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I didn’t usually dither, but I was stymied by Tamra’s messages. To reveal or not? So few people knew I was Virginia Rothman. I didn’t socialize in the industry, preferring to remain a lovable mystery instead of an awkward reality. My secret had been safe for years. Risking it for a stranger, even a funny and friendly one, put me on edge. My research would go much faster if I could ask my questions directly, and I did want to meet her, but if she revealed my identity online ... I shuddered.
I felt guilty about interacting with Tamra under false pretenses. She seemed so genuine. Most of my social media presence was just that: a presence. I didn’t interact much with fans or share details of my personal life, and I liked it that way. Sharing my heart through my work felt like enough personal revelation for one lifetime. Hiding had become a habit. A way to preserve some small corner of my life outside of writing. But something about Tamra left me wanting to get to know her better. Possibly the sorcery of her smile and that bottom lip.
Maybe it was old-fashioned or misguided of me to think I needed a feminine pen name to sell romance. However, I’d read that only sixteen percent of romance readers were guys. I grew up with a dad who was one of the sixteen percenters. I didn’t realize it was unusual for men to read romance until I was into my teens. I’d started reading Nora Roberts, Susan Elizabeth Phillips, and Jayne Ann Krentz from a young age because that’s what we had at home. New books passed from my mom to my dad. They read them first, then passed them on to me, and eventually we shared them with my grandma. We regularly loaded brown paper bags of used books in the car on the trip from our house in Tacoma to my grandmother’s in Enumclaw. It wasn’t until my copy of Midnight Jewels fell out of my bag at soccer practice that I realized how unusual my family’s reading habits were. Jason Michaels had called me out in front of the whole soccer team for being a “sissy who liked kissing books” and my nickname was born. From there on, I left my books at home, limiting myself to Sports Illustrated in my backpack.
I wish I could tell teen me not to be embarrassed by my reading choices, but at the time I panicked and told him I was only reading them for the sex scenes. Fifteen-year-old me found them incredibly hot, and I learned a lot. Health class sex ed had nothing on romance descriptions. But I wasn’t reading for the sex. Okay, not entirely for the sex.
Some days it was for the sex.
But it was also about the plots, humor, and relationships. Found family was my jam, and I loved a good grovel. Even at that age I was skilled at sticking my foot in my mouth up to the ankle and romance helped me see that there was hope for someone as awkward as me.
Romance novels even helped me snag my first high school girlfriend. I’d thought it was flirting when I gave Melissa Swanson a dozen cupcakes with frosting the same pink as her favorite sweatshirt. She thought I was taunting her for the extra curves she used the baggy cotton to hide. Not my intent. Teenage me had been horrified when she burst into tears and rushed to the girls’ bathroom. I couldn’t let her think that’s what my gift had meant. I may have been an idiot, but I wasn’t an asshole.
Luckily, Melissa had forgiven me and agreed to go to the movies when I apologized and explained. It was the most awkward five minutes in the girls’ bathroom ever, talking through a stall door, but I survived. Granted, I got a girlfriend and detention out of the deal. I liked to think I learned from my mistakes, but the last few years of my haphazard dating history proved that was a lie. I’d only discovered new ways to screw up. Ironic, considering my bestselling author career. I’d learned how to write successful relationships, but when it came to practical application, I was still hopeless.
I’d never properly thanked my dad for making it manly to read romance, but I definitely should. As an only child with older parents, we did a lot of reading at home. All genres were welcome, but romance easily made up fifty percent of our reading list.
When I was starting my writing career, they supported me by beta reading my early sci-fi projects. But romantic plot ideas wouldn’t leave me alone, and sci-fi just couldn’t scratch the itch. I’d always been pretty open with my parents but was still flooded with regret when I sent them my first romance novel and they provided detailed comments on the sex scenes instead of the butterfly garden proposal. I wished I’d edited it down to a parent-friendly version with no cussing or stray nudity, but at the time I needed expert help, and I knew no one more expert in reading romance than them.
My mom, bless her, had no issues taking me to task over how I described female pleasure. I was grossly uncomfortable; she was oblivious. My mother didn’t need to know that I’d dubbed all of her comments as coming from Alpha Reader One to help divorce myself from the most cringeworthy suggestions. However, without my parents sharing their love of reading, I wouldn’t be a successful author.
I also wanted to stay a successful author, which was a major point in favor of keeping my identity from Tamra and bailing on a coffee meet up. I could still send her a gift card and some signed books for answering my questions instead. Revealing my true self to her could potentially mean outing myself to the world if I upset her.
Maybe email was best. It didn’t hurt to try. My nursing questions were pretty basic, but my online research on shifts and hospital roles had yielded a variety of differences among hospital systems. I wanted the straight scoop. Most of my information on what a typical nurse’s day was based off online job postings, which were idealized. It was all rainbows in recruiting. I imagined for patient privacy reasons, there were relatively few nursing blogs that I could read to gain a more human perspective on daily life.
I could always see how Tamra responded to my emails, then decide if we should meet in person.
To: TamraRN@email.com
From: VirginaRothman@gmail.com
Re: Labor & Delivery Questions
Hey Tamra,
Thanks again for your willingness to help me! My next project features a labor and delivery ward prominently, and I’d love your help to make it realistic. If you’re game, answering the questions below would be helpful. I’ve done some online research, but I understand things vary a lot from hospital to hospital and region to region. Would you also be up for reading my draft to help me catch inaccuracies? That would be a huge help, and I’d be happy to pay for your time.
Thanks again,
V
I looked at my clock. It was nearly six. Jimmy was due soon so we could carpool to dinner. Since I had wrapped up my latest manuscript earlier in the day, I was officially off the clock until I started my next project with Tamra. Self-publishing was wonderful because I set my own deadlines, but there was also tremendous pressure to publish at least quarterly, which was grueling. Three months to plot, write, edit, and promote my work was aggressive. Fitting in editing clients on top of that meant I worked a lot of hours. But it paid for my rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle of ... a semi-nice apartment in Tacoma, my health insurance, and both a Nintendo Switch and PS5. Luckily, video gaming at home was my idea of fun. My modest lifestyle had allowed me to save for a rainy day. Running a small business was a nightmare for stability, and I’d had one too many rainy days when a book didn’t sell well. Being self-made had its drawbacks.
Jimmy’s knock pulled me out of my reverie. I moved to the door and looked down to make sure I’d remember to dress today. Something every fully functioning adult does on a Tuesday, I’m sure. Pants, check. Shirt, check. No visible stains. I felt my chin. I hadn’t shaved in a while, but that was normal, so check.
Jimmy grinned when I opened the door. “You remembered.”
I smiled sheepishly. “Yeah, it helped that I finished my latest project today. Head’s finally out of it.”
He snorted. “So that means I won’t have to answer any more fire protection procedural questions, right?”
I laughed. “But you’re so good at it. You make my research easy. Speaking of which, I owe you a beer. Let’s head downtown.”
I could always count on Jimmy to share a few work stories that ran from mildly horrifying to hilarious. On the drive to dinner, he explained how his crew had handled a brush fire on a nearby highway that shut down traffic for hours.
Jimmy was a badass. We played soccer together in school, and I was known for my speed and agility. I could handle the ball well and played midfield. Jimmy was a striker, aggressive and fast on the field. I could see him running into a burning building and never giving up on potential survivors. His love of winning also made him competitive when we played video games, which was a blessing when he was on my team and a curse in individual play.
We walked into the Haven Brewery downtown and found a free booth. Low ceilings and dark wood gave the restaurant an earthy ambience. The space was cozy on rainy days like today.
He waited for our food to arrive before asking, “Any new ladies in your life?”
“Only the fictional ones,” I acknowledged.
“I don't get it, man. If I were you, I’d be at the coffee shop every weekend with an advance copy of my next book, pretending to read. I would casually mention to any cute women that I happened to be the author of the book.”
“You think they’d believe that?” I asked.
“With an advance copy of an unreleased book? I’d hope so. Then you could go on about how you’re all sensitive and shit. Your sex scenes show you clearly know how to treat a woman.”
I shook my head at him. “I love the fantasy, but I don’t see that ending well for me. With a woman I just met? I think I’d get a dirty look goodbye. Maybe a face full of coffee for my trouble.”
It was his turn to shake his head. “Man, you’ve got to try. I’m pretty sure the only date you’ve had for years—other than your hand—has been with me, and I don’t swing that way.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yes, it’s been established that you like women. It’s hard to meet people. Especially women people. Look around. Everyone is either already with someone or staring at their phone like it contains life’s answers.”
Jimmy laughed ruefully. “To be fair, I’m convinced Google does have all the answers. However, do you ever introduce yourself to new women?”
I gave him a dry look. “You’ve met me. My best dialogue happens between the pages, not in real life. I’m not exactly at Raj levels of shyness, where I have to drink to be able to talk to women, but it’s damn close. Last time I tried it was horrifying. I approached a woman reading and commented on how nice it was she could read. Only after the words left my mouth did I realize they were condescending as hell, and not what I intended.” My shoulders scrunched near my ears as I sank into my seat in remembrance as Jimmy broke into laughter. The bastard.
“It only got worse from there. I couldn’t shut up. For some reason I complained that everyone who wasn’t reading was lazy, and how I wished I could slap them silly for it. I sounded like a violent asshole. Or a pretentious idiot. All I was trying to do was compliment her on her ability to read in a crowd.”
Jimmy shook his head, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. “That’s another reason you should hole up at a coffee shop with a good book and let them come to you. See, then you’re not the one doing the talking. Clearly, it’s not your strength. What about an online relationship? Then you can write everything.”
“Yeah, but eventually, I’d have to meet her in person. And then, what happens if there’s no chemistry?”
Jimmy gave me a tough look. “You have to crawl before you learn to walk. Start with baby steps and learn to talk with women. Ideally beyond the printed page. You’re thirty-five. Do you want to be alone forever?”
“Maybe?”
Really, no. Not at all. However, after more than twenty years of romance reading and a few of romance writing, I wasn’t prepared to settle. Eventually I would meet someone I could talk to. There were nearly eight billion people on earth. I had to be capable of connecting with one.
“I can’t imagine my romance writing friend winding up alone. Maybe my sister can introduce you to someone nice?” He sounded doubtful, and I didn’t blame him.
“Do you really think Andi would, after last time?”
“What did you do?” he asked, a protective warning in his voice. I’d known her since we were little, and honestly, I thought of her as my sister too, so I could understand.
“Nothing gross. She had a friend with her at the coffee shop, and it threw me. I panicked and started babbling on about breasts and made everyone uncomfortable. Some gibberish about how if I wrote for The Twilight Zone, breasts would be secretly watching me all the time, the nipples like eyes.”
“Did she delete her number from your phone? You’re lucky she still speaks to you. Then again, maybe you’d prefer she didn’t. Did she leave you any dignity after the nipple nonsense?”
I chuckled. “Pretty sure she said that no one’s nipples were ever going to be interested in me, based on my behavior.”
Jimmy made a face, and probably daunted by my lack of game, dropped the subject. The conversation switched to Jimmy’s work, love life, and family. He was working as many hours as he could get, trying to advance his career, and I respected that. I also worried. Firefighting introduced a world of danger that was outside my experience. My imagination conjured images of him trapped in a burning building, struggling against the flames. The worst that could happen to me while writing was eye strain.
Jimmy dropped me off at home after our dinner, and I checked my email as soon as I was by myself. Reliving social failures with Jimmy reminded me that I didn’t want to be alone. But I knew my limits. Keeping to email was safe. It was late, but I hoped that Tamra had responded to my questions.
Nothing. She was probably busy. Living her life. Not waiting for my email. Disappointment flashed through me. The lack of response was expected, but that didn’t erase my drive to keep moving forward. I could do approach my research differently, but Tamra had piqued my curiosity. I wanted to learn more about her life.
Without a current project in the works, I decided to call it a night. Unfortunately, I tossed and turned until the early hours wondering if I should buck up and introduce myself to Tamra. Different scenarios of our meeting played out, each new idea introducing yet another creative way for me to make an ass of myself. I was in no hurry to live out those fantasies. Tomorrow, I’d check my email and hope that Tamra’s response would be enough.
