Happy After All

by Maisey Yates

Pink Flamingo,

I don’t know how to talk to him. I know how I would write him, though.

If I were writing this, it would be a meet-cute. But I’m not writing it, so it’s just me checking in a guest.

but I can see he wants to make conversation with me as much as he’d like to turn around, wander into the desert, and die of heatstroke.

Haha

My mom is professionally bitter at my dad, and I look like him.

I’m the kid from the Oops Wife. The accidental life.

But sometimes I just say things when I’m nervous.

Real

People who want glamorous settings, angsty conflict, and lots of sex choose the line I write for.

I see you

I’m mousy brown, after all.

Old women couldn’t possibly be sexual. Us sweet old dears.”

The people who only want you when you bend and twist to suit them don’t stay anyway,

My internal monologue isn’t passing the Bechdel Test,

flamingo lawn ornaments,

My house

Wilma in glitter, wearing jewelry

Me

bless his dead, deceased heart.”

“I like to read books with penises,” Alice says, waving a hand, not bothering to look up. “Because I don’t have them in my real life, and I don’t want them. They’re best in fiction.”

I chose romance because I needed to believe in happiness still.

“Falling in love when everything is terrible is as brave an act as blowing shit up. Except it’s something regular, everyday people can choose to do. A radical act of real-life bravery.”

there could be spiders,

Me fr

I’ve gone too far and I know

Yah girl this was weirdo behavior fr. Second hand embarrassment is real

Mr. Darcy excluded.

“You write him. Over and over.

“A washer person?” “I’m being gender inclusive.”

“What happened to gender inclusivity?” I direct the question to Wilma. “I’m eighty-four,” she says, waving her hand in the air. “It comes and goes.”

I definitely smell a rat. A rat in gold lamé.

can’t claim that my body is an instrument of seduction. It has, for these past couple of years, been nothing more than an instrument to get me from one place to another. To fix up my motel. To make friends. To sit and write books, enjoy good food and conversation.

It was great to have Nathan here. Being the hero. But I can be one too. For myself and for everyone I love.

Sylvia just calls them sweaters.

But the past is getting into my present, the before is getting into my after.

He’s never going to ask me to make them real. That’s why I like him. That’s why he excites me. I can’t have him. I’m not being martyrish, I’m really not. He’s safe like this.

REALLLLL

“Amelia.”

If this were a romance novel, it would be a critical turning point.

choose joy. Dammit.

If I were editing this story, I’d cut all this out since it’s so clearly a stand-in for us discussing anything meaningful,

“I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve called this meeting,” I say, pushing the margarita toward him.

“No. I’ve met contract killers. Albert is no contract killer.”

“That must devastate you,” I say. “You have no idea.”

“Don’t be grateful to me,” he says. “Please. I can’t stand

“No. I don’t tend to read male authors.”

REAL

I’m probably the person least likely to ever involve myself in shenanigans. Yet here you are. Involving me.”

I’m strong enough.

“You could hurt me if you wanted,”

Maybe this is who I was destined to be. A wild woman out in the desert.

But only if he doesn’t reject me. I don’t think he will, though. I don’t think he’s strong enough. That makes me feel powerful.

I’ve made myself into nothing.

I give thanks.

I have never felt stronger. I have never felt more beautiful.

“I like pink.”

:(

I found other people’s discomfort with my pain unbearable.

This is the first time I’ve ever told anyone.