Compared (The Sweet Rom"Com", #1)

by Kortney Keisel

It’s not like I have unrealistic expectations. It’s been three years. That’s a normal amount of time in a relationship to start thinking about the next step. I mean, there’s even a song about it. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes the baby in the baby carriage. I’ve been conditioned since I was three years old for this kind of outcome.

“My life is really all about the ABCs.” “So is mine.” I raise my shoulders. “I teach second grade.” “I’m talking about the ABCs of exercise. Abs, biceps, cardio.”

I swallow back the hurt pooling in my stomach, threatening to rise up my throat and cause a panic attack. The last thing I want is to have to ask for a brown paper bag so I can get my breathing under control. Nothing’s more unattractive than hyperventilation.

The man shakes his head. “Don’t discredit those ten years. It’s hard work being married.”

“Now, neither of us is alone, and I don’t think I’m the type of guy that is meant to be alone.” Paul smiles, and I try to convince myself I’m only staying to talk as a courtesy to him. It’s not like I need this. “Let’s talk about our wives,” he says as he bends over and picks up the box of tacos. For some reason, Paul’s bluntness about being widowed is comforting. For once, it’s nice to have someone to talk to that understands a little of how I feel.

Most girls wallow in sadness when their boyfriend breaks up with them. They lie on couches with tubs of ice cream and watch the Hallmark channel until they can’t handle anymore small towns and lovey-dovey stares. Not me. I take my breakups like a woman—a mature woman. I suck in another deep breath, filling my lungs to capacity, and belt out the next line of “I Will Always Love You.”

She is so wrong. I haven’t eaten an entire roll of store-bought cookie dough. I would never do something like that. I made my own cookie dough and ate the whole thing. It tastes way better, and if I’m going to get salmonella poisoning, I’m going to do it the right way.

But Brooke is correct about everything else. Labor Day weekend came at the perfect time. I haven’t showered in days or changed my clothes, and my breakup playlist is on repeat. I’m the epitome of frumpish.

“He was my ticket to happily ever after. What if I never get married? I’m twenty-eight-years old.” I turn my head so my cheek lays flat against the counter and peer up at my sisters. “What if I’m alone for the rest of my life like some crazy cat lady?”

Tessa comes back holding a pair of my slip-on shoes. “You’re right. You don’t own any sexy dresses.” “Why would I? I teach second grade.” Brooke smirks. “Cleavage and parent teacher conferences don’t go together?”

I lift my gray ball cap and fit it over my hair again, nodding at my sister-in-law. Hillary looks nice, with blonde hair cut short to her chin and dark brown eyes, but she’s scary. Wife scary—like if you don’t fall in line with what she says, she won’t talk to you for days. Not all wives are like that. Just a select few—a few like Hillary.

I could’ve come up with a thousand excuses. I can’t go out with you because I need to coach a baseball game every single night of the week. I can’t go out with you because I’m starting a DIY home project that I will inevitably regret. I can’t go out with you because I don’t own an Easter-colored button-up shirt.

A round of Nerf bullets shoots through the bedroom door, hitting Hillary in the arm. “Boys!” Her voice raises as she turns to look at Krew and my nephew, Boston. “If you shoot me again, I’m throwing away all of the Nerf guns.”

“Are you sure this is a dress? Because it seems more like a towel.” I pull at the strapless black dress that is barely covering my behind. “And not even one of those pricey bath sheets at Target. I’m talking about the Great Value six-pack of hand towels.”

I glance around, taking in the crowd. Between the restaurants, bars, and boats, people are everywhere. The sounds of live music hang in the air from a bar down the pier, competing with the laughter and conversations of all the people milling about. The vibe is trendy, and it’s literally my worst nightmare. It may be a holiday, but don’t these people know it’s a school night?

I’ve put in my time, and I don’t want to start over again.

I want a guy that’s ready to commit right now. Guys like that aren’t at posh yacht parties. They’re volunteering at animal shelters. At least, I think they are. I need to hit up the local shelter scene ASAP.

It’s not endearing enough that I want to keep talking to him, but since he’s opened Pandora’s box, he’s going to get my kind of crazy—the crazy that Zak labels as an “overactive imagination.” If anything, that should shut him up.

His nose wrinkles, and somehow he manages to look even more handsome. It’s annoying, because when I wrinkle my nose, I look like I’m about to sneeze. My pre-sneeze face is not attractive.

“I don’t know if I should answer this. Everything

“That guy?” He points to Zak. “You’re freaking out over that guy?” “Yes.” I glare back at him. “He doesn’t break it off with a girl after only ten minutes.” “No, he seems like the type of guy that breaks up with a girl after he’s led her on for a long time.” That…is a very astute observation.

A major broken heart and the desire to make Zak feel a little bit like I’m feeling suddenly take over. I leap toward the stranger, snuggling up to him, rubbing the side of my shoulder into his. I’m like one of those annoying cats that wants you to pet them. My nose nuzzles into his neck. And now I’m no longer a cat—I’m a bunny burrowing into this man. I’m embarrassed, but I can’t even register that emotion, because I’m working myself up for the finale. I fully intend to plant the most passionate kiss on him, as if I don’t even know Zak is here. As if I’ve been making out on this bench all night. It’s not a well-thought-out plan. It’s not even a plan I’m proud of, but it’s like something inside of me has snapped, triggering broken-hearted self-preservation.

My hand reaches up to the man’s chin, pulling his face toward mine. His light eyes go wide, and his palms shoot up to stop me from coming in, but I’m a woman on a mission. I pucker my lips and go for the gold… At the same time the man turns his head and swipes my hand off his face. My lips skid across his stubbled jaw and down onto his neck—and not in a sexy way. More like how a toddler presses their mouth against a glass window and blows. The force of his karate chop to my arm sends my body off balance, and my elbow drops down connecting, with his upper thigh. He yelps and jerks his body forward, causing our heads to smack together. The yelp suggests that wasn’t his thigh after all.

“Have fun!” I wave back at them. Not a controlled pageant wave. No, I look like a kindergartener who just saw his mom at the back of the auditorium during his first-ever program. So smooth.

“Do you want some help yet?” The smugness in his expression is infuriating. “Nope.” I shake my head. “I’ll find someone else to help me.”

I smile as I drop my head. “Your thick patch of knee stubble distracted me.”

It’s not a glamorous life, but it’s awesome.

suddenly I feel like I’m five and just got caught shotgunning an apple juice. Sticky and guilty.

Then a dangerous gleam shoots out from his eyes. “I also feel like I know so much about you.” I instantly hate everything he thinks he knows about me, including the fact that I’m terrible at shaving around my kneecaps. “Oh, really?” “Yeah, it sounds like you’re giving Krew a leg up on his education.” And now all I can think about is Tyler’s hands on my legs. This is awful. “I think you might finally slap some sense into the kid,” he says. His blue eyes sparkle like Christmas lights, and I know he’s loving this little exchange. Diane eyes us in a disapproving way. “Tyler, can we move on to Krew’s academics?” She knows he’s flirting with me. Is he flirting with me? It kind of feels like it.

Meg! I’m the one flirting now. I’m the face-palm emoji personified.

His blue eyes skip to mine, and there’s so much understanding and sincerity behind his gaze that I want to crawl into his lap and let him rock me gently as I cry into his shoulder.

“Tyler,” Krew reminds her as he bounces out of his chair, and I make a mental note that I’m going to buy the kid an ice cream cone on our way home. Then I remember that he told her that I smell Kristen’s pillow and that I think homework is stupid. So maybe no ice cream.

I’ll find you if I don’t see you? I went from being the uncool single dad to the creepy stalker. All I need is a knife to complete the look.

I nudge Krew forward. I can’t get out of here fast enough. I’m a bumbling idiot.

What kind of glorious and terrible coincidence is this?

Is this fate’s way of testing me because I said I was no longer attracted to handsome men? Because so far, it’s been testing me a lot.

I’ve decided there’s nothing sexier than a man snuggling his son close.

Yep, I’m changing my type. Turning over a new leaf and dating the nice guy. Muscles? Pffft. Who needs them? Gorgeous smiles? Overrated. Mad flirting skills? Lame. Give me all your pudgy, doormat kind of men. Yeah, that’s my new type.

“I can handle that.” He smiles, and I can see the trace of his dimple. I avert my eyes. His dimple might be a weapon, but it will not destroy me.

“And what about you? You haven’t snuggled up to any new men this week trying to make your ex-boyfriend jealous?” Do not engage. I repeat: DO NOT ENGAGE.

“I own an Etsy shop,” I say. “You probably don’t even know what Etsy is.” His brows bunch together. “Etsy. Does that stand for Energetic Teachers Sell Yams? You own a shop that sells yams?”

“Isn’t baseball the most boring sport out of all of them?” He shakes his head. “You’re confusing baseball with golf, and it’s only boring if you don’t know how it works.”

Get a grip, Meg. It’s just blue eyes. You’re such a lightweight.

“Yeah. I want to see what we’re dealing with before I decide to write you off forever. I mean, it can’t be as bad as Froggy.” Shoot. He’s on to me.

His features soften as his eyes sweep across my face. “Is that what you do? You sit and listen to sad songs when you’re sad?” “I guess so.” “Does it make you feel better?” “No, it’s like taking a knife and stabbing it directly in my heart and then twisting it all around.”

Un-frog-ettable Love Songs.

I googled Etsy. I’m not proud of it.

Dating was so much easier when I didn’t have a seven-year-old sabotaging me at every turn, and I’m not even dating. I’m just texting.

Meg: In case you were wondering about the thickness of paper for a second grade assignment? She’s on to me.

I can’t just end things here. I went to all this trouble. The Lord of Darkness would never back down now.