Page 42 of Red Flag, Green Light

They live happily ever after.

Somehow.

And then the story ends before we learn whether or not Jack and Jane have therapy in their future.

Snorefest.

Yawn.

No thanks.

I do not want to read about a guy who likes a girl while the girl likes a different guy and that different guy likes a different girl. It makes my head hurt just thinking about it.

I want to read about a guy who says,Oh? You want to break up with me? That sucks. Since you’re chained to my bedpost and all.

These are the reasons why I don’t “do” romance in the real world. If I want to be disappointed, I’ll buy off Temu. And if I want to continue my mild-mannered reading habits, I need to not be with a serial killer.

Sara: I suppose kidnapping the person you like isn’t an option?

Rouge: it’s notnotan option

Sara: Well, there you go. Problem solved. Stockholm your short king.

Rouge: i really would

Rouge: if only my shoulders

Rouge: were of kidnapping girth

Resting my chin in my hand, I stare at the words my dear friend is sending me, with zero regard for even the most basic levels of grammar. I knew there was a reason alcohol never interested me. I just didn’t think it was because it makes youallergic to capitalization and punctuation.

I do not know what to do for my silly lovesick buds.

If Amelia and Rouge are both unwilling to commit a few crimes—or send a few texts—it’s really not like I have some kind of special sauce that makes relationships easier. I wish people would stop treating me like I do. I don’t go outside. What part of that behavior screamsgood with humansor evenideal option to hear your problems?

I’m not acting with these people. So why am I still somehow an authority on anything?

In the real world, when I run into something I don’t understand, I cave in on myself. In conversations, I pinpoint what might interest the person I’m talking to, and make a fool out of myself until—bless all—theytake up the brunt of communication, allowing me to just listen. I’m a bad communicator. I become desperate. And panicked. But I cover all of it with a smile and faux interest when I, so dearly, could not care less and just do not know how to safely run away.

People think I’m a good listener, but I’m only listening because I have no idea what to say in order to abandon ship.

It’s probably insensitive to ask about the book again right now.

Shame Rouge gets the unfiltered, unafraid, horrible version of me.

Sara: Sooo…what I’m gathering is that I’m not booking your project for spring?

Rouge does not answer. Instead, she sends me a Google Doc invite to a book labeledI don’t even know, okay?

Which is, obviously, promising.

I open the document.

And if the comma splices and typos are any indication, I’m pretty much positive that she wrote this drunk.

But…still…

It is enrapturing, from the very first lines.

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