TARA: Hello, romance book lovers, welcome back to my channel. I am stoked about today’s episode for two reasons. First, you all know I’m trash for a second-chance reunion trope. Second, my lovely Grandma Flo is here as a special guest to share her story of a real-life second-chance romance with her childhood sweetheart.
Before I get too carried away with Flo’s story, let me explain the ins and outs of a second-chance romance for those newbie romance readers out there. Usually, second chances go a little something like this: Person A and Person B are destined soul mates, but something goes horribly wrong and they’re separated.
FLO: Sometimes for many years. Decades, even.
TARA: Yup. Fast-forward. The heroine is living a fabulous life in the city, probably New York, and must return to her backwoods small town to take care of unfinished business. She’s usually engaged to a fancy architect who has zero time for her, leaving her vulnerable to the ruggedly sexy ex-boyfriend who’s never left town and still pines for her.
[Tara flaps her hands excitedly and turns to Flo.]
Tara: Tell us a little bit about your and Martin’s story.
FLO: Marty and I met in kindergarten. He was taken with me immediately, of course. I was quite the cutie-pie back then. His way of showing his affection was to torment me. Chased me around with bugs and frogs he caught in the creek. In the third grade, he jumped from the roof of a schoolyard shed just to impress me. Poor dear broke his arm. I signed his cast with a little heart, and the rest is history.
TARA: To clarify, you fell in love as kids?
FLO: Things ended when I caught him smooching another girl in the schoolyard. After high school, we both married other people. Lived right down the street from each other for most of our adult lives.
TARA: Did you always know you and Marty were meant to be?
FLO: Heavens no. You know, Marty wasn’t the first man I dated after your grandfather died.
TARA: You dated other men before Marty?
FLO: Of course I did. A lady has to keep her options open. You can’t just run into the arms of the first man who gives you a second look. That would be desperate.
* * *
? ? ?
GRANDMA FLO GIVES me a knowing, wise-owl look. Did my own grandmother just insinuate that I’m desperate on Live video, in front of my thousands of followers?
I clear my throat, plowing forward. “Tell us a bit about your dating experience. Did you have lots of suitors after Grandpa died?”
“First I set my sights on the men at church, but they turned out to be a bunch of sticks in the mud,” she says with a sassy eye roll. “I certainly wasn’t interested in the rigmarole of courting someone new. One day I happened to be at the seniors waffle brunch, and guess who I ran into?” She jabs her sharp elbow into my rib for emphasis.
“Who?”
“Silas Reeves,” she says dreamily, playing it up for the camera. “I dated Sil right after Marty. He took me to my first high school dance. He was a sensitive creature. And let me tell you, he was a looker. Picture George Clooney in his ER days, but with a larger nose and weaker chin.”
“Sounds like a catch. What happened with him?”
She waves my words away like an irksome housefly. “His wife is still alive. Very inconvenient.”
She starts rooting around in her massive purse, which is at maximum capacity with random receipts, lipstick tubes, and ancient packets of gum, until she finds what she’s looking for.
It’s a crumpled, stained piece of paper. She unfolds it to reveal a cluster of handwritten words and numbers in varying sizes, written in different-color pen. It’s unhinged. It’s madness. Phone numbers, addresses, occupations are scribbled in every open space. I lean in close enough to make out the name Curtis Bell—Croaked in 2003.
“Since Sil aged so well, it inspired me to record a list of all the men I’ve dated. I was quite the flirt back in the day.” She chuckles to herself as she scans her list, scandalized by her past. “Tracked most of them down. But none really wowed me like Marty.”
I scan her list in awe. What first appeared to be the scribbles of a person who lost their marbles suddenly looks like the work of a genius. A mastermind. “This ex-boyfriend list led you to your second-chance reunion with Marty?”
“Indeed. We hadn’t talked in a long while after Sheila passed. So I rang him up and asked him to help me with some yard work.” She does a double wink for the camera.
My wistful expression is quickly replaced by a frown. “Stories like yours don’t happen to millennials. I’m still aggressively single with zero romantic prospects, swimming in debt, getting mugged on public transit. I’ve even resorted to online dating.”
Grandma Flo shrivels at the horror. She doesn’t know where to start. My mugging? My lonely future? The fact that I’ve just confessed my private life to the entirety of the internet?
Either way, the comments are coming in hot.
Omg, I so relate. Online dating is the worst!
Yikes. That sucks. You should get a cat.
Grandma Flo makes a tsk sound, severely disappointed with the youth of today. “The Facebook is no way to meet someone.”
I don’t bother to explain that Facebook is not synonymous with the internet writ large. “Tell me about it. But this is how it is now. This is modern dating.”
“So, what you’re saying is, you’re looking for love and you’re finally open to my help?” Grandma Flo’s eyes light up like a Christmas tree. For years, I’ve warded off her offers to set me up with random suitors (including her church friend’s eighteen-year-old grandson).
“So long as they’re in my age category,” I warn.
When she strokes her chin, I expect her to rattle off a laundry list of potentials. But she just shrugs and says, “I don’t know of anyone suitable right now, aside from Ethel’s grandson, Hank. The one who just got out of prison. I’ll survey my girlfriends and get back to you.”
I cringe. You know the dating world is bleak when Grandma Flo can’t even muster up one measly option aside from a convicted felon. “I wish I could just meet the One in a laundromat like Mom and Dad. Or by crashing into each other on bikes like Grandma and Grandpa Chen. Or by reuniting with my childhood sweetheart like you and Martin.” I let out a disgruntled sigh at all the romantic love stories in my family. “Romances like those don’t happen in real life anymore.”
She leans forward to the edge of the couch. “They don’t just happen, Tara. You have to make them happen. Why don’t you do what I did?”
“Try to date my exes?” I clarify.
“Why not? What better pool to choose from than already vetted men? Of course, leave out the duds,” she advises. “But I remember you dated some fine fellows.”
She’s not wrong. Some of my exes are total catches. They’re all somewhat similar. Generally kind, soft-spoken, good-natured, and trustworthy. The men most women friend-zone, ignoring their potential and understated sex appeal until it’s too late. “You know what, Grandma? This could be a good place to start my search.”
She leans in with yet another slightly disturbing double wink. “I’ll tell you one thing. Men only get better with age. Trust me, second time’s a charm. Maybe you can even find one on time for that Valentine’s Day gala of yours.”
By the time we end our Live Session, there’s an avalanche of comments on our video, most of which are encouraging me to pursue my exes and get a date for Valentine’s Day. In fact, it’s garnered twice as many views as my usual videos.
Maybe Grandma Flo has a point. All the romance books and movies insist true love happens passively. Love, as we’re told, is not something you actively seek out. The best love stories just magically fall into the laps of those who don’t expect or want them.
But what if I don’t want to sit around and wait for potential suitors like a demure flower who’s just come of age? What if I want to take matters into my own hands? To prove romance-book-worthy love still exists?
Inspired, I grab my phone. It’s time to do what I do best.
Internet stalk.
? chapter five
WHICH EX SHOULD I reach out to first? My high school sweetheart? My college boyfriends? Don’t forget to let me know in the comments. You can also vote in the poll—”
My video is interrupted by a figure taking up nearly the entire width of my bedroom doorway behind me on camera.
“It’s only six in the morning and you’re already plotting something sinister,” Trevor remarks in a hoarse, early-morning voice. He’s in a plain white T-shirt, which has no business contouring his every muscle the way it does.
I swiftly turn my attention back to the camera, but not before shooting him a stern look over my shoulder. “Sorry. That was my roommate. Anyway, as I was saying, you can vote in the poll in my stories. Bye, everyone!” I wave, hitting End.
Trevor is appalled by the state of my room, horror-movie eyes darting from the half-emptied box in my doorway to my bed, where the remainder of its contents are scattered. He gulps when he spots the item behind me. “What the . . .”