Page 9 of Confessions of a Smutty Romance Author

I rubbed my face. “I don’t understand.” How could she be saying this when her best friend and mine had just experienced their own whirlwind romance?

She leaned forward, her long brown hair falling over her shoulders in a distracting way. “What is there to understand? The divorce rate in America is higher than fifty percent, right?”

“That’s the statistic.” My parents would have blamed it on a failure in moral character or a lack of willpower. Probably both.

“And you acknowledge that sometimes marriage is advantageous for reasons other than love?” she continued.

“Okay...” Where was she taking this?

“So, some people stay together not because they love each other but because they’re benefiting in some way. Either in income or status or childcare or—”

“Okay, I get it,” I said. “What’s your point? That all marriages are a sham? Because I can’t get behind that.”

She shrugged, sitting back in her seat. “If marriage fails fifty percent of the time, and plenty of people who stay together are miserable... it seems like an archaic, patriarchal contractual obligation based on hormones, money, and a desire for disease-free sex. I’m not great at math, but that means the chance of a real, loving marriage that lasts ‘til-death-do-us-part’ is pretty slim.”

If Betty had brought my water out any earlier, I would have been sputtering it all over the table. “Tell me again why you write romance novels?”

“There’s more than one kind of happily ever after,” she replied with a wink.

Betty brought my water, and I thanked her before taking a cautious sip. After I had safely swallowed, I said, “You’re talking about sex?”

“I’m talking about sex, yes, and a woman finding herself, finding friendships, finding pleasure, creating the kind of life she deserves. Of course, that can be with a partner, if she chooses. And, I suppose part of me loves romance because it’s the ultimate dig.”

“A dig? At who?”

“At men who think they should give a woman anything less than what she deserves.”

I sat back, laughing. A literalromance writerhad taken something I’d been working toward my whole life and simplified it to a societal construct—and a bad one at that. And hell, half of me believed her. If only it weren’t so ironic.

“What’s so funny?” she asked.

I shook my head. “A romance writer who doesn’t believe in marriage and hates men?”

She frowned, spinning her coffee cup around her hands. “Well, apparently you’re not the only one who’s put off by my opinions because unless I can show the studio that I actually do believe in love, this could be my last chance to make itbigwith my writing. I don’t want to be one and done.”

“How bad was the interview?” I asked. Surely she could recover without me.

Pressing her lips together, she got out her phone, pressed play, and slid it across the table. I watched in horrifying detail as she confessed her feelings on national TV. “And there’s more where that came from,” she said. “Everyone’s talking about it.”

“Can’t you just say it was a misspeak?” I asked, knowing already that was impossible. Mara had been pretty blunt about her beliefs.

“I know it’s a lot to ask, but it would just be until the movie comes out in six months, so it doesn’t look like I’m with you just to sign the deal for the sequel, then you would be in the clear.”

“I don’t know, Mara,” I said, shaking my head slowly. I didn’t like lying... and turning down a chance with anyone else to pretend-date someone who didn’t even believe in love...

Betty came with a plate full of dessert and put it in front of Mara. Mara thanked her, but she didn’t move her fork. “Please,” she whispered, her eyes shining. “My career iseverythingto me.”

I wish I would have turned Cohen down on the phone for this reason. I couldn’t say no to Mara. Not with her jaw trembling and moisture shining in her eyes. But I couldn’t say yes either. As lame as it may have sounded, I wanted the real thing. I wanted the kind of love my parents had. And as my mom liked to remind me, I wasn’t getting any younger. If I spent half a year or more being Mara’s pretend boyfriend, it would be more time of missing out on something real.

“Look, Jonas,” she said. “I’m willing to do whatever it takes. I’ll clean your house and do your laundry and make every single meal for you if it’ll help you say yes.Please.”

I looked down at the boomerang pattern on the laminate tabletop, trying to think of a way to let her down easy. But then it clicked.

“There is something you could do for me,” I said slowly.

“Anything, Jonas. I mean it.” Her brown eyes were wide and earnest. They looked almost like my mother’s.

I took a deep breath, knowing my mom was worth it. Every single time, she’d be worth it. “My mom has to have dialysis three days a week for four hours at a time. We want to do it at home, but we all work, and we don’t want just anyone to be there with her...”

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