Wes jumped down and held up his hands in the universal I’m innocent pose, even though his smirk made him look anything but.

“Hey!” I slid my sunglasses up my nose, pulled the front door shut behind me, and hightailed it in his direction, careful not to scuff my pretty new floral flats as I basically ran at him. Fitzpervert left a hair ball in my slipper, I burned my earlobe with the straightener, and when I opened the door to leave for school, I caught my next-door nemesis suspiciously sprawled across the hood of my car. “Nobody finds their soul mate when they’re ten. It was only a matter of time before it finally happened for me. Right-the nice-guy, dependable version-could be waiting around the very next corner. My inheritance was the knowledge that love is always in the air, always a possibility, and always worth it. Which, in hindsight, is probably why I’ve been waiting for the perfect romance since I was old enough to spell the word “love.”Īnd when she died, my mother bequeathed to me her unwavering belief in happily ever after.

We’d snack-up, kick back on the pillows, and binge-watch from her collection of kiss-infused happy endings like other people binge-watched trashy reality TV. Those things always disappear, which is why you never, ever choose the bad boy.”Īfter that, we shared hundreds of similar moments, exploring life together through romantic movies. “Charm and intrigue can only get you so far, Libby Loo. And to this day, I can still hear my mom’s voice and smell the vanilla of her perfume as she played with my hair and set me straight. Yep-I’d missed the movie’s point completely and had fallen madly in love with the playboy. Why would Bridget give up the cuter one-the charming one-for the person who was the equivalent of one ginormous yawn? How did that even make sense? At that point, it was too late to rescue me from the so-not-first-grade-friendly content, so she snuggled up beside me, and we watched the happy ending together.īut my first-grade brain just couldn’t compute. (A house-size cricket might not sound scary, but when it speaks in a robot voice and knows your middle name, it is terrifying.) Bridget Jones’s Diary was playing on the boxy television on top of the dresser, and I’d watched a good portion of the movie before she even noticed me at the foot of her bed. My mother taught me the golden rule of dating before I even hit the second grade.Īt the ripe age of seven, I’d snuck into her room after having a nightmare. “I’m just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her.” He would’ve loved the Stella’s scene and remembered the ketchup.

Thank you for letting me read under the blankets when I should’ve been sleeping.Īnd for my beloved dad, who saw the cover but never got to read the book. For my amazing mom, who’s always been my biggest fan, harshest critic, and the woman single-handedly responsible for my distrust of those asshats in the shoe industry.

Better than the movies lynn