“It was a mess,” I groan, turning the car onto Mom and Dad’s street.

“I’m sure that’s not true.” Emma tries to console me, her voice clear through my Bluetooth speakers.

“Sweet of you to say, but I promise, I gave him the ‘kiss me’ eyes. I stood, I lingered, I stared longingly at his mouth and licked my lips—I couldn’t have been clearer,” I protest.

“Did you tell him that you liked him?” she asks.

“We went hiking together! I’m at his café every single day, and—”

“Did you tell him that you liked him?” she asks, that “mom” voice coming into play once more.

“No,” I concede.

“Maybe you need to make that clearer. Guys aren’t as smart as us when it comes to interpreting the signs,” she says, then changes her tone of voice. “Except for you, Mr. McChubberson. When you grow up, I’ll make sure you know how to treat a woman right.”

My heart warms. “How is Isaac?”

“Draining me like I’m a cow. I swear, I didn’t even have my boobs out this much when Drew and I first started dating.” Emma sighs. “Now, back to the subject at hand. Are you going to make a move on Elio?”

“I just don’t know if I should. He confuses me, Em. He flirts with me. He said I have a hot ass—”

“You do.”

“Thanks.” We both know my ass is far from hot. “But then I try for the kiss, and he acts as if he’s a monk.”

“You know, not all monks are celibate.”

“That’s hardly the point.” I sigh. “Elio is just so confident. I can’t understand why he hasn’t made a move already.”

“Maybe he’s been burnt badly before,” Emma suggests. “Have you looked him up online? Checked him out on social media?”

“I don’t even know his last name,” I lament.

“You don’t?” Her voice is shocked. “Romy, he’s the only man I’ve heard you talk about in a year and you don’t know that one basic detail?”

“No,” I mutter quietly.

“So I can’t stalk him?”

“Afraid not. Besides, those kinds of things never mattered with us before.” And they haven’t. I’ve been so busy falling for the way he makes me laugh, the way he makes me smile, and the way he makes me coffee that I haven’t worried about the past, or last names, or anything aside from how I feel when we’re together.

I pause by the gates at my parents’ place, dialing in the code on the keypad, then head on up to the turning circle driveway out front of their house.

“What if there’s a Jeremy in his past stopping him from taking that next step?” she presses, but something about that idea just doesn’t seem right.

“I don’t know . . .”

“Well, I think you need to get kissing, ASAP. If you don’t take a chance soon, you’re going to wind up spending the next few years enduring dinners at your parents’ place alone.”

A fork of lightning pierces the sky behind the house. Creepy. “Speaking of, I’ve arrived. Call you later?”

“Sounds good. I have to get my son off the boobs, give them a few minutes rest before the husband comes home and I have to get them out again,” she says, pausing. “Unless you want me to wait until you can come around and watch . . .”

“Shut up!” I roll my eyes, laughing. “Have a good night.”

“Bye.” She ends the call on a giggle, and I pull the car into park, my mood considerably lighter than before.

Maybe she’s right. Maybe all I need to do is have an open and honest discussion with Elio, one where I tell him the truth about my feelings—that he’s more than just a guy who makes the most delicious cakes and life-sustaining coffee. To me, he’s the things in between, too. He’s talking and laughing and feeling at ease. Do I really want to let that opportunity slip through my fingers?

I get out of the car and head inside the house. My keys jangle as I place them along with my handbag on the hall table, and the rush of feet padding softly over tiles greets me.

“Miss Romy, I’m so sorry. I should have been here to get the door.” My parents’ housekeeper bites her lip, taking my keys and handbag and placing them in the visitor closet directly opposite the entrance.

“Maria, this is my childhood home. I don’t need to knock.”

Worried eyes are my only reply as my heels click over the black-and-white art deco tiles toward the parlor, straight for the drink cart. My mother stands beside it, a wine glass held elegantly in her hand. Her long red talons gleam around the stem as her steel blue eyes look me up and down and find me wanting. I saw her parents do it to her when they were still alive, and it looks like Mom’s following tradition. Old money can be like that—judgment’s so expensive.

“You didn’t knock?” she asks.

“You didn’t greet me with hello?” I ask, forcing a smile as she proffers a cheek for the customary kiss on either side.

“Darling, you know how much I hate it when you just waltz in. I could have thought you were a burglar and called the police.”

“If I was a burglar, I wouldn’t come into your house and stop to make myself a martini.”Mom just sighs, then calls down the hall, “Beau! Beau! Come and visit with your daughter, the alcoholic thief.”

I take the vermouth and gin and pour some into a crystal-stemmed glass.

A big glass.

The biggest I can find.

After adding a lemon twist, I fill a small crystal bowl with nuts from an unopened packet I spot underneath the top shelf, then sink onto a sofa. Mom relaxes on the lounge opposite. Above her head, the clock on the wall ticks over to seven.

Two hours to go.

Just one hundred and twenty minutes until this monthly obligation is done.

I crunch on the peanuts, the salty taste filling my mouth. “Nut?”

Mom’s eyebrows answer in the negative.

I place the bowl on the floor beside me.

“Is that my little girl?” Dad’s voice booms. He strides across the room, pulls me to my feet and envelops me in a hug. “How are you? You look jolly.”

“She does. Very jolly. Have you put on weight, dear?” Mom asks.

“Do we have to have this discussion again?” I pick up that bowl of nuts, needing the comfort food now more than I did when I first entered the room.

“Leave her be, Val. The girl just takes after her father.” Dad squeezes my arm in support. I sure hope not.

I glance down at my body, my stomach. I’ve never loved the way I looked. Perhaps dropping a few pounds would help that. Make me feel less like a hippo when eating in front of Elio.

Can I really say goodbye to those muffins, though?

I bite my lip and place the bowl of nuts back on the tray.

I can diet. I can do this.

Mom pats the seat next to her, and Dad sits by her side. Once again, I’m reminded of the difference in their stature—Dad, so tall, so wide, and Mom, so short, so petite. They’re like a pit bull and a chihuahua, the smaller one always ready to bite.

“Did I read that Kenna McPherson is getting married?” Mom asks, her eyes narrowed. Straight for the jugular.

“Yes, she is.” My cheeks heat a little. Thank God Kenna didn’t recognize me the other day. Must have been my superhuman speed as I hotfooted it out of the woods. We haven’t seen each other since we finished high school, and I hope to hell that it’s years before I run into her again.

“Hmm. Isn’t it strange, how you were both so obsessed with getting married as kids.” Mom sighs, as if remembering the time fondly. “And now, she’s living the dream.”

And I’m just writing about it. She doesn’t need to say the words; they’re already front of mind.

“And on that note, we have news.” Mom’s hands go to the edge of her knees as she leans forward, her eyes wide with excitement.

“What is it?” I ask, wary.

“Well . . .” She looks to Dad. He nods. “We found an app that we think can help you.”

“An app,” I repeat, taking another sip of my martini. “Is it a dating app?”

“Sort of.” Dad nods. “Well, that’s what the boys at the club tell me.”

“You’ve been discussing my single life with your friends?” Oh lord. The embarrassment doesn’t stop.

“Let’s not get off topic, dear.” Mom places a hand on Dad’s knee. “Your father has found a solution to your problem, and I, for one, am very excited to get this ball rolling.”

“Tell me more about it,” I say, and straighten my posture, steeling myself.

“Why don’t we show you instead?” Mom picks up the remote control from the table beside her, flicking the television on. Dad taps a few things on his phone, and suddenly, the screen is a reflection of the device in his hand thanks to the power of Bluetooth.

A photo of me fills most of the screen. It’s a picture from my engagement party—twinkle lights sparkle in the background, and Jeremy has his arms around me.

Only in this image, someone has scribbled over his head with some kind of a digital paint tool.

“What’s . . .?” I frown, my eyes taking in the other details.

Romy Love, 27

Hi, I’m Romy. Love is my name, and love is my game. I run a wedding blog to help those who’ve found their perfect match find their perfect day, and I can’t wait to meet you.

I blink. The layout looks strangely familiar. “Mom . . . Dad . . .”

“Isn’t it wonderful?” Mom grins, her eyes alight. “This could be what you’ve been looking for! The answer to all of your problems.”

“What app is this?” I ask.

A notification announcement comes through at the top of the screen. Dad presses something on his phone and the screen changes to black, my photo and the photo of a guy in a polo shirt with graying hair in two white-bordered circles, accompanied by the words It’s a match.

Oh no.

Oh, no, no, no, no, no.

Tinder.

My parents have signed me up for Tinder.

I’ve hit an all-time low.

“Mom, Dad . . .” I shake my head. I have no words to express my horror.

“It’s this new dating app,” Mom says, excitement sparking in her eyes. “You can match with people who live locally to you, and—”

“Tinder is not just a dating app,” I rush out, standing. How is this even happening to me?

“Then what do you call this?” Dad points to the screen. “It says ‘it’s a match.’ And doesn’t this Kevin look like a nice young chap? Let’s see here . . .” A few more clicks and Kevin’s profile comes up, along with a selection of other photos featuring a man who has to be at least ten years my senior. “Says he likes golfing. Works in the military. And that he’s looking for the right girl to settle down with.” He looks up at me and winks. “Seems like a winner to me.”

I bury my face in my hands. How do I tell my parents that Tinder isn’t just for dating, and that it can often be used for . . . well, finding someone to have casual sex with?

Dad continues to sprout the merits of Kevin by providing a running analysis of his hobbies based on the photos he’s uploaded of himself. I reach for the bowl of nuts again, stuffing as many inside my mouth as I can.

Wait.

Diet.

I’ve hit rock-bottom. My old high school friend is marrying an Olympic skier. I can’t stick to a simple diet plan to save my life. And my parents are signing me up for dating apps because I am so incredibly pathetic when it comes to finding and keeping a boyfriend.

But you’re not.

The voice is quiet at first, but it’s insistent. Jeremy cheated on me, but Elio—I’m sure there’s something there. I could swear it.

Dad stops on one particular photo, squinting. “Hang on! That fellow looks an awful lot like Marjorie’s husband down the street.”

I need to listen to Emma’s advice. I need to talk to Elio. Get it all out in the open. What I feel when I’m with him—that’s something real. And I’d be a fool not to chase after it and grab it with both hands.

“I have to go.” I walk to the couch opposite and kiss Mom on either cheek.

“But we’re just getting started.” She gestures to the screen, her brows furrowed. “If Kevin isn’t a success, there are plenty more men on there. I’ve gone through and preselected a few I thought sounded appropriate.”

“Mom, Tinder isn’t always used by people looking for the kind of relationship I am.” I take her hands and look into her eyes, imploring her to see the truth I can’t just blurt out in front of my parents.

“What sort of a relationship are they looking for?” She stops suddenly, her eyes round. She lowers her voice. “Is it for . . . the gays?”

“Mom!” How could she even say that? “Tinder is for people of any sexual orientation, but that’s a key part of it. It’s often used by people looking for sex.”

“You don’t want to have sex?” She arches one thin brow at me, skewering me with a skeptical look.

“Not sex for the sake of sex. I want real sex. Sex that means something.” I think of Elio again—his laugh, his passion for old Russian literature, his favorite Disney movie. How he listens. How he cares. “I’ve sold myself short ever since Jeremy left me, but now, things are going to change. I’m going after what I want, and I’m going to grab it with both hands.”

“I’m sure that’s Marjorie’s husband! But isn’t his name Mark?” Dad waves his hand at the screen again, outrage on his face. “Why would Mark set up an account under the name of Richie?”

“Perhaps he’s got a twin brother, Dad.” I kiss my father’s cheek. Let him keep the dream of his wholesome little neighborhood life alive for a moment or two longer.

“I don’t know about this.” Dad switches his phone for the remote, turning the television off. I stand, placing my empty glass back on the cart.

“You can’t leave before dinner.” Mom’s voice is filled with alarm.

“Sorry, Mom,” I say. “Something’s come up. And besides, I think I’m going on a diet.”

Her jaw drops.

Maria swoops in from nowhere, my handbag and keys at the ready. “Goodbye, Miss Romy,” she says, and I smile and thank her for everything.

What a disaster of a night. Still, it’s made one thing abundantly clear—each second I spend waiting for Elio to hurry up and kiss me brings me a second closer to my parents hooking me up with a man they find on the Internet. So much for a dream wedding. At this point, I’ll be lucky if they don’t sell me as a mail-order bride.

It’s time to stop beating around the bush and waiting for Elio to make the next move.

This is the twenty-first century. It’s time for me to kiss him.

Elio won’t even know what hit him.