“My expectations of men have always been on the low to medium side, I’d say.”
“What about that guy in sixth form who you dumped because you said he was a rubbish kisser and every decent book boyfriend is always phenomenal at it?”
“That wasn’t the only reason I dumped him,” I said. “He also left messages on read for three days, which is a massive red flag.”
“And who was that sweet guy from your uni course—the French one who carried a guitar everywhere?” Bianca asked.
“Tomas?”
“He was besotted with you, but you refused to go on a date with him because you said you needed a man who could banter with you like Joshua fromThe Hating Game.”
“It’s not my fault I find a sarcastic wit attractive,” I said. “Plus, you can’t talk: Remember when we were going through our intenseTwilightphase, and Rick Simmons asked you to the school prom and you said you’d only go if he’d cosplay with you?”
Bianca smiled at the memory. “He did it, as well. I still have a photo of us somewhere: me as a smoking-hot Black Bella and him as Edward, with too much talcum powder on his face.”
I laughed. “Yeah, he was an underwhelming vampire.”
“But this is my point, Zo. We’ve always had such perfect book boyfriends that real-life men are only ever going to be a let-down in comparison.”
I leaned back in my chair and took a sip of wine. “I’d say it’s the other way around for me. I’ve always had such shitty real-life men that I’ve come to realize book boyfriends are the only ones whowon’tlet me down.”
“OK, but however great Xaden Riorson is, he’s not going to make you a baked bean toastie when you’re hungover, is he? And Wes Bennett can’t give you a hug when you’ve had a shitty day at work.”
“I have you for the hugs, and I can make my own toasties, thank you very much.”
Bianca chuckled. “Of course you can, and I’d never suggest you need a man to be happy or complete. But you once told me that one of the reasons you love romance novels so much—one of the reasons you wanted to write them yourself—was because above all else, you love the promise of a happy-ever-after. And I don’t think you’ll ever find your own version of that if you’re always comparing every man you meet to Adam Carlsen or Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
I took another swig of wine. I knew Bianca meant well, but on this one, she was wrong. Just because I loved a happy-ever-after in a bookdidn’t mean I expected to have one myself. Hell, I couldn’t evenwritea convincing one, which was part of the reason why I’d given up on my dream of being a published author—so how could I ever hope to have one in real life?
“Happy-ever-afters are for novels,” I said, then realized I sounded alarmingly like that grumpy bookseller. “Anyway, you disprove your own theory. You’ve had dozens of book boyfriends, and yet you still found Steve, who is 100 percent perfect and, unless there’s something you’re not telling me, 100 percent real.”
“True, he is pretty dreamy,” Bianca said, her face softening at the mention of her fiancé. “Although I wouldn’t go as far as saying he’s perfect. This morning, I walked into the kitchen to find him picking his toenails while eating toast.”
“Ugh, gross! I take it back: Edward Cullen would never do that, so you should marry him instead.”
“Nah, he’s too problematic; I’ll stick with Steve and his toenails.”
“Cheers to that!” I raised my glass, and as we clinked them together, I felt a rush of love for my best friend. I’d known Bianca since we were two bookish eleven-year-olds who’d bonded over our mutual love of Malorie Blackman. Since losing both my parents—my mum to cancer and my dad to fuckwittery—Bianca was the closest thing I had to family: the Jane to my Elizabeth Bennet, the peanut butter to my jam, the—
“Whoa, this wine has gone straight to my head,” I said.
“That’ll be the shoplifting. Breaking the law always makes me thirsty too.”
I groaned. “Please don’t remind me. I never want to think about that awful bookshop again.”
“Which one was it?”
“Baskerville Books.”
“Ohh, I know the one. That shop has big dick lit energy. In fact…” Bianca trailed off, and when I glanced up, I saw she was biting her lower lip.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I was just going to say I’m pretty sure that’s where Crispin had his book launch last week.”
At the mention of that name, I felt my heart plummet from my chest cavity down to somewhere around my knees. Crispin Carter, the man I’d dated for four years. The man who’d destroyed my dream of being a writer and then destroyed my heart.
“Sorry, I wanted to tell you in a more delicate way than that,” Bianca said.