Dream On: A Rom Com

Visitor

LUCY

Some people have New Year's resolutions. I have summer resolutions.

The day after the ice cream social, between spoonfuls of oatmeal, I am dictating my list into the Reminders app on my phone.

Stuff like get up early, go to the gym and do six machines. Oatmeal every morning for fiber. Make two desserts a week.

A text blows in from Phoebe.

Hot guy Marcus asked me out. Let's compare notes later.

I continue my list.

Post on Instagram daily. Get on dating app for ten minutes.

Phoebe and I going out with the same man is a lousy idea.

I add the pile of poo emoji after Get on dating app, proof of my resistance to online dating, but I can't ignore her text.

My thumb hovers over the message icon. Maybe I won't go out with him. Then I remember his biceps, his negative stomach in the black T-shirt. I pause, lean on the table staring at her text.

This will sort itself out, a phrase my mom is fond of and which I've never for a moment believed. It roosts in my head conveniently, sort itself out, as I move on to more pleasant tasks than telling my best friend her hottie is keen on us both.

At the sink I text Deon, send him my list of summer resolutions.

Dude, take a look at how productive MY summer's gonna be. You?

Right before Phoebe's text landed, I was stoked. A whole summer spread out like a Sunday buffet without the calories. Now? More like hollow-stomach time. The bowl of healthy oatmeal sits like concrete. Best to keep busy.

I open the cupboard to get out the ingredients for chocolate orange brownies, a recipe I make often. On auto pilot, I preheat the oven and grab an orange and the zester. Slop a little butter in the saucepan. Marcus probably has no idea which one of us he likes better.

Next, cocoa powder and the flour, everything added from memory, measurements approximate.

On the other hand, Marcus might like one of us better than the other.

The eggs and cocoa go into a separate bowl, and then I add all the ingredients. Thinking as I stir. Turning Marcus over in my mind as if I can figure him out. If he liked one of us better than the other, why would he ask both of us out?

I grease the pan, fill it with the mixture, and shove it in the oven.

When I spent weekends with Justin––the man I thought would be my forever guy––he begged me not to make the chocolate orange brownies, saying he had to work out forty-five minutes extra at the gym.

"I can't resist your brownies. Or your walnut pie,"" he'd say, putting his arms around me as I leaned into his solid chest.

"Can't resist me either, can you?" I'd say.

"Can't resist you," he'd respond, squeezing me hard.

Sweet words. So why did we break up? I don't want to think about Justin or Deon. Or Phoebe.

It's a miracle any relationship works out these days.

I set the timer and wipe down the counters and stovetop. All is well when the kitchen gleams and there's a goodie in the oven. Alexa plans to feature my desserts by tagging the menu and getting the wait staff to talk them up.

"My needs are simple," I say out loud and give a little snort. Nothing about me is simple.

In the study, I check the dating site for notifications. A real chore, but I have to stick to my resolution list. As the emails load, I glance over the paper from the ice cream social. Four guys have broken the rules and chicken-scratched their phone numbers on here, despite Bronwyn's instructions to wait for the official email she'll be sending in a few days.