“I wasn’t supposed to see him, Greer!” Adeline sounds panicked in my ear. “I was never supposed to see him. Why is the universe conspiring against me?”
I can’t help but laugh at her ridiculousness. Not that I don’t understand it.
In a weird twist of fate, Adeline’s muse, Spencer Garrison, showed up at her book signing event last night. Apparently, his sister is a huge fan of Adeline Snow books. None of us knew that until Spencer showed up with her. Hence, Adeline’s panic.
“It’ll be fine,” I say in the calmest voice I can muster. “He was nice, right?”
“Yes, he was nice. He was awesome. He was beautiful. He was… good lord, that man is attractive.” She’s rambling at a rapid pace, and I’m trying not to giggle in her ear. Not because I’m laughing at her. But because she’s so damn cute.
I get it, though. As much as I’m trying to encourage her and calm her down, I get it. No one wants to meet their idol. What if they’re not as wonderful as you’ve built them up to be in your brain? I, personally, think Diana Galbaldon is a beautiful literary writer. But I never want to meet her because if she’s a terrible person, I will never get over it. I’ve heard she’s nice, but that’s subjective. Instead, I pretend she and I would be BFFs and never bother finding out where she’s touring.
Adeline no longer has that luxury.
“It’s fine, Adi. He was everything your muse has always been, and you’ll probably never see him again.”
“What if he comes to my next signing? What if his sister comes?” Clearly, I’m doing a terrible job of quelling the hysterics.
“Calm down. If his sister comes, you smile politely, you let her smile politely, and you move about your day. But seriously, what are the chances you’ll ever see him again?”
“Really not much,” she admits with a somewhat relaxed sigh. I guess I’m finally getting through to her. “You’re right. I saw him up close. He was everything I imagined he’d be. And god, he smelled good.”
“Really. What did he smell like?”
“He smelled like Converse and wood shavings and the tears of Avril Lavigne’s haters.” I can’t help but bark out a laugh as she continues with, “And maybe a little bit of WD-40 from working on the wheels of his board.”
“I really hope you wrote that down because that is a fantastic description. Also, I need to find my old Sk8ter Boi CD now,” I mutter. “And you need to take your camera, go explore the city and see if you can get your story going.”
“I’m trying, Greer. But how am I supposed to get motivated to write a surfing story in Chicago?”
I shrug and swivel my chair back and forth. “Go check out Lake Michigan. I’m sure you’ll find some random people who think those are real waves out there.”
“I suppose. I feel like it would be a whole lot easier if I had a real-life love interest. You know, like drawing from my experiences.”
“I don’t know. Drawing from your fantasies seems to be working so far.”
“I guess. Speaking of. When are you going to have some real-life stories to tell me? That could be some good inspiration for me. I could move into the over-forty genre.”
“You bite your tongue,” I quip. “I am not forty yet. Close, but we won’t even speak of that.”
“Okay, okay. But seriously Greer, you’re in a new town. You need to go out an explore. Meet some people.”
“No, thank you. I’m going to pass on that.”
“Why? You have so much to offer. You’re smart and creative and beautiful and loving…”
“And come with a handful of baggage by the name of Oliver and Julie?”
“I wouldn’t call them baggage. I’d call them bonus gifts.”
I giggle again. Leave it to a romance writer to ignore teenagers are all pretty much the spawn of Satan and twist the situation into something worth loving. “Well, I’m not saying never. I’m saying give me some time to get settled,” I lie.
“Okay.” She knows I’m blowing smoke, but she’s also had a rough day and enjoys when I humor her. “But there is no harm in jumping on an online dating site. I’ll even pay for it if it gives you some good stories that inspire me to write again.”
“Tell you what, if I decide to go that route, I’ll let you know and will give you the exclusive. I’m sure you can twist my life failings into some really great storylines.”
“That a girl! And then I’ll deduct your membership fee from my taxes and call it research,” she says playfully and then takes a deep breath. “Well. Now that I’m calm and not having a mini panic attack, I’m going to head out and see if I can do a brain reset and fix this writer’s block. My deadlines are looming, and I’d hate for my editor to yell at me.”
“I don’t yell,” I argue. “I discuss loudly.”
She snorts. “Same difference. Anyway, thanks Greer, for calming me down.”
“Anytime, babe. You know you’re my favorite client. Let me know how the rest of the tour goes.”
We say our goodbyes and hang up, but I’m still thinking about what she said. It’s been years since I divorced Neil. I haven’t gone out on one date yet. I wonder if it’s time. I’ve been hyper focused on getting the kids through Neil’s trial and protecting them from the fallout, building my business, and then dealing with Oli through puberty—I guess I didn’t feel like I had time to date. But maybe it’s time.
Typing “Online dating website” into my search engine, I’m shocked by how many options there are. There’s Match and OKCupid and even Christian Mingle. How do you know which ones are the good ones?
As I scroll and search, I realize they all have similar reviews. Each of them has at least one testimony that says, “I met my spouse on blahblahblah.com”.
Well that’s great, but that means one less eligible bachelor to choose from.
As I keep scrolling, one in particular catches my eye—ranchersonly.com.
My thoughts stray back to Ace, the man in charge of the farm Oli has been working at through the school. At first glance, there was nothing terribly remarkable about him. He was tall, dark hair peeking out from underneath a ball cap, an old ratty T-shirt stretched across his chest and some tight jeans, finished off by a pair of worn out work boots. I didn’t stop to really inspect him at the time, too busy worrying about my son and whether or not he was going to get kicked out of the program practically before he began. But the more I talked to Ace, the more I liked him.
He had this manly vibe to him—all callouses and muscles and hard work. Add onto it, his compassion for kids with disabilities and his obvious ability to handle a meltdown or two, and he grew on me quickly. I was honestly surprised he had figured Oli out as quickly as he had. Normally, it takes someone several months, if they ever do at all. For Ace to figure it out this easily, I admit, it made him intriguing.
My finger hovers over the hyperlinked website. Should I click on it? Do I even dare? What would I find if I clicked on a website like ranchersonly.com? Would I find more gentlemen like Ace? Or would I find people who are trying to find someone who will move in and help them run a farm. Because I can live on land. But I’m not helping. My dainty, suburbian self wouldn’t know the first thing about helping out.
Before I can make a decision, my email pings. Glancing down, I see it’s from the school. I guess my decision is made for now.
Clicking on the preview box, the email opens.
Dear Mrs. Declan,
“Ms,” I grumble under my breath, wondering when people are going to finally catch on that I’m not married. For goodness sake. Julie wasn’t even in double digits when we moved out.
This is a notice to remind of you the ARD committee meeting for your son, Oliver, tomorrow morning at 9am. We will be discussing his placement in our program. If you cannot attend, please let us know at your earliest possible convenience so we can reschedule and/or schedule you to participate by phone.
Thanks for your cooperation.
Sandra Marshall
Special Education Educator
Sending a quick reply confirming I will be in attendance, I go back and close out my search engine. There is no use in paying money for an account on any of these sites.
This is my life. I need to get used to it.