I need a manual, guidelines for how to make this so clearly a performance for me when I’m with Jamie. That way, my emotions won’t get carried away, and it will still be believable enough to the meddlers that we have them eating out of our hands. What better material to work from than these schmaltzy movies that my friends love?

It hits me, as inspiration always does, suddenly, overwhelmingly, consuming my thoughts. I scramble for my phone, pull up the notepad, and type:

—Rom-com movie study session

—Rom-com-style dates. Document on social media

—Use rom-com material liberally in front of “friends”

“Who are you texting?” Jules asks, giving me a knowing glance. “Jaaaaamie?”

I don’t glance up from my phone as I open my messages and find my thread with the man in question. “Yes.”

“Ooooh,” they all croon.

I roll my eyes. “Start the movie, you weirdos.”

As the opening credits begin and upbeat pop music fills the room, I set my plan into motion.

BEA: James. How many rom-coms have you watched?

My phone dings thirty seconds later.

JAMIE: 3.

Of course he has. And of course he knows exactly how many.

JAMIE: I enjoyed 2 of them. The third was a 90-minute cliché. Why?

BEA: Those flicks are our first-class ticket to Revenge City.

JAMIE: I’m confused.

BEA: This Wednesday is blocked off for our next “date.” My turn to plan it. It’ll be clear then.

JAMIE: I have a strong premonition I’m not going to like this.

I send him my favorite evil-grinning GIF.

BEA: No idea what you’re talking about.

· TWENTY ·

Jamie

“Hands down best?” I peer over my shoulder and tell Bea, “10 Things I Hate About You.”

She grips a fistful of my jacket and shuffles behind me. We’ve been separated by crowds at the conservatory twice and we’re both over it. “Yeah, it’s rom-com excellence. But how much can we take from that? No paintball.” She tugs my jacket. “Too messy for Mr. Tidy.”

“Too hazardous,” I tell her.

“Why, Jamie, whatever are you referring to? Me with a paintball gun—couldn’t be a better combination.”

I throw her a skeptical glance. “I was thinking more like paint by numbers. Isn’t that a thing the kids do these days? Throwback activities from our youth? Sounds Instagrammable. Much less stressful than carnivorous flowers.”

“You’re such a grump. That Venus flytrap barely nipped you.”

“It nearly ate my hand!”

“Shh,” she says. “You’re scaring the children. A pediatrician like you should know better.”

“Beatrice.”

“James.” She stops me in front of a towering trellis of wisteria. “Stay right there.”

“I still don’t understand the need to go this far with our date planning. I thought we were doing fine.”

She huffs impatiently. “You weren’t listening to those hooligans blubbering about their love of happy endings. You didn’t listen to them gloating about their matchmaking excellence.”