Any Trope but You

by Victoria Lavine

I’ve found that most people who reach their thirties have experienced at least one breakup that left them subsisting on dry Froot Loops because they were too busy inwardly collapsing to pour themselves milk.

They make you believe that a sensitive, multilingual, insanely jacked doctor named Hunter is just waiting in the wings of your life, ready to laugh with you about all the toads you dated while cuddling after your nightly synchronized orgasms.

“Your face is doing that loading-wheel-of-doom thing.”

I push my way past him, desperate to be inside. Forrest comes in at the pace of someone who doesn’t physically register temperature changes.

But obviously, the world could give two otter shits about mercy.

He raises his eyes to mine right as his now-familiar scent wallops me in the face like a dictionary of romance hero smells. Cedar, whiskey, and bad decisions.

It’s the last thing I need to be feeling for him, because this is exactly the sort of crisis that happens to all my romance heroines. I even have a name for it: the Melting Point.

On the contrary, my mouth is falling open for him like a fucking guest book,

Margot slides the potatoes into the oven with surprising crispness for someone who’s been day-drinking in an ice-fishing shack.

I went on an unsuspecting pilgrimage to the Alaskan bush and somehow found the holy grail of hot, considerate men.

Suddenly, the made-for-Margot room inside my heart has throw blankets and fucking fairy lights.

She glances at me, and the tiny crease between her eyebrows looks like a load-bearing structure for approximately one metric fuck-ton of toxic male insecurity.

I know I’m not supposed to contact you, but this seemed like a force majeure situation if there ever was one,

“We’re never going to have a better Internet connection.” “I love it when you talk dirty,” I say, earning a low husk of a laugh.

there’s an almost Bonnie and Clyde energy between us. Like we’ll be arrested at any minute for daring to make ourselves happy for once. Because as it turns out, I’m not the only one whose life skills include pushing people away.