Masters of Fine Hearts (Degrees of Love #1)
Chapter 1
one
LILIANA
Despite my best efforts, failure finally caught up to me.
I've outrun it before. The crochet projects gathering dust in the back of my closet tried to best me, but through gritted teeth I turned those strings of yarn into something tangible. When my planner tells me there’s not enough time to accomplish everything I’ve scheduled, I adjust. I make time.
Even when outside forces like a bad project partner nearly destroy my grade, I pivot.
I don’t fail. I can’t.
This is different. It’s beyond failing at an activity or a skill; I am the failure. I’ve become the ball of yarn tied up in a sad excuse of knots. And I can’t blame anyone but myself.
“What about this guy?” Rosie flicks her tanned wrist at our television, stray pieces of popcorn flying onto our fading blue carpet.
This is what being a failure entails, I guess. My master’s degree relying on the scarce and scary dating pool of downtown Boston.
Dying sunlight phases through our gray balcony curtains, crawling across the thrifted coffee table and covering the dating profile projected onto our television screen.
He must be, at least, the 50th eligible bachelor of the evening.
I don’t try to see what he looks like behind the glare.
His lack of a shirt and “Looking for a good time, not a long time” caption tell me enough.
I ready myself to swipe left, and Rosie’s hands shoot up in defeat. “Oh, come on!”
“You want me to date that guy?!” The scratchy fabric of our couch crinkles against my pajama pants when I turn to her, shocked. I reject his profile before she tries to take the phone from me.
“He was cute.” She shrugs. I sigh.
What could’ve happened down the line for a woman as stunning as my best friend, an olive-skinned, curvy, mathematical genius, to be so generous with her compliments to men?
“Besides,” she mumbles through the popcorn in her mouth, “You said you were desperate.”
Well. She’s not wrong.
Accepting failure is one thing. Coming to terms with the fact that I’ve only reached this low point because of a writing assignment, is another.
When I enrolled in a romance course for my degree, I thought it would be easy. I enjoy reading romance books. The colorful shelves lining our apartment walls are proof. I excel in academics, and up until this semester, no coursework has ever been too challenging.
Writing a romantic short story for a grade? It sounded laughable at the time.
As it turns out, reading romance stories doesn’t translate into writing one, and memorizing plot structure doesn’t mean I can put it into action.
My first assignment grade should have been enough of a warning.
It was only a rough outline, but the margins were still stained in red ink.
Flaws I wasn’t aware of before were brought to the surface.
Past me told myself it was a part of the process. That pep talk didn’t last very long.
The second round of criticism and the “Is this supposed to be satire?” comment made me realize I was in over my head.
Liliana Kahale, ever the over-achiever, successful at everything she’s done and the pride and joy of her academic driven, PhD wielding parents, finally found something she couldn’t do.
A single uninspired writing assignment has consumed me enough that I don’t have energy for my other writing course, either. Every assignment now is littered in red ink, and my grade points on the university’s website are going down, down, down.
Desperation came earlier this week. I tried to read the novels that influenced me and watch the romcoms that I obsessed over during my teenage years. Nothing worked. Unfortunately, Chad Michael Murray didn’t have the solution to my problems. But at least he looked good.
After catching me nursing a bottle of cheap wine, Rosie suggested something only she would be brave enough to say aloud: I should go on a series of dates, hope I fall in love, and use it to inspire myself.
“Become the character.” She encouraged, passing the bottle of wine back to me, words slurring. “Be one with your story.”
She was drunk. And crazy. Unsurprisingly, I said no, both because it’s absurd and because I don’t want to date someone for homework. Some lows are avoidable.
But days and another low grade later, reality has officially set in. I’m coming to terms with the fact that no matter how badly I want this, and how much pressure is on my shoulders to make my parents proud, I was wrong. I don’t have what it takes to be a writer.
After getting a ten on today’s assignment—five points for turning it in and five for adding my name—I trudged home and let my roommate talk me into a dating profile. Anything to stop me from obsessing over red ink on a white page.
“Ooh, this guy has a dog!”
The sunlight has moved to the white wall behind our television now, the screen fully visible. Said guy does have an equally cute dog, and the caption—“Her name is JenJen”—seems harmless enough.
So far, nothing out of the ordinary.
I don’t trust it.
Blind to my raised brows, Rosie bounces up and down on the balls of her feet, brown eyes widening behind her glasses. “He’s not bad! Swipe right!”
Rosie and I fit each other. She sees the best in everything—including men, despite it working against her more times than not—and I overthink words, actions, people. I’d rather be overprepared for nothing than underprepared for something.
The same thing happens here. As cute as the guy on screen is, I know something has to be wrong with him. I search for it until it inevitably shows itself.
“Ha!” My hand almost knocks Rosie’s popcorn out of her lap and onto the carpet. With the best mocking frat boy voice I can muster, I read his bio. “On weekends you can catch me drinking, partying, or both.”
“Oh, be serious.” Rosie reaches for the phone, and I extend my hand to avoid her. “You’re not promising marriage! Who cares if he’s a party guy? If he takes you on a good date or two, maybe it’ll help you with your book.”
“Short story.” I correct. “And I told you this is just to relax before I go into study mode.”
Her eyes narrow. “It’s only a matter of time before you realize how ground-breaking my idea is.
” Ditching the bowl of popcorn, she wrestles the phone from my hand.
I repeat myself, and she ignores it, swiping until another brown-haired, conventionally attractive man pops onto the screen. “How do we feel about Peter?”
Peter is surrounded by women in his first picture. In his second, he’s holding a wad of cash to his ear and tugging his bottom lip with his pinky.
The muscles of my frown deepen when Rosie uncovers photos of him sweaty in a club, surrounded by bottles. When she gets to one of Peter barely covering his bottom half with a hotel room towel, I can’t stop myself.
“I will kill you if you keep going.”
She rejects his profile but turns to smirk at me. “Sounds like that would be good inspiration for the crime fiction class you skipped out on.”
If she wasn’t such a good friend, and if she wasn’t right, I would be hurt by the jab to my ego.
I’m beginning to think no matter what I try, I’m destined to fail a class for the first time in my life.
It would have been rational to not pursue a master’s degree at all.
I had a ten-year plan to use my psychology degree in the Human Resources field, get comfortable in a corporate position, and see my parents happily retire.
It wasn’t a wistful or passionate future, but it was practical. That’s what I know and that’s what I’m best at.
The first time I stupidly took a chance on myself and my own wants, I sent my application in to the Brookstone University graduate program.
The excuse at the time was that a master’s degree would be useful regardless of the field, and with my undergraduate English minor, this Fine Arts program shouldn’t be too hard.
I have since been humbled.
Rosie is smiling optimistically at another mediocre man whose profile details are obviously fabricated. She doesn’t seem to notice.
The hopeful look on her face makes me smile. I appreciate her for being here with me and stopping my inevitable spiral of self-pity.
“I know his profile says his greatest skill is ‘disappointing my mom’ but honestly is that a big deal?”
Even if she has horrible taste in men.