chapter four
GRANDMA FLO IS here for our Live video session a solid forty-five minutes early to “prepare.”
As she slips off her extra-grip orthopedic winter boots, I take one of her grocery bags. This one is full of yarn and a box of digestive biscuits. “Grandma, this is my roommate, Trevor.”
Grandma Flo tosses her coat at me and scrutinizes him with her sharp hazel eyes for an uncomfortable amount of time. “Roommate? Your new roommate is a man?” she asks, aghast.
“He’s a colleague of Scott’s. At the firehouse,” I emphasize, in an attempt to lessen the shock, lest she assume he’s some unvetted Craigslist stranger who’s angling to roast my bones to make a ceremonial broth.
Her expression softens, as I knew it would. “You’re a firefighter? My husband, Marty, is a career firefighter. Retired now, of course.”
“I’ve worked at the BFD with Scotty for about ten years now,” Trevor says.
His overt hide-your-wife-kids-and-extended-family vibes aside, Flo seems satisfied by Trevor’s public service career. She shakes his hand and even gives him the afghan she knit me as a housewarming gift. It’s a vibrant green, white, and orange, to remind me of my half-Irish heritage. When I make a show of draping it over the entire length of the couch, Trevor pretends to stroke it lovingly while subtly eyeing it like an evil object.
Grandma admires Trevor as she makes herself comfortable on the couch. “You know, you could be one of those shirtless male models on a book cover. Tara, do you have any connections? Maybe you can get this man some modeling work.”
Unsure how to respond to that, Trevor flashes me a funny, closed-mouth grin.
“Grandma, I told you I don’t have real publishing connections. I’m a book reviewer,” I remind her. Ever since I managed to get her an early copy of a new Danielle Steel book, she’s under the false impression that I have some sort of clout in the publishing industry at large.
She waves me off. “Trevor, would you like to join us for our Live video? We’re talking about romance books.” She bounces her thin penciled brows to entice him.
“I’d love to, ma’am,” he says, all kind-eyed and gentlemanlike, “but I’m going grocery shopping. I’ve gotta pick up some fruits and vegetables for Tara before she dies of malnutrition.”
I meet his smart-ass smile with a glower, because I know exactly how Grandma Flo is going to react: with another lecture about how I’ll never find a husband if I don’t cook.
As expected, she’s severely disappointed in me, shaking her head as though she’s failed as a grandmother. “Tara has never been one for domestic life. Certainly doesn’t take after me. You know, at age ten, I could whip up a gourmet meal. Any meal. From memory,” she brags, tapping her head. “I take it you still haven’t made use of the cookbook I gave you?” she asks me. For my thirtieth birthday, she gifted me a cookbook she found at a yard sale titled Easy-Peasy Recipes for One.
“Um, yeah. I’ve used it,” I lie, dodging eye contact entirely.
Ignoring me, she begins to indulge Trevor with some tales of my personal failings in the kitchen, including the time I microwaved tinfoil. Trevor finds this all too amusing.
“Dear, did you find a dress for your big Valentine’s Day gala yet?” Grandma asks me eagerly.
My stomach fills with dread at the mere mention of the gala, despite the fact that Valentine’s Day is my favorite holiday. The gala is an annual Boston Children’s Hospital fundraiser for medical research. This year, it happens to fall on Valentine’s Day. In keeping with the theme, the money will go toward the Children’s Heart Center.
The hospital staff treat this event like it’s senior prom. I’m talking formal wear, makeup, updos, and limo rentals. Last year was the first time I elected to work instead (due to life implosion). And while I toyed with the idea of skipping it again this year in favor of self-loathing on the couch in a haze of Cheeto dust, spending Valentine’s Day alone feels a little too depressing.
I give her a wary look. “How did you even know about it?”
“I saw you clicked Attending on the Facebook,” she says flippantly. “I could crochet you a dress if you’d like.”
I pretend not to be horrified at the prospect of a hand-knit evening gown. “I was thinking of buying something, Grandma. But thank you.”
Luckily, she doesn’t appear too put out by my decline of her crochet services. She quickly gets sidetracked with a story about how she once crocheted an outfit for my mom and how Mom didn’t appreciate the craftsmanship because she isn’t a “domestic goddess,” either. At some point during the rant, Trevor manages to make his quiet escape.
Once he’s gone, Grandma Flo tells me about her new Instagram account, LoopsWithFlo. It seems Crystal and I are no longer the only social media influencers in the family.
“I already have fifty friends,” she gloats, shoving her iPad an inch from my face to prove it.
I pace the living room, scrolling through her feed. She’s documented all her latest creations: hats, blankets, scarves, mittens. She’s even gotten the hang of filters and hashtags (#knittersofinstagram, #wool, #makersgonnamake). “They’re called followers on Instagram, Grandma.”
She takes a tiny bird bite of her digestive biscuit. “I want to learn how to get more friends.”
“Crystal would know more than me, but it looks like you’re only posting once every few days,” I say, passing the iPad back to her. “You have to post consistently, daily even, to get maximum exposure.”
She one-finger types ask crystal about friends in her Notes app while I set up my tripod and phone in front of the couch. Once Grandma Flo is satisfied the angle doesn’t accentuate her neck wrinkles, it’s showtime.
LIVE WITH TARAROMANCEQUEEN—SECOND-CHANCE ROMANCE
EXCERPT FROM TRANSCRIPT
[Tara and Grandma Flo sit side by side on a leather couch, knit afghan draped over their laps. Flo sips tea and scrutinizes her own image. Tara smiles happily into the camera.]
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.