Page 2 of Exes and O's

Cue the violins. I’ve just fallen in insta-love.

If this were a romance book, the clouds would part as we exit the subway at any given stop, lockstep, hand in hand. We’d spend the cool October day doing the usual things soul mates do: ignoring all responsibilities, discovering random dives around the city, drinking liquor wrapped in a brown paper bag, and revealing all our emotional baggage as the sun sets. At the end of the night, he’d fold me into a passionate embrace under the starry sky and bless me with a foot-popping kiss, preferably with a little tongue.

Turns out, this is no romance book. I don’t even have the chance to name our golden retriever and four unborn children. In the nonfiction life of Tara Li Chen, the following events unfold in chronological order:

1) The subway comes to an abrupt halt. Hordes of people funnel to the exit.

2) A new group of commuters push and shove their way in. A lanky dude wearing aMay the Gains Be with YouT-shirt over a full Lycra getup beelines it for the only remaining seat, to the quiet dismay of a very pregnant woman.

3) By the time the crowd settles, Soulmate Nate is no longer next to me. In fact, he’s vanished entirely.

4) And so has my purse.

LIVE WITH TARAROMANCEQUEEN—THE DEATH OF THE MEET-CUTE

EXCERPT FROM TRANSCRIPT

[Tara appears on-screen at an upward chin angle, seemingly out of breath, hair slicked back in an unflattering founding fathers’ ponytail. She power walks down a bustling city sidewalk in a seedy neighborhood.]

TARA:Hello, romance book lovers, welcome back to my channel, where I talk all things romance. First, I’d like to apologize for my hiatus the past few days. I’ve been super busy with work and packing for my move, which happens to be today. Yay!

Since I’ll be spending the better part of my day schlepping boxes, this episode is going to be super brief. I want to talk about meet-cutes.

You all know I’m a sucker for a good meet-cute. I mean, they’re a beloved staple in romance. The best ones involve the spilling of a scalding-hot beverage, or a near-death experience. Sometimes it even verges into meet-ugly territory, where they dawdle in mutual loathing and delightfully petty prejudice for half the book. That is... until they discover each other’s emotional sides and fall head over heels in love.

[Tara waits impatiently at an intersection and stares into the camera of her brand-new phone, brow cocked.]

Thanks to the internet—don’t even get me started on online dating—real-life meet-cutes are DEAD and I’m in mourning. In today’s harsh world, any stranger, no matter how beautiful, who makes eye contact for longer than a few consecutive seconds most definitelyhas nefarious intentions and will mug you in broad daylight. I speak from experience.

Is all hope lost once you hit thirty? I’m beginning to think so. If anyone would like to prove me wrong with some adorable, real-life meet-cute stories, I’m all ears.

COMMENTS:

I met my husband online. We’ve been happily married for ten years. Meet-cutes are overrated.

Tara, I completely agree with you. I’m waiting for my in-person meet-cute too. Preferably in between rows of dusty mahogany shelves in a public library.

•••

EVERYTHING IS FINE.EVERYTHING IS FINE.

I mentally repeat that phrase as I haul myself up the stairwell to my new apartment. To my new life.

It’s fine that I got mugged. It’s fine that I’ll need to cancel all my credit cards. It’s fine that I had to buy a new phone. It’s fine that I’m moving into a new apartment, sight unseen. It’s fine that it boasts a chronically broken elevator, even though I’m a staunch proponent of a sedentary lifestyle. IT’S ALL FINE.

When I reach the third flight, I take a momentary lean against the wobbly handrail, balancing my heart-shaped throw pillows. In between wheezes, I force my mouth into a smile, a trick I use to reset when I’m spiraling into a negativity vortex.

There’s no reason to hate on my brand-new digs. It may not be the Ritz, but from what I’ve seen of the run-down, orange-tiled entryway and probably haunted concrete stairwell, it’s the nicest place I can afford on the direct subway line to the hospital that isn’t a roach-infested basement apartment. And Scott was charitable enough to leave me his gently used bedroom furniture, free of charge.

As I press on and upward, I remind myself change is good. This move is more than just the apartment. It’s a new chapter of my life. A chance to start anew, after eight months of wallowing, mourning the life I was supposed to have with my ex-fiancé, Seth.

This time last year, I was blissfully engaged, planning an elaborate Cinderella-inspired dream wedding from the comfort of our Beacon Hill condo. Then, six months before the wedding, Seth decided the season finale ofSurvivorwas as good a time as any to pick a dramatic fight, concluding he “couldn’t tolerate me anymore.”

The tribe had spoken.

Seth Reinhart would be the tenth man to break my heart.

Starting my life over was a trip, to say the least. But after months of therapy and star-fishing on Crystal’s floor, I’ve finally come into my own.

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