Chapter 8
TESSA
Iwince at the glare of my ring light.
I’ve been sitting in front of it for twenty minutes, makeup done, hair curled, wearing my favorite “on camera” sweater—the pink one that I feel makes me look pretty. My notes are ready. Everything is in place for me to record a new video.
Except the words won’t come.
My phone sits face down on the desk, silent. It’s been silent for three days now—three days since the Conservatory, since Archie walked out of a dream and into the dark without looking back.
I have to go. It’s work.
Six words. That’s what I got after the most amazing sex of my life. His phone rang, his face changed, and he was gone. No real explanation. No follow-up. No promise that he’d call. Just six words, then nothing.
I flip the phone over for the hundredth time. No new messages. Then I remind myself I blocked his number. I had to, or I would’ve been tempted to text him too much or embarrass myself by crying on his voicemail.
A familiar hollowness opens up inside me.
I know this feeling. I’ve coached hundreds of women through it—the awful limbo of waiting, wondering, reading meaning into every unanswered text.
I know all the right things to say. Don’t assume the worst. Silence doesn’t always mean what you think it means.
Give him the benefit of the doubt. Then I remember my other advice: If he’s interested, he makes the time.
But knowing this doesn’t make it any easier when you’re the one being ghosted.
I pull up my content notes and force myself to focus. I‘ve never taken time off like this. Even if I’m going on vacation, I record content in advance. That’s what my audience expects.
The recording light blinks red. I paste on my camera smile.
“Hey, loves, it’s Tessa from Curvy Cupid, and today I want to talk about—”
My voice cracks. I stop. Start again.
“Today I want to talk about managing expectations in new relationships—”
I can’t do this. I can’t sit here dispensing advice about love when I’m drowning in doubt about my own.
I click off the recording and slump back in my chair.
My inbox pings with a new email. I almost ignore it—probably spam, probably a brand deal I don’t have the energy for—but the subject line catches my eye.
You changed my life.
I click it open, expecting the usual generic thank you from a fan. Instead, I find three paragraphs that make my eyes sting.
Dear Tessa,
I’ve been following Curvy Cupid for two years, ever since my divorce left me convinced I’d never find love again.
I was fifty-three, overweight, and terrified.
Your content taught me that my worth wasn’t determined by a number on a scale or a man’s attention, and that I didn’t have to settle for anyone who didn’t make me feel sensational.
Last month, I met someone. He’s kind and funny and… he just gets me. We’re getting married in June. I wanted you to know that none of this would have happened without you. Because of you, I took a chance. And now I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.
Thank you. From the bottom of my heart.
The tears come fast and hard.
I’m overwhelmingly proud that my work makes a difference. That somewhere out there, a fifty-three-year-old woman is planning her wedding because my words gave her the courage to know her worth and not accept anyone who didn’t treat her right.
But beneath the pride, envy coils tight in my stomach. Because this woman found her person. She took the leap and landed safely. She’s living the happily-ever-after I’ve longed for my entire adult life.
How many more women will I help find love while I stay stuck on the outside looking in? How many more success stories will I celebrate while my own heart keeps breaking?
I close the email and stare at the blank recording screen.
It was supposed to be one night. A favor for an intriguing stranger.
A chance to wear the dress I’d been saving for something special.
A date with someone I thought I had real chemistry with.
I wasn’t supposed to fall for him. I wasn’t supposed to lie awake replaying the humid air of the Conservatory, orchids brushing my skin, his hands in my hair, the way he whispered my name against my throat like I was the only woman in the world he wanted.
I wasn’t supposed to keep reaching for the feeling of his body pressed against mine, the way the entire world ceased to exist when I was in his arms and we were making love.
I pick up my phone. Open our text thread.
Read back through the messages from before the gala—the flirty ones, the ones that made my stomach flip, the ones where he said I’m sure, and I let myself believe this felt different from other men.
The thread ends with my unanswered message I sent two days after the gala.
Tears prick my eyes at the absence of a response.
Joanie comes for our weekly in-person meeting and finds me still in my filming chair, mascara smudged, camera untouched.
“Okay.” She sets down two glasses of wine and perches on the edge of my desk. “Talk.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You haven’t posted anything new since before Valentine’s Day. Your DMs are blowing up asking if you’re okay. And you look like you’ve been crying.” She pushes one of the wine glasses toward me. “So talk.”
I pick up the glass and take a sip. I’m scared of drinking too much because that makes me scared I’ll make a fool of myself. I don’t know how it’s possible to be so enthralled by a man in such a short time, but I’m crazy for him. “He left.”
“Left where? The gala?”
“The Conservatory.” I spin the glass between my palms, watching the wine swirl. “We were at the gala. We went to the Conservatory for a little privacy…” My voice catches. “It was magical with him. Then his phone rang. He said he had to go, and he left. He hasn’t called, hasn’t texted. Nothing.”
Joanie’s quiet for a moment. “And you haven’t reached out either?”
“I have! Said I hoped everything was okay, to call me when he could.” My laugh is brittle. “I was very chill and not clingy. It was more ‘hey, had a great time. Give me a call.’ That’s not how I felt then or how I feel now.”
“Which is?”
Joanie’s question makes my hands tremble, and I set the wine down before I spill it.
“Terrified,” I admit. “Because for one night, Joanie, I felt like a princess in a fairy tale. Don’t laugh, but it really felt that special. I let myself think that maybe I’d finally found someone who wanted all of me.” My voice wavers. “No one’s ever made me feel as special and desired as he did.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m wondering if I imagined the whole thing.
If I was so desperate for connection that I invented chemistry where there wasn’t any.
” I press my palms against my eyes, blocking out the ring light’s glare.
“This is what I warn my followers about. The fantasy of the first few weeks. Mistaking one intoxicating night for something lasting. Believing promises that haven’t been tested. ”
“Tessa.” Joanie’s hand lands on my shoulder. “What would you tell someone writing in to Curvy Cupid right now?”
I already know the answer. I’ve given this advice a thousand times.
“I’d tell them to communicate. To be brave. To reach out and get clarity instead of suffering in silence.” The words feel heavy in my mouth. “I’d tell them that assumptions kill more relationships than truth ever could.”
“So?”
“I already reached out to him. I don’t want to seem desperate and keep trying to contact him.
Maybe I should call him, but after all this time?
” I shake my head. “But what if I’m right?
What if he got what he wanted, and now he’s done?
What if calling him just confirms that I’m the pathetic woman who caught feelings in a fake relationship? ”
“What if you’re wrong?” Joanie counters. “Why don’t you call him?”
“I can’t.” The admission comes out small. “Maybe I’m being a hypocrite. But I can’t be the one who reaches out again. I already texted and put myself out there. If he wants me, he knows where to find me.”
Joanie sighs. “Fine. But you can’t just disappear from your platform either. Your followers are worried.”
“I know.” I set the phone down. “I’ll figure something out.”
After she leaves, I sit alone in the glow of my ring light, and I think about the woman who emailed me. The one who took a chance at fifty-three and found her happily-ever-after. She was brave and reached for what she wanted, even though it terrified her.
But maybe there’s another way for me to be brave.
I turn the camera back on. The red light blinks.
“Hey, loves,” I say, my voice husky and raw. “I wasn’t going to film today. I’ve been... going through it. And I didn’t know how to show up for you when I’m struggling to show up for myself.”
Once I start talking, the words flow more easily.
“You know I don’t talk about my personal life much—mostly because what personal life, right?
” I laugh weakly. “But things changed for me a couple of weeks ago. I met someone, and we had the most magical date you could imagine. It felt like a genuine fairy tale, the kind I’d stopped believing in.
It felt like the kind of connection I help you all find, and that I’ve hoped would happen to me. ”
My jaw aches from clenching, but I keep going.
“And he’s ghosted me. It hurts so much that I let myself believe it was real.
And now I’m wondering if I made the whole thing up.
” I swipe at my eyes, not caring that my makeup is ruined.
“You know what I always tell you. If he wanted to, he would. I don’t have any wisdom for you today.
I don’t have a neat lesson or uplifting story.
I just have this: I’m struggling. And that’s okay.
Maybe it’s okay not to have it all figured out, even when you’re supposed to be the expert. ”
“For now, I’m going to go to my favorite spot so I can think through things and clear my mind.”
I reach for the camera, ready to end the recording.
“Until then, be gentle with yourselves. And I’ll do the same.”
I export the video without watching it back. If I watch it, I’ll delete it. I’ll see all the flaws, the vulnerability, the cracks in the armor I’ve built around Curvy Cupid’s confidence.
My finger hovers over the publish button.
This is the brave thing. Even if it’s not the brave thing I should be doing. I can bare my heart to thousands of strangers, but I can’t pick up the phone and call the one person who actually matters.
I press publish anyway.