Page 5 of What's in a Kiss?

She truly is a fan. All our listeners’ love is sincere. All four of them.

“I particularly liked when Lorena called you out for not readingWhy We Dream.”

“We were reading two different editions! Mine might have been... abridged.”

“Classic. Your dynamic with Lorena is gold. You should look into sponsors,” Masha says.

“Ha.”

“Olivia. The podcast couldbesomething. Take it more seriously.”

“I take it seriously.”

“As seriously as you take messing around with Werner?” Masha knows about my walk-in fridge rendezvous with Werner, and she doesn’t exactly love it.

“Olivia,” she says. “Werner broughtCliffsNoteswhen he came to see your middle schoolers put onA Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

“He’s a chef, not a renaissance scholar! Come on. Werner’s fun. He’s laid-back, no-drama, and even you had that sex dream about him in his chef whites.”

“Which I swore you to secrecy about!” she reminds me. “Werner’s... fine. On a scale of one to deserving you, he’s like a four.”

“Harsh!”

“I’m just saying, you have a pattern with guys like him. Very quickly, they bore you to tears. You’re two texts away from throwing your phone at the wall. Which means you’re four hookups away from ending things.”

I pretend to be offended. “I am not that predictable.”

“If you don’t believe me,” she says, crossing her arms, “check the top row of your bookshelf.”

Oh no she didn’t.

The top row of my bookshelf is where I keep my diaries. There are fifteen of them, one for every year of my life since eighth grade. Color coded in rainbow order.

“You know I never read those,” I say, though I can’t help suspecting that Masha is right. Not like I’d peruse my past tofind out. “Purge and shelf. Purge and shelf.” I mime the act of diary writing, then flinging them away to gather emotional dust.

“What about Evan, from the mint green edition?” Masha says. “Or Jonah, from your periwinkle pleather book? Or... what was his name, that punk rock guy who went down on you in his nasty old truck—”

“Tristen!” I recall with a smirk. “And that truck was only nasty in the very best sense of the word.”

“Tristen,” she says. “Teal journal, spiral bound.”

“Shut up. You don’t actually—”

“No, Liv, I don’t read your diaries while you’re taking too long to get ready, tempting as it is. It’s just that I’ve been with you on many of the occasions when you’ve been filling those books up—with accounts of attractive, forgettable men you’d never actually want to be with long term.” She nods at me. “And I’m right about the path you’re on with Werner.”

As I stack halibut filets on the cutting board, I reflect on my recent romantic history. I’d met witty but emotionally unavailable Evan when we were canvassing door-to-door for the last presidential election. Thatwouldbe the mint green volume. And Jonah taught music—I think—at one of the schools where I taught drama. We’d had a few bland dates the year I was writing in the periwinkle journal, but, if Masha hadn’t remembered his name, I don’t think I would have. Tristen I remember—our chemistry had been worthy of more than a few diary entries. But if I’m honest, our best sex happened via FaceTime when his band was on the road.

Which is... pathetic.

But so what if my love stories thus far aren’t worthy of a Pulitzer Prize? What Masha’s not giving me credit for is this: each time one of my relationships ended, I’vesurvived.

I know what real heartbreak looks like. I’ve seen it up close and way too personal: my mom after my dad died. I know all the things it can wreck.

No thanks. I’m good with guys like Werner—here today, whatever tomorrow.

“Liv, I love you,” Masha says. “You light up my life. And you deserve a bronze statue for how much you’ve boosted your mom’s last decade. You go out of your way to help other people like it’s your job. It’s beautiful. But you know—you do know—that you’re avoiding your own heart?”

“Can we put a pin in my love life until after we’ve celebrated yours this weekend?”

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