From the Author
I curl into a ball at the edge of the futon, clutching a throw pillow and the box of chocolates to my chest. The constricted position mirrors my constricting heart. Instead of lighting lavender-scented pillar candles, which now glow like skeletal bones in my living room, running my peony pink nails through Graham's soft hair, and snipping off the price tag of the Ralph Lauren colorblock matte jersey dress with a saucily short hem I bought specially for this occasion, I'll be spending Valentine's Day alone, watching Pretty Woman for the eighty-seventh time.
This isn't a crisis of epic proportions, I remind myself. It's not a natural disaster which wreaked havoc on more than one continent. It's not the death of John-John Kennedy, prematurely killed before he had a chance to restore Camelot. It's not the miniscule amount of screen time Angel had in the series finale of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
It's just Valentine's Day.
Mouth agape, I gawk at the mostly empty box of chocolates. Surely, I didn't become so depressed over a commercial gambit used to boost the quarterly sales reports for florists, confectioners, and greeting card manufacturers that I demolished all of these chocolates? Unlike Christmas, Valentine's Day isn't even a real holiday.
Like New Year's Eve? asks a traitorous voice in my head, oddly sharing the raspy quality of Ursula's in The Little Mermaid. I ignore it and continue my musing. Surely, I'm depressed and weepy over something more meaningful, something deeper...something more impressive...
...something like existential despair.
Frankly, I'm not even sure what existentialism is exactly. I merely overheard my best friend, Jem, discussing it with her new boyfriend, one night when we all went out for sangria and tapas. But it sounds just suitably morose enough to warrant my current state of gluttony.
The sound of someone knocking on my door jolts me out of my somber thoughts. My heartbeat quickens, and I race to the jamb, hoping that somehow Graham made it to Boston after all. His talk of blueberry crises was just a practical joke which I will scold him for later--after I give him a spine-tingling, toe-curling, welcome-back-to-the-Eastern-Standard-time-zone kiss.
But when I fling open the door, it's not the blue-gray eyes of my British boyfriend I stare into, but the piercing green eyes of my ex-boyfriend, Doug.
~ End Excerpt ~
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About the Author
I was that kid. My love of reading grew into a love of talking...and then (thank goodness!) evolved into a love of writing.
I hope my sweetly romantic, wildly funny, and totally addictive "feel-good" novels will give you the perfect escape from reality...if only for a few hours.