Page 8 of How to Write a Rom-Com

Operation Small Town, Day 1

Hudson Hollow, New York. Population 1,500.

So…thisis happening.

After three hours on the New York State Thruway, I was elated when I saw the exit for Hudson Hollow. I thought I might stop in Starbucks on my way to the house, refuel, grab some snacks, etc. Except the last Starbucks I saw was at a rest stop 80 miles ago.

There are a few people moseying up and down the main street, and almost all of them don’t try to be subtle about gawking at me in Anne’s BMW. As I drive through at the mundane speed of 20 mph, I see a sign for a library, a corner convenience store, the post office, and a restaurant called Liz’s. So far, Hudson Hollow doesn’t have me feeling so good.

I take a few deep breaths and continue driving. The mindful breaths serve two purposes.

To remind myself that I’m here to do a job. Unless the photos Anne showed me of the house were fake, it looks really nice. I’m trying really hard not to judge the book by its cover, or the town by its three storefronts.

If I don’t take deep breaths, this road may make me hurl.

Finally, the winding road ends and I follow Siri’s instructions into a more residential area. I turn onto Joan Street and pull up to the second house on the right. I immediately spot the lake, which is right smack behind the house. And boy, is it some view. Even from my seat in the car, I can see mountains in the distance. Like…actualmountains. At that moment, I realize that I may have never seen a mountain before in my life. Shit, Anne was right, I am the only viable candidate for this trip.

I quickly text my mom to tell her I’ve arrived and that I will call her once I’ve settled. Saying the phone call with my mother explaining this assignment didn’t go well would be putting it mildly. I had to refuse to give her the exact address because she would not stop saying she was coming with me.

“I don’t see how this is getting you a promotion,” my mother had said, her tone irritated on the other end of the phone. “I don’t see how you can prove yourself out in the boonies.”

“Mom, you live in the boonies,” I reminded her matter-of-factly.

“And I always wanted more for you!”

“Mom, will you relax? I’m not going to step foot in a small town and turn into a pumpkin.”

“That reference doesn’t even make sense.” I rolled my eyes at how quick-witted my mother was.

“You work hard, I just want your boss to see that.”

I could hear the worn-out sigh in her voice when she said that. My mom is tough, tougher than I’ll ever be. She’s a small Italian woman, with a Pixie cut and glasses that take up half of her face—a middle-aged Rita Moreno who went gray early. She is small and she is fierce, no buts about it. She doesn’t take anyone’s shit, and she’s fiercely protective.

When I was diagnosed with dyslexia, she told me things might be hard for me, not just in life, but in school. I would have to be the student who worked twice as hard as everyone else. I would have to use the tools my teachers gave me and make them work to my advantage. And if I worked hard, I could have the same opportunities as everyone else. After all, for her, a second-generation immigrant who was the first in her family to go to college, education was everything.

My mother never wanted my dyslexia to prevent me from being successful. So, to her, working in Manhattan was the kind of success she and my father didn’t have. And she was so proud of it. Of me.

“Anne knows I work hard, Mom. And with this trip, maybe she’ll realize just how much she needs me,” I reassured her.

“She better. Because you haven’t worked this hard just to wind up in another small town.”

God Forbid, I thought to myself. But I wouldn’t dare say it out loud.

I pull down a gravel road and stop when the navigation announces that my destination is on the right. I get out and try to shake the feeling of anxiety that has suddenly crept up in my chest, accompanied by my mother’s foreboding voice.

I can do this.

Anne’s in-laws’ house is a small ranch style. It sits on the side of a steep hill that leads down to the lake. The front of the house is lined with horizontal logs, and a beautiful wood door is framed by two tree trunk-looking columns. If I reallywasa character in a small-town rom-com, I might call it inviting, quaint, adorable. Definitely different from what the houses looked like in the town I grew up in. Maybe I should tell my mother that not all small towns are the same.

I jump when I hear crunching gravel behind me. I quickly turn around to see what everyone might expect me to find at this point in a romance novel: the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen in real life.

I put my hand over my forehead to block the sun. Nope, I haven’t fallen out of my car and smacked my head open. There is actually a real-life small-town version of a romance heartthrob standing in front of me.

Shit, maybe this whole thing has been a dream. Maybe I finally got hit by that bus on Sixth Avenue and I’m in a coma. And since my job is my life, my coma dream is some alternate version of reality where a book that I’m working on comes true. That’s the only explanation for this guy standing in front of me right now.

“Um, hello,” his deep voice snaps me out of it. He’s not Australian. That must mean this is real life. If I was having a coma dream, my love interest would mostdefinitelyhave an accent.

“Hi,” I say in a shaky voice. Through squinted eyes, I make out shaggy blonde hair and a lean, tall frame. He’s a blonde, beautiful boy, there’s no doubt about it. He’s broad-shouldered and good-looking in a way that suggests he is also charming as all hell.

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