Page 9 of Exes and O's

Grandma Flo tosses her coat at me and scrutinizes him with her sharp hazel eyes for an uncomfortable amount of time. “Roommate? Your new roommate is a man?” she asks, aghast.

“He’s a colleague of Scott’s. At the firehouse,” I emphasize, in an attempt to lessen the shock, lest she assume he’s some unvetted Craigslist stranger who’s angling to roast my bones to make a ceremonial broth.

Her expression softens, as I knew it would. “You’re a firefighter? My husband, Marty, is a career firefighter. Retired now, of course.”

“I’ve worked at the BFD with Scotty for about ten years now,” Trevor says.

His overt hide-your-wife-kids-and-extended-family vibes aside, Flo seems satisfied by Trevor’s public service career. She shakes his hand and even gives him the afghan she knit me as a housewarming gift. It’s a vibrant green, white, and orange, to remind me of my half-Irish heritage. When I make a show of draping it over the entire length of the couch, Trevor pretends to stroke it lovingly while subtly eyeing it like an evil object.

Grandma admires Trevor as she makes herself comfortable on the couch. “You know, you could be one of those shirtless male models on a book cover. Tara, do you have any connections? Maybe you can get this man some modeling work.”

Unsure how to respond to that, Trevor flashes me a funny, closed-mouth grin.

“Grandma, I told you I don’t have real publishing connections. I’m a book reviewer,” I remind her. Ever since I managed to get her an early copy of a new Danielle Steel book, she’s under the false impression that I have some sort of clout in the publishing industry at large.

She waves me off. “Trevor, would you like to join us for our Live video? We’re talking about romance books.” She bounces her thin penciled brows to entice him.

“I’d love to, ma’am,” he says, all kind-eyed and gentlemanlike, “but I’m going grocery shopping. I’ve gotta pick up some fruits and vegetables for Tara before she dies of malnutrition.”

I meet his smart-ass smile with a glower, because I know exactly how Grandma Flo is going to react: with another lecture about how I’ll never find a husband if I don’t cook.

As expected, she’s severely disappointed in me, shaking her head as though she’s failed as a grandmother. “Tara has never been one for domestic life. Certainly doesn’t take after me. You know, at age ten, I could whip up a gourmet meal. Any meal. From memory,” she brags, tapping her head. “I take it you still haven’t made use of the cookbook I gave you?” she asks me. For my thirtieth birthday, she gifted me a cookbook she found at a yard sale titledEasy-Peasy Recipes for One.

“Um, yeah. I’ve used it,” I lie, dodging eye contact entirely.

Ignoring me, she begins to indulge Trevor with some tales of my personal failings in the kitchen, including the time I microwaved tinfoil. Trevor finds this all too amusing.

“Dear, did you find a dress for your big Valentine’s Day gala yet?” Grandma asks me eagerly.

My stomach fills with dread at the mere mention of the gala, despite the fact that Valentine’s Day is my favorite holiday. The gala is an annual Boston Children’s Hospital fundraiser for medical research. This year, it happens to fall on Valentine’s Day. In keeping with the theme, the money will go toward the Children’s Heart Center.

The hospital staff treat this event like it’s senior prom. I’m talking formal wear, makeup, updos, and limo rentals. Last year was the first time I elected to work instead (due to life implosion). And while I toyed with the idea of skipping it again this year in favor of self-loathing on the couch in a haze of Cheeto dust, spending Valentine’s Day alone feels a little too depressing.

I give her a wary look. “How did you even know about it?”

“I saw you clickedAttendingon the Facebook,” she says flippantly. “I could crochet you a dress if you’d like.”

I pretend not to be horrified at the prospect of a hand-knit evening gown. “I was thinking of buying something, Grandma. But thank you.”

Luckily, she doesn’t appear too put out by my decline of her crochet services. She quickly gets sidetracked with a story about how she once crocheted an outfit for my mom and how Mom didn’t appreciate the craftsmanship because she isn’t a “domestic goddess,” either. At some point during the rant, Trevor manages to make his quiet escape.

Once he’s gone, Grandma Flo tells me about her new Instagram account, LoopsWithFlo. It seems Crystal and I are no longer the only social media influencers in the family.

“I already have fifty friends,” she gloats, shoving her iPad an inch from my face to prove it.

I pace the living room, scrolling through her feed. She’s documented all her latest creations: hats, blankets, scarves, mittens. She’s even gotten the hang of filters and hashtags (#knittersofinstagram, #wool, #makersgonnamake). “They’re calledfollowerson Instagram, Grandma.”

She takes a tiny bird bite of her digestive biscuit. “I want to learn how to get more friends.”

“Crystal would know more than me, but it looks like you’re only posting once every few days,” I say, passing the iPad back to her. “You have to post consistently, daily even, to get maximum exposure.”

She one-finger typesask crystal about friendsin her Notes app while I set up my tripod and phone in front of the couch. Once Grandma Flo is satisfied the angle doesn’t accentuate her neck wrinkles, it’s showtime.

LIVE WITH TARAROMANCEQUEEN—SECOND-CHANCE ROMANCE

EXCERPT FROM TRANSCRIPT

[Tara and Grandma Flo sit side by side on a leather couch, knit afghan draped over their laps. Flo sips tea and scrutinizes her own image. Tara smiles happily into the camera.]

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