I used to read. Gran was obviously an avid reader and she wanted to pass that love on to me. Every time I would see her, she’d have a new book for me. I had a bookshelf overflowing with every fairy tale I could get my hands on. I can still remember the way my little body would sink deeper into her lap when her smooth, warm voice would recite my six favorite words, “And they lived happily ever after.”

But I also remember Dad starting to stay out longer and the way his smile never reached his eyes anymore. I can hear Mom’s soft whimpers through the bathroom door when she didn’t know I was listening. Those were the days I read my fairy tales the most, wishing and praying my family would get our happily ever after too. But we didn’t.

I learned the hard way. I know books are unrealistic make-believe, whereas other people, like my best friend and apparently my sister, think they’re goals. So they transfer these expectations and lovey-dovey emotions to people who might not deserve them. People like Jasper.

Just because he writes this stuff does not mean he subscribes to it.

I mean, sure. He did indulge the Dirty Birds by answering all their questions, offering to take me to dinner, escorting them to their cars, and calling—not texting, which felt like an attack—the same night to give me his schedule. But that doesn’t mean he’s an actual romance hero or anything.

Herein lies the problem with dating in the time of the internet and apps and texting. Basically existing in the twenty-first century. Our standards are so low that when someone is average, they jut above the crowd. Common courtesy should be the bare minimum, yet here we are, offering endless praise for being a decent human being.

“I hate to break up this lust-fest you both have going on, but you’re making a way bigger deal out of this than it really is. The Dirty Birds coerced him into asking me to dinner.” While I’m positive this is a sentence most people never utter in their entire lives, it’s all too familiar for me. And thankfully, since Daisy and I share a father, she’s heard about the Dirty Birds and I don’t have to explain at least that much. “He’s in town to write a book and Mona volunteered my native Denverite services. I doubt it’ll go beyond this dinner without him being flanked by two old ladies forcing him to ask me out. I’m going to make a list of some good places and that will be it.”

“What places are you putting on the list?” Daisy—bless her easily distracted heart—asks.