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My townhome complex near the hospital was dark when I pulled into my spot. Aside from a dog barking, everything appeared peaceful. Quiet. My workday usually started at three in the afternoon and ended a little after eleven thirty. I loved working second shift, but working odd hours meant that I leaned into my night owl tendencies, going to sleep around three a.m. and waking in the late morning. It was another reason my love life had been less than stellar since graduating from nursing school. Most socializing seemed to happen in the evenings, and I often volunteered for extra shifts to help pay off my student loans, which meant my opportunities to spend time with anyone outside the hospital were rare. Most of my free time happened mid-day when everyone else was at work.
I loved the convenience of my apartment’s location, and during the summer months, I spent a lot of my afternoons reading by the pool. Being free to enjoy the mid-afternoon sun was the one biggest perk of working second shift. Just thinking of the pool’s turquoise water had me aching to soak in it.
“Hey.”
My heart seized. I’d been so focused on pool time, I’d lost track of my surroundings. A tall, dark-haired and dusky-skinned woman stepped out of the shadows on the next porch. Eva. My shoulders relaxed. So, not an axe murderer. Only my beautiful, domestic goddess next-door neighbor.
“Eva. You scared me.”
“Sorry, Tamra.”
Eva stepped out from under her porch. She had a fluffy robe on to ward off the evening chill, but it did nothing to disguise her lithe figure and the long, deep brown hair that framed her face. “Just needed a little ‘me’ time. Maddy is teething. It took forever to get her to sleep.”
Judging from Eva’s haggard look, I was glad to have missed it.
“Well, at least you’re free of the little monster now.”
Eva’s eyes widened. Right. Don’t call kids “little monsters.” I mentally added that along with sharing gory birth stories to the list of things that should not to discussed outside of the hospital. I ran a tired hand over the strands coming out of my ponytail. Blundering comments like that were why I was alone. Relationships were all fun and games until I said something too blunt. Other women (and men) expected something more refined to come out of my mouth—not the uncensored truths that fell out, splatting like a hot mess into the conversation.
Eva laughed awkwardly before wishing me a good night and escaping back inside. It was clear which “monster” she preferred.
I ate a quick dinner of grilled cheese. I was too tired to cook anything complicated and nothing much was open in town after my shift ended. As birthday dinners went, it wasn’t fantastic, but I promised myself a fabulous meal when I had more time. While I polished off my dinner, I checked my social media feeds and smiled at the happy birthday wishes from extended family and high school friends. I was yearning to start the new Virginia Rothman book I’d downloaded to my Kindle, but I knew if I did, I wouldn’t sleep at all. #ReaderProblems. I was the queen of ‘Just one more chapter.’
Since I was saving her new book to savor on my day off, I scrolled Twitter for updates. Virginia Rothman frequently posted recipes with photos of the delicious looking results or writing tidbits and excerpts. I’d never done more than “like” what she posted. I felt a little stalkerish for never being more engaged, but wasn’t that what social media was for? Feeling like you’re involved and part of the “in” circle, without leaving the comfort of your home?
Virginia had posted a picture of an amazing meal along with a link to the recipe. Asian turkey burgers with hoisin mayo. It looked divine, and I regretted my grilled cheese mediocrity.
Maybe I did need a life coach. “Dull” described the tenor of my last few years. I went to my ordinary job and home to my uninspired apartment. I hadn’t even bothered to spice up the place by painting, though my lease agreement allowed it. I’d left it vanilla. My life had turned beige. Not the cool greige, beigey-gray combo that was currently all the rage in decorating, but plain, boring beige. I’d made no effort to change my surroundings or challenge myself. Looking at my apartment with fresh eyes, it was clear Gina was right to push me to change.
“Every change starts with a single step,” I murmured to myself. Trite but true. I’d drafted and deleted so many social media comments to Virginia and others over the last few months without posting any of them. Something about submitting my thoughts for ridicule or replies felt like too much exposure, even with a semi-anonymous username. The anonymity of an online persona should have made me feel secure, but if anything, I felt even more anxious. Any response would be based purely on what I’d written. 280 characters wasn’t much to convey context or intent, and I’d seen comments blow up in people’s faces. No way did I want to become the next Main Character on Twitter.
I navigated back to Virginia Rothman’s dinner post. I took a picture of my sad white bread crusts. Navigating to the replies, I posted my picture and wrote, “Looks divine. Wish I’d had that instead of this birthday grilled cheese. Birthday grilled cheese should not be a thing. At least not with processed cheese. #Regret #BirthdayGirl”
There. Gina would be proud. After months of lurking, I’d broken the seal and responded to one of my idols. My phone didn’t implode in my hand. No one jumped out from behind my furniture to point and laugh because I’d made a stupid comment. Trolls weren’t responding to my tweet. It was fine. It was easy. I could do this.
The notification that someone liked my Tweet caught me by surprise and sent a little thrill racing through me. Opening the app, I realized that Virginia Rothman had liked my Tweet. At best, I’d expected commiseration from my fellow followers. Not a response from the woman herself. Such a small moment probably didn’t mean much to others, but I took it as a sign. She might as well have sent me a dozen cupcakes, a bottle of wine, and her entire signed backlist. Happy birthday to me.
♦♦♦
I HAD THE NEXT DAY off to enjoy my birthday, and I indulged in my favorite things. My toenails were a sassy shade of purple after a relaxing pedicure. I treated myself to lunch at my favorite sandwich shop and picked up the ingredients to make the recipe I’d seen on Virginia Rothman’s post, humming along to the 90’s soft rock at the store. My high had nothing to do with Gina’s text of encouragement, and everything to do with my progress, though Gina’s text did make me smile.
Gina: Don’t fear failure. Fear being in the exact same place next year as you are today. – Unknown
Apparently, she was taking her role as my new life coach seriously.
Back at my condo, I took full advantage of the sunny summer afternoon, pulling on a tank swimsuit and bundling my brown curls up in a poufy ponytail on top of my head. Dark sunglasses shaded my brown eyes, and I liked to think I looked like a darker haired and eyed Keri Russell when she was rocking it curly.
I examined my figure in the mirror. The tank suit was a nice shade of blue with a paisley pattern, and it kept my “bait in the bucket” as my dad liked to say. I frowned, looking at my cleavage. Maybe that was the problem? Should I be trolling for big fish instead? I rolled my eyes. Pretty sure there was a catch and release metaphor in there somewhere.
The rest of the afternoon was spent languishing by the complex pool with Virginia Rothman’s new book and a bottle of iced tea. The awkward heroine temping as a QA analyst may not have my work schedule, but I could relate to her challenges finding love. I got side-eyed by some of the mothers at the pool, but they soon realized it either wasn’t liquor, or I was the quietest drunk ever.
Eva appeared with Maddy, and there was no evidence of the little girl’s teething trouble. She was all dimples and dark curls in her hot pink watermelon swimsuit. Still, Eva stayed focused on her daughter after lobbing a distracted smile my way. Call her precious offspring a “monster” one time ... I sighed. There was a secret code to adult friendship I couldn’t break. The occasional chat session didn’t make us friends, though they were my only opportunity for interaction mid-day. The moms hung together at the pool, and I didn’t qualify for that clique.
My eyes blurred as I stared into the blue water of the pool, tuning out the kids splashing. My life was fine. Fine.
I loved being an RN. There was something magical about bringing new life into the world, and I had a key role every day. Working in labor and delivery had its tragic and heartbreaking moments too, but most of my fellow nurses were rock stars, and I worked with great obstetricians and midwives. We were skilled at keeping each other’s spirits up.
On the other hand, my personal life was nonexistent. Between my odd work hours and moving away from home after graduation to work for Sacred Heart in Tacoma, I’d left my old circle of nursing and high school friends behind.
I found it difficult to make new friends after finishing nursing school. Most other women were at work or with their own families when I was available. It was hard to forge new connections when I had to turn down most evening plans due to my work schedule. Combining that with my natural shyness, I’d gotten used to my own company.
Parents lounged around the pool, chatting quietly. Eva was talking animatedly to another woman a few loungers down. I shuddered. I hated small talk. Mostly because I absolutely sucked at it. I loved books, and I loved my job. Those two things were usually all I could think to talk about, which got really uncomfortable, really fast.
Luckily, Virginia’s latest romance held me in thrall and I wasn’t reduced to lurking on the fringes of the mom group. The fantasy of meeting and falling for a gruff software genius on a temp job as a quality assurance code tester appealed. A hero groveling through embedded code comments and error messages built just for the heroine? Swoon. No one was out there thinking twice about me, much less building something to show how much they cared.
I’d learned the hard way to avoid sharing my taste in books in casual social situations. No one had cared about what I was reading growing up, my parents just liked that I was quiet. Discovering my mother’s stash of Susan Elizabeth Phillips had been a gateway drug at thirteen. As an adult, every time I spoke up about reading romance, I wished I’d stayed silent. Sadly, avoiding the sneers meant avoiding talking about my favorite books. It added to the appeal of online reader communities like I’d found following Virginia Rothman on Twitter. There, unapologetic squeeing about favorite romance novels was the norm.
When the sun started dropping behind the buildings and most of the families had gone home, I gathered my towel and e-reader and went back to my place. I’d left my phone charging, and I smiled at the texts from family.
Nick: Happy birthday, sis!
Vanessa: Lunch is on me soon. Happy birthday!
Typical. Messages from my younger brother and next oldest sister, but crickets from my parents and Jennifer. The middle child struggle was real.
I glanced at the clock. It was time to start cooking if I was going to replicate Virginia’s post. I gathered my ground turkey, ginger, cilantro, and other ingredients from the fridge, then pretended like I knew what I was doing in my tiny kitchen. The fresh ginger smelled amazing and made me feel like a real cook. With some soft rock in the background and a glass of wine at my elbow, I decided this cooking thing wasn’t so bad.
I took another sip of wine for courage, then dug into the patty mixture with my hands. Ugh. Grilled cheese was a staple in my diet for a reason. Nothing could convince me the ground turkey texture was as soothing as play dough as I squished the meat, ginger, and sesame oil between my fingers. If I didn’t think about the fat clinging to my fingers too much, it was fine. My patties were round-ish. Success. I washed my hands and prepared the stove.
Before sitting down to eat, I took a picture of the finished product. The burgers were a little dark, but with the lettuce and bun it was hard to see that part, and the aroma of ginger was making my mouth water. I found Virginia’s recipe thread, deciding to add my own creation. Gina would be proud. Ish. She’d grumble on our next shift that posting was too easy and wasn’t the same as interacting with people in real life. Much to my dismay life, like Twitter, lacked an edit button.
@VirginiaRothman You inspired me and it was delicious. Also, thanks for the lovely afternoon reading Temporary Love. I adored Claire and Rafe!
Every post felt a little less scary, though I still reread my words twice before committing. Convinced there was no way Virginia would respond, I washed my dishes and cleaned up the kitchen before settling back down with my book and a glass of wine.
My phone buzzed with a notification, and my pulse picked up at the alert. Expecting another simple like, with a jolt I realized Virginia had actually responded to my post. A grin spread across my face. Nerd alert. My parents routinely ignored my texts. Heck, they’d forgotten my birthday. I couldn’t stop my squee over her note.
@TamraRN So glad you liked them both. Happy birthday! Hope it was a great one.
Gah! Not only had she responded, but she’d remembered it was my birthday from my grilled cheese post. Riding high on my social success, I navigated to the website for the pole dancing studio. My worries about how silly I’d feel dancing in a roomful of strangers melted at the triumph from the brave steps I’d already taken. A few clicks later I was enrolled in the upcoming weekend’s intro class.
Personal growth, here I come.
