Chapter 2
Don’t let Cleo play with your head, Lily Harper. Talk to someone who doesn’t get a kick by playing with your feelings. But lecturing myself isn’t working at all.
I grab my phone and scroll through the contacts until I find ‘Zoe 3,’ my older sister and eternal voice of reason—or so she claims.
“Are you calling to drag me to our parents’ home?” she asks, her voice tinged with a hint of exasperation. “Because I’m not going to be a part of the Cleo-fest. She’s gone from bridezilla to . . . I don’t even know what comes after that.”
I roll my eyes, a small smile tugging at the corners of my lips. “Nope. I’m actually avoiding anything wedding just like you,” I reassure her, twirling a strand of my hair around my finger. “However, I need your opinion, like, sister life-coach level stuff.”
“Shoot,” Zoe responds, her tone the calm to my brewing storm.
I take a deep breath, my heart fluttering in my chest as I gather the courage to voice my thoughts. “Did I— Do you think I might’ve made a mistake with any of my exes? Like, accidentally threw away the love of my life?” The words tumble out, a cascade of doubt mixed with a weird zing of hope. Yes, Lily, because comparing your love life to art disposal is the peak of romance. I mentally chide myself, my cheeks heating up with embarrassment.
“The love of your life?” Zoe repeats, a hint of amusement in her tone. I can almost visualize her eyebrow arched in skepticism and the smirk playing on her lips. “Lil, are you experiencing a love-life crisis all by yourself?”
I bite my lip, my heart racing as I pace around the room.“Maybe? I don’t know, Zo. It’s just, this article got me thinking and . . .” I trail off, unsure how to articulate that I’m seriously considering excavating the ghosts of boyfriends past. My stomach churns with a mix of anticipation and dread, the idea both thrilling and terrifying at the same time.
“What article?” she asks, her voice laced with curiosity and a touch of annoyance.
I quickly text the link over to her.
“Where did you get this?”
“Cleo might’ve sent it over with a bunch of others.”
Zoe’s laughter is so loud I lower the volume and wait until she’s done laughing at me—or our sister. “Of course it was Cleo who is making you reconsider your current relationship status. So this has you thinking about what? That Mr. Right was actually Mr. Right In Front of You, and you let him slip away?” Her voice is tinged with humor, but I can tell she’s already bracing herself for whatever wild ride I’m proposing.
“Exactly,” I exclaim. “I mean, it’s possible, right? I could be my own rom-com cliché?”
“Sweetie, you’re an entire genre all on your own,” Zoe says teasingly.
I take a deep breath, my voice filling with worry. “Zoe, I’m serious,” I say, twirling a strand of hair around my finger, a nervous habit I can’t seem to shake. “What if one of them was The One, and I was too blind to see it?”
“Blind?” Zoe’s skepticism is almost palpable through the phone, her voice a mix of concern and incredulity. “Lily, you’ve had your heart shredded more times than I can count. Remember Marco? Or Alex? You don’t need to go digging through that emotional wreckage again.”
I flop back onto the couch as I let out a sigh. Her words sting because they’re true; my romantic history could rival any tragic Shakespearean heroine—minus the poetic ending.
“Look, Zoe,” I start, glancing at the vibrant paintings on my walls as if they hold the answers to my convoluted love life. “I know my track record isn’t great, but what if I missed something? What if all this time, I’ve been learning, growing, and now I’m ready to give love another shot?”
“In my opinion if you’re ready, you’ll meet someone new. However, I’m ready to entertain whatever it is that you’re planning,” Zoe responds, her laughter tinged with a hint of hesitance, resonating through the phone. I can envision her shaking her head, her expression a blend of amusement and worry.
I sit up straighter, my hand gesturing enthusiastically as if she can see me. “Simple,” I say with more confidence than I feel, my gaze settling on the mismatched throw pillows that are as eclectic as my thoughts. “I’ll revisit my exes, reflect on what went wrong, and maybe . . . just maybe, I’ll find out that one of them was right for me all along.”
“Or you’ll discover you were right to walk away from each and every one,” she counters, her voice carrying a note of skepticism. Yet, I can sense she’s starting to understand where I’m going.
“You got it. It’s a win-win.” I can feel the grin spreading across my face.“Either I rediscover an old flame worth reigniting, or I confirm that I’m on the right path now. But I have to try, Zoe.”
“Just . . . be careful, okay? Maybe think this over some more. Don’t let nostalgia and Cleo make you see something that’s not there.”
“I swear,” I reply, my mind already racing with possibilities.
“Alright then.” She sighs. “Go ahead and start planning your grand scheme, and then fill me in on how I can help. If you need to use my account to make a video conference with all of them at once I’ll lend it to you.”
I laugh, because though it’d be convenient to just throw them all into one place, that’s crazy. Still I just say, “You’re the best sister ever.”
“I know. Make sure to tell that to Cleo.” She laughs as she ends the call.
After she hangs up, the room buzzes with the energy of possibilities. I bounce on the balls of my feet, my mind spinning as I think of how I’m going to start this . . . Is it a quest? Should I just stalk them and chat with them over the phone or go and visit them?
How do I do this? I grab my tablet and go to the Notes app, typing: ‘Lily’s Love Chronicles: The Ex-Files.’ Ugh, no—too sci-fi. Dad still watches reruns of that show. But something like that, something real and raw, yet whimsically wrapped in the romance of reconnection.
What if I start a blog?
Or better yet, I document it on my social media along with my art. A visual diary of my journey back through heartache highway to maybe find a hidden path to Mr. Right.
Sure, that could be the best way to make this happen.
I grab the stylus and begin to scribble the names of the guys I’ve dated on my tablet. There aren’t that many. It should be super simple. At least that’s what I think until I hit number eleven and there are still more to add.
“Wow, when did I become such a serial dater,” I mutter to myself, half-impressed, half-exasperated. I tap the stylus against my chin, pondering over the guys I used to date—all charming, all flawed, all not quite right.
With the last name noted, I lean back against the armrest, the tablet resting on my crossed legs.
Maybe Zoe has a point . . . Though, this isn’t just about finding someone—it’s about understanding my own heart’s melody and maybe, just maybe, discovering a harmony I’ve overlooked.
“Here goes nothing,” I whisper, tracing the names with my fingertip. I can’t help but feel a twinge of hope that among these notes of nostalgia, there’s a love song that’s yet to reach its crescendo.
I push to my feet, saving the document and mailing myself a copy so I don’t lose it.
“Let’s set the mood, shall we?” I say, breezing over to the vintage record player perched on a teal cabinet.
A flick of my wrist, and the needle drops with a satisfying crackle onto a vinyl I bought just last week—Olivia Rodrigo begins to sing at the top of her lungs.
This time, I don’t join her, she’s just part of the soundtrack as I begin to paint on the blank canvas of my life.
I let the music seep into my bones, swaying hips and snapping fingers guiding me through the living room turned ballroom. I spin away, laughter bubbling up from my chest as I picture Brian’s earnest hazel eyes, the way he’d toss his head back when he laughed, hair flopping just so. We were kids trying on forever like it was a pair of too-big shoes—clumsy, yes, but genuine.
“High school sweetheart,” I sigh, shaking my head fondly. “More like high school bittersweet.”
I catch my reflection in the mirror—a woman on the brink of something big. “Why are you doing this?” I suddenly ask myself. “Is it to show your sister that you can bring a date to her wedding or because you believe you’re on the right path for yourself?”
I respond to my reflection, “Does it matter?”
It really doesn’t. It’s not like I have much to do lately. I’m between projects. This might be the best time to figure out what went wrong or why I didn’t keep what was right.
“Operation Ex Marks the Spot is officially underway,” I declare, striking a dramatic pose with one hand on my hip.
I breathe in deep, the scent of jasmine incense twirling with the air, and exhale any lingering doubts.
Here’s to second chances, to love stories with dog-eared pages, to finding what I’m looking for—or maybe realizing it’s been here all along.