episode waiting to happen.
Still, I can’t stop reading. For a moment, the headache dulls, my shoulders ease, and the panic settles into something closer to the adrenaline from last night. Maybe this isn’t a total disaster.
A text from Ross flashes across the top of my screen.
Ross: I see the celebration went well last night ?? We’re going full rom-com renaissance now, and I’m on board. Let’s monetize your pain.
Ross: Also. Brooke’s rep texted me. He saw it. He’s obsessed.
I smile, genuinely this time, and then immediately feel the familiar buzz of anxiety creep back in. Because right as I’m about to respond, another notification pops up. This one’s not a text. It’s an email.
Subject: Your Latest Video
Hi Ainsley!
Love the direction you’re taking your platform in—it feels really organic and fun. Just checking in to see if we’re getting any closer to pages.
—Tess
I wince. Because the answer is no. And I’m running out of ways to spin that.
Instead of replying, I groan and roll off the couch, slowly dragging myself toward the kitchen. I don’t even have the energy for actual coffee. I open the fridge, stare into it blankly, and settle for drinking straight out of the iced coffee bottle like a true degenerate.
Tylenol. Where’s the Tylenol? I open three cabinets before I find it next to an old can of Cole’s pre-workout. I toss that in the trash, wash the pills down with tap water, and then finally let myself look at the rest of my notifications.
I see two missed calls from Lucas, and my stomach twists a little.
We haven’t talked since he texted me that he broke up with Margo. I never replied. I meant to. I typed out at least five different versions of Are you okay? and Do you want to talk? but nothing felt right. Then I got caught up in everything else and forgot about the message entirely.
Lucas has always been there for me, even when I didn’t deserve it. And I missed his call. Not once but twice. The guilt comes in slow and sharp, and I wonder how I’m supposed to explain myself.
I open my contacts and hit his name before I can psych myself out. It rings. And rings. And goes to voicemail. I hesitate at the tone, then speak.
“Hey, Lucas,” I say. “I saw your missed calls. Sorry about not replying to your text yesterday. My flight was canceled and then delayed, and well… Really there’s no excuse. I’m sorry. Call me when you get this. I’m here. Hope you’re okay.”
I hang up, then stare at the screen. I’m the worst.
After a second, I text him too:
Ainsley: I left you a voicemail, but sorry I’ve been MIA. Call me when you get a chance!
I wait for the typing bubble that never appears, then I clip Winston’s leash to his harness and open the front door.
We walk in silence. Well, he walks. I shuffle.
The kind of hungover gait where you’re just trying to stay upright and avoid eye contact with your neighbors.
Winston sniffs every blade of grass until he finally chooses the most inconvenient patch of lawn in the sunniest spot on the sidewalk.
I bend to put the poop in a bag, still holding my phone in my other hand and trying to keep myself from sweating out too much champagne in the sun.
I need a breakfast burrito. Or a cold plunge.
A text from Lucas would be nice too.
Back home, I kick off my shoes, unclip Winston, and sit cross-legged on the living room rug like a person who’s about to change her life or at least fake a meet-cute in the name of art.
My laptop wobbles on the coffee table, propped up next to a bottle of electrolytes and last night’s abandoned champagne flute.
I power it on and open two new documents. One for tropes and one for locations. It feels weirdly official for something that kicked off with a Veuve Cliquot origin story. I start with the first list, since it’s the easier one: tropes, as the internet demanded.
The obvious one is only one bed. It’s a classic.
One of my personal favorites. But how would I even go about setting that up?
I’d need a potential love interest, and let’s be honest—I’m not exactly overflowing with romantic prospects right now.
Unless Winston counts. Actually, even he’s been annoyed with me lately and does not seem to care about my half-empty king mattress.
Next up: strangers-to-lovers.
That would’ve been perfect for the airport. Or the grocery store. Both of which I already tried and failed at. Either way, I probably need to branch out before I accidentally write an entire series set inside a Wegmans.
Enemies-to-lovers.
This one actually feels doable. Or at least more accessible than some of the others. Maybe it’s not about hating someone’s guts—maybe it’s just a little competitive tension. Some passive-aggressive flirting, like verbal tug-of-war during brewery trivia.
Grumpy/sunshine.
A vibe I unintentionally embody every time I haven’t had caffeine.
This one could be cute in a coffee shop—me spilling something, them being inexplicably annoyed.
Or maybe a bookstore. Bonus points if they think romance novels are beneath them and I have to educate them on their literary blind spots.
Brother’s best friend.
Technically, I don’t have a brother. But I’ve always loved the idea of someone off-limits, someone who’s known you forever but only recently started seeing you differently. It’s reliable. Just the right amount of tension. Maybe I could borrow someone else’s sibling. Is that weird?
Fake dating.
A personal favorite. Pretend to be in love until it becomes real? Yes, please. Unfortunately I don’t have anyone to fake date right now except for Lucas, and that feels like emotional Russian roulette.
Second chance romance.
Soft. Dedicated. Absolutely terrifying. It hits a little too close to home, which is probably why I’ve avoided writing it. But maybe there’s something to the idea that the right love can circle back when you’re ready for it—if they’ve gone to therapy.
Forced proximity.
I pause on that one, because that would mean someone would have to talk to me.
We’d have to share a seat or get stuck in an elevator or trapped in the same Uber Pool, and I’m not sure I’m emotionally stable enough for that kind of close contact with a stranger right now.
But it’s familiar territory. Where Do We Go Now?
started with a moment just like that. Two strangers, a broken-down Ferris wheel, and nowhere else to be.
It was whimsical, romantic, and slightly unrealistic, but people loved it. Maybe lightning can strike twice.
I click over to the second note: Locations to try in the wild.
I type:
—Trivia night at a brewery
—Work at a coffee shop
—Run club (if I can run without passing out)
—Golf (?)
—Rec sports league (??)
—Escape room (???)
—Something dog related
—Something bookish
The list is longer than I expected. And weirdly athletic, considering I haven’t stepped inside a gym since high school.
I stare at it, my stomach tightening with the realization that I’d have to do all this alone.
Trivia night. Escape rooms. Rec sports leagues.
Who signs up for those solo? It already feels impossible. Unless…
My mind flickers to Lucas. The only other person I know who’s single, who actually gets it right now. The one who didn’t flinch when I said I needed to find my spark again. Maybe these meet-cutes don’t have to be a one-woman show. Maybe I don’t have to do this by myself at all.