Romance Is My Day Job by Patience Bloom Read Free Book Online

night we officially get together, a windy September night, I wait hours for him to stop talking and make a move. In romance novels, the heroine never waits. Devlin just crushes his mouth to Faun’s even before she finishes sharpening her pencils. There are no monologues, no conversations—just instinct. He wants her, he gets her. I wonder if other women go through this, waiting hours for the good stuff to happen, listening, trying to be interesting. Meggie did have to nudge Father Ralph a whole lot before his “little priest” gave in. It takes effort to keep up with my new man. The Love Boat and all my romance reading don’t prepare me for this chatterbox.
    I’m just sitting, listening, and waiting.
    Craig and I stay out past happy hour at the local bar. He wears a maroon striped shirt and jeans, smokes his Marlboros. By happenstance, I turn to Marlboro reds and pick up chain-smoking. Who knew my voice could sound like Kathleen Turner’s after forty cigarettes in a row? I smile nicely and nod at his forgettable comments. More about Marxism. Yeah, I have no idea. Twiddling my thumbs.
    Finally, at four A.M ., when the lights come on in the bar, he says, “Let’s get out of here.”
    It’s a line I later hear in movies to indicate the rerouting to an apartment for sex. Finally! We go to his small room above the bar, a dark place with no windows but with a mattress and disheveled blankets sitting on the floor. Typical boy space, I’m thinking, but he’s a rich boy, or so I’ve gathered from all his stuff—the motorcycle, a nice car, trips here and there, many nights out on the town. Wouldn’t he want a better resting place? No space goes untouched by mess, and I sit graciously on the mattress. He brings over a six-pack and sits down.
    I’m not sure what’s happening, though I pull my fourth beer of the night from his pack. I’m a little wasted.
    For two hours, I continue listening, sipping lukewarm beer, and adoring him. I’m still confused by his monologue, wondering why an affluent guy would go to Oberlin and rant about communism. Something about the proletariat. I will definitely look that up in my dictionary.
    At six A.M ., with two hours until my first class, he finally kisses me. The sour beer breath hits me instantly, but I block out the unpleasantness. This is the legendary Craig, the fun boozy guy, lead singer in a band, well traveled, intellectual . . . and he is with me, a girl who a month ago would never have gotten on a motorcycle. Who thinks Karl Marx is just a guy with a cool name.
    Craig is a great kisser, if I forget the beer breath. In fact, a lot of good things happen when you don’t look too closely at the details. Craig is like a movie star to me. Our future together will fall into place. He will eventually graduate and I will, too—possibly around the same time. I don’t mind if I have to support us, just as long as he whisks us off on a new adventure. This has been a whirlwind.
    One more marathon date later—which involves a repeat of previous encounters—I learn of Craig’s ultimate death wish. It’s a shock to my system, that a perfectly healthy person would consider suicide not just to be dramatic. He even admits to it.
    â€œAll that’s left is death,” he says.
    â€œBut I won’t let you die.”
    â€œYou can’t stop me.”
    A hero with suicidal thoughts? This doesn’t happen—except in movies or police shows. The brooding men in my romance novels throw down a few scotches now and then, but not a single one fashions a noose for himself.
    I remember when I was nine years old, upon hearing a scuffle outside, I looked out the window and saw my father in the driveway, helping a young woman from the neighborhood who’d slit her wrists. She sought out my father because he was dependable, a decent protector. Like the good Boy Scout that he was, he calmed her