I am a fraud. A big, fat, motherfucking fraud. And it’s only a matter of time before everyone finds out. I pick up a colored pencil and start coloring the letter “O”. I take a deep breath and focus on the color turning the white paper a lovely shade of blue. Once the letter is filled in, I trade blue for pink and color “F”, use yellow for “U”, and start filling in the letter “C” with a soft red until someone knocks on the door.

“Ana?” my mom calls through the closed door. “Jess is here.”

“All right, I’ll be right down.” I slip the pencils into a pineapple-print fabric bag and close the adult coloring book of swear words. I started coloring when my anxiety became too high to handle. It’s a habit now, and very relaxing. I stand and look around the room. Unease grows inside me, and I cannot for the life of me figure out why. For the first time in forever, things are working out precisely in my favor.

Am I so used to things going wrong, to living with a constant struggle, that life going right weirds me out?

“I think so,” I say out loud to Thor, an old fat cat. “I know, I know,” I say to him when he gives me a stare. “It doesn’t make sense.” I sit on the bed and stroke his soft fur. He was jet black back in his youth but is starting to gray around the edges now. “Maybe I’m worried it’s all going to fall apart?”

He closes his green eyes and starts purring. I run my hand over his head and down to his shoulder.

“Fine. You beat it out of me,” I go on, pulling him into my lap. “And maybe I feel like I don’t deserve this. Though it’s not like this was just handed to me, right?”

Thor lets out a low growl. He’s gotten grouchy in his old age. Who am I kidding? He’s always been grouchy. You’d think he’d be a little more grateful as an adult black cat who got adopted from the shelter.

“I mean, after all that happened…” I shake my head and let Thor go. He jumps off me and lays down, immediately licking his fur where I petted him like he has to wash off the human touch. I take in another deep breath and look around the room, my childhood bedroom. I’m staying for the weekend, though it’s not like my little one-bedroom apartment is far from here. It’s about an hour away, in what we call “town” but is small by most standards.

I stayed here for a short stint after I finally got away from my asshole boyfriend, Steven, but was bound and determined to live on my own. Mostly because he swore I couldn’t do it. And I’m chronically late for everything, so being closer to work is a lifesaver.

Was a lifesaver. I don’t work there anymore, having been able to quit just recently.

Staying with Mom for the weekend like this is fun. She took yesterday off work and we got mani-pedis—and for a change, I paid— and sat around the house drinking wine and watching Orange is the New Black. Being back here makes me feel like the person I used to be: fun, optimistic, strong-willed—or stubborn, as Mom puts it—and still a tad impulsive. But my impulses have been to have fun and be that person again.

I miss the person I used to be, long to see her as if she’s an old friend. Sometimes I feel her deep inside, other times I fear she’s dead and gone for good.

“Still,” I go on. “There are people who have it a lot worse than me.”

Thor lifts his leg over his head and starts licking. I raise an eyebrow. “You know, it’s hard having a serious conversation with you when you’re licking your ass.”

I roll my eyes at myself and go to my dresser to inspect my hair in the mirror before I go downstairs. The princess stickers I put on the wooden frame are still there, faded and curling on the edges. Looking at them takes me back, and it’s crazy to think about all the shit that has happened since I was a four-year-old who was thrilled to death to have a new sheet of stickers. Especially since those once had glitter.

I shift my eyes to my hair. The loose curls I put in are more like waves now, but it looks good enough. My mom is throwing a little party to celebrate my recent success. Both professionally, and personally. It’s been one year since I became single, and while it’s not normally something to celebrate, getting away from Steven permits the biggest party ever.

Tonight’s party, however, isn’t going to be huge. My best friend, a few cousins, and my aunt are coming for dinner, drinks, and cake. My sister’s boyfriend and his sister might make an appearance, and that’s it for the guest list.

I used to be social. Used to have lots of friends and used to go out all the time. Funny how quick people are to leave your side when the going gets tough, and how slow they are to come to an understanding. But enough of that. It is what it is, and dwelling isn’t going to do a damn thing. Onward and upward, and all that shit, right?

I fluff my hair, cursing each thick strand. It’s all fine and dandy to have thick hair until I want to actually do anything to it. Knowing that’s as good as it’ll get without getting out the curling iron, I head downstairs, putting a fake smile on my face.

This party is for me.

Something amazing happened.

To me.

I should be excited.

But I’m not, and I just know there is something horribly wrong with me.

“Ana!” Jess squeals from the base of the stairs. Seeing my best friend’s smiling face puts a smile on my face too. A real one. She opens her arms and hugs me. “You look great, lady.”

“Thanks.” I hold out my arms to model the black tunic top and pants. “I went shopping today.”

“Without me?” she quips.

“It was a mother-daughter day. With Sophia. And my aunt.”

Jess laughs. “I’ll forgive you. And I bought you a present.”

“You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“Please. It’s not every day your best friend becomes a bestselling author!”

I laugh. “My book hasn’t even released yet.”

“It will be a bestseller, and your present is wine. So it’s just as much for me as it is for you. Let’s go crack it open.”

We go into the kitchen to retrieve the bottle. I grab glasses and the electronic bottle opener from the cabinet.

“Starting already?” Sophia asks, raising an eyebrow. Other than our looks—we both have the same green eyes, dark brown hair, and defined cheekbones—we couldn’t be more different for sisters. Sophia, who’s a year younger than me, is organized, put together, always on time, and a bit uptight. I go with the flow more, and often get lost in thought.

“We’ve got reason to celebrate,” Jess tells my sister.

“This is true,” Sophia remarks and grabs a glass for herself. “I’ll drink to that! I’m so proud of you, Ana.” She takes a sip of pink Moscato just as the doorbell rings. She hurries off to answer it, eager for her boyfriend and his sister to arrive.

“There’s the famous author!” Jason says, coming into the kitchen with his hand wrapped around Sophia’s.

I swallow the mouthful of wine before I spit it out laughing. “You guys do know that the book has yet to be published, right?”

“You got a six-figure deal,” Jess reminds me. “It’s only a matter of time before you’re the next EL James.”

I smile and shake my head. It’s in my DNA to be modest, and this is making me a bit uncomfortable. I think back to the soul-searching moment I had with Thor not that long ago, and try to remind myself that I do deserve good things.

“It’s so cool to say I know a published author,” Sonja, Jason’s sister tells me with a smile.

“It is cool,” Sophia stresses. “And you will be famous. Aiden Shepherd tweeted about your book. It’s going to be huge!”

“Aiden Shepherd?” Aunt Alberta asks, stepping over. Open a bottle of wine and my family tends to gravitate. I try my best not to cringe from the smell of her musty perfume. I read in a magazine that you become nose-blind to your own perfume since you wear it so often and get used to the scent, resulting in over-applying to compensate. It’s definitely true in her case. “The actor from the Batman movies?” She touches my arm. “Oh, he’s sexy.”

“Yeah, he is!” Jess says. “And he’s talking about you!”

“He didn’t really mention me,” I say slowly.

“But he did tweet about you, right?”

“Uh,” I start. Aunt Alberta is my mom’s oldest sister. She’s been married six times but has no children. She’s been like a second mother to me my whole life. Her eyes are wide and full of hope. There’s no point raining on her parade, is there?

The infamous tweet was Aiden retweeting his wife’s status, which was a link to a list of Black Ink Press’s most anticipated releases this year. And my book was on that list…along with twenty-nine other books. Turns out Haley Shepherd is a big reader and is looking forward to the next book in Emma Stark’s super popular paranormal thriller series. And the list was the first place the release date for said book was mentioned, hence the tweet. “Yeah. He did.”

“Maybe he’ll read it, love it, and want to play the part of your sexy hero.”

“That’s the dream,” I tell her with a smile. And it is, but I’m much more of a realist than my aunt.

“Hey, you never know,” she says.

“That is true. Very true.” I never thought I’d land a publishing deal, let alone one that paid me such a large advance. I’m a firm believer that hard work pays off, and I’ve worked my ass off writing, revising, revising some more, and then going through a year of rejections before landing an agent.

She loved my book and was able to get the manuscript into a bidding war between two rival publishers, which resulted in a three-book deal, the big advance, and one of the industry’s best editors working on my book.

It’s a dream come true.

And thinking about it makes my chest tighten. I reach for my glass of wine and take a big drink. Why can’t I be happy when good things happen, like the rest of the world? There is something wrong with me. Terribly wrong with me.

“Do you like your editor?” Aunt Alberta asks. “From the movies I’ve seen about writers, that seems like an important thing.”

“I’m not sure. I had been talking to an editor, but she just called me a few days ago and said another editor is taking over since her schedule is so full.”

“Not just any editor,” Mom says, coming over with an empty wine glass. The bottle of Moscato Jess brought me is empty now as well. “The editor-in-chief of the publishing house.”

“Wow!” Aunt Alberta exclaims. “Your book must have really made an impression.”

I just smile and bring my wine glass to my lips, not going over how the switch happened due to scheduling conflicts and not because my book blew everyone away.

“And he’s super sexy. Mom and I Googled him,” Sophia admits. “Here, have a look.” She pulls out her phone and shows Aunt Alberta my editor’s photo.

“Cole Winchester,” she mumbles as she reads his bio. It’s pretty standard, with his experience and education listed, void of anything remotely personal, unlike the other editors’ bios. They all list a few things they enjoy doing or their favorite books at least. “Oh, he’s a handsome man!”

“He is.” I can’t argue there. When Lexi, my previous editor told me the head honcho would take over edits for my book, I imagined an old man in a stuffy suit. Someone old and unattractive who doesn’t like raunchy romance, and repeatedly references “the classics” to sound well-read.

I was not expecting Cole to look like he could pose on the cover of GQ. I glance at the photo once more. Light stubble covers his strong jaw, and full lips are pulled back to reveal straight white teeth. The photo is posed and professional, yet there is depth in his dark eyes that hold back emotion. It’s crazy to get that much from a picture, I know.

“I’m going to New York in a few days for a meeting.”

“That sounds so posh.” Jess leans on the counter next to me. “You’re going to New York to talk with your editor.”

“And I’m having lunch with my agent the next day,” I add with a wink. “I am pretty damn posh.”

“And are you writing under your name?” Aunt Alberta leans in closer and I’m gagged with the smell of perfume all over again.

“No, it’ll be under my pen name, Scarlett Levine. It’s easier to remember…and spell…and pronounce than my real name. Diana Ventimiglia is quite a mouthful and is a lot to fit on a cover. Plus, it’s kind of fun having a penname,” I admit. I don’t have to say it, and no one dares to bring it up. Everyone knows. Having a pen name is good for another reason.

Hopefully, by writing under a new identity, he won’t be able to find me.

“Well,” Jess says and links her arm through mine, “make sure you remember us little people. I expect front row seats to the movie premiere.”

I laugh again. “If that happens, I’ll make sure you do.”

“Sophia let me read her copy,” Sonja, Jason’s sister, tells me. “And damn, you write a hot book.”

I’m still unsure what the appropriate reaction to this should be. The book is raunchy. Very raunchy. It’s what I like to read and, consequently, write. But knowing my close friends and family are reading it…is that weird? Part of me doesn’t care. I’m an adult and am far from a virgin, though I haven’t gotten any action as of late.

“Oh, thanks,” I say, feeling a bit of color rise to my cheeks.

“Really. Some of those scenes were very creative. My boyfriend said to thank you,” Sonja whispers. “With scenes like that, you must live one hell of a romantic life! Please tell me you get inspiration from real life.”

I do my best not to let out a snort of laughter. I’ve been single for the last year, and my boyfriend before that was the exact opposite of romantic. “Yeah.” I don’t know why I lied, other than being unable to bring myself to disappoint everyone and dampen the mood of the party.

“Can’t wait to hear all about it and find out who inspired Rafael. My God, that man is hot!”

My heart speeds up and I want to back away slowly. No, not slowly. Fast. I want to turn and run.

Because I’m a liar. A professional liar now. There is no man behind the character. There are no crazy nights full of passionate sex to inspire my raunchy sex scenes. There is no love in my life.

I’ve often considered myself cursed when it comes to all things romance, which is why I can write a damn good lover. It’s weird to be homesick for a person I’ve never met, but that’s exactly how I feel. My heart longs to find another to beat in perfect rhythm against it. To find that person who’d walk through hell and back for me, and who I’d do the same for in a heartbeat. That person who loves me no matter what, because despite all the bad things going on in the world, we know we were made for one another.

I write about true love and soulmates. I should believe in it, too. But I’m not sure anymore. Maybe only the lucky find each other, while the rest of us scurry around this world alone and unsatisfied, on a never-ending mission to find our other half.

And we never do.

Because real life doesn’t end happily. Not for us all.

As much as I want to have the unfailing faith in love as my characters, I just don’t. And I know what it makes me, and I’m terrified everyone will find out.

I’m a romance author who doesn’t believe in true love.