All Summer on a Date: Three Romantic Comedy Short Stories (8 page)

1980’s Geralyn was the girl who’d daydreamed about what life would be like someday, once she’d found true love. She was the girl who hadn’t already found him and woken up to life. The one who hadn’t painted herself into a corner that she was always hoping to paper over.

A surge of NFL music blasted through the closed bedroom door. I threw aside the story. Nancy Drew with her titian hair and teal blue convertible wasn’t doing it for me. Oh, hell, Ron wasn’t in love with me anymore, I was sure of it. How could he be? How could something like romance—something like true love—survive life after thirty? How could it keep its soul while doing battle with routine? Not burn out while chasing debts that made you yell and snap and cry?

I curled onto my side in single spoon position and ran my finger along the piece of paper taped to the wall by the night stand. It was the card my friend Rebecca had made me for my birthday last year. She’d printed out a picture of the smitten Mr. Darcy and written a caption that made it seem as if he had eyes for only me. “My dearest, loveliest Geralyn, it is your birthday, and
that
is the material point.” Rebecca had smashed together some bits of Darcy dialogue to make a birthday greeting that was very ill indeed, but I loved it all the same. Rebecca and I were both hard core
P&P
fans, slipping lines of Jane’s dialogue into our lives where we could.

I suppose a part of me wanted to live the romantic classic because the best part of my own story had already been written. I had fallen in love six years ago, then committed myself to the guy four years later. Now there was no room left to dream. No great beyond. I crushed my face into the pillow. Dream of what, though? What did I want? Anything beyond what my choices had given me? I heard a whistle and put the pillow over my head.

Three hours later, I woke up to an unfamiliar cooking smell. I climbed off the bed and shuffled to the kitchen where I found Ron in the midst of A Project. Whatever he was concocting, it needed two pans, all three pots, and every spice in the cupboard. He was making shrimp fried rice. What? I thought Ron was allergic to shrimp. Nope, he explained, that was clams. I was still dubious. After all, I’d never seen him eat a shrimp. What if he didn’t like it?

“But it won’t put me in the hospital,” he answered. “
That
is the material point.” He cracked an egg.

I looked at Ron, his words still ringing through my head.
That is the material point
. Had Ron just quoted Mr. Darcy like it was no big deal? Had he actually slipped a line of
Pride and Prejudice
dialogue into ordinary conversation? That meant he knew the story. He understood how much I loved it.

That is the material point
. It was such a minor, off-the-cuff thing to say, but it rocked my world. Ron noticed the small stuff. About me.
That
was the material point.

The feeling swept over me like one of those waves in the ocean that knocks you down and tumbles you into shore. Why did I escape into beloved classics when I had the story to trump all dreams of romance right here?

I never knew myself until that moment. But my moment of truth—the best part of my story—had nothing to do with vengeance, secret affairs, betrayals, or subterfuge. My love story was in the small stuff, folded in with the socks and towels. It was about the toilet seat I never had to put down myself. The bed I never had to go back to make if I was the first one up. The newspapers stacked neatly in the magazine rack. The light bulbs I never had to change. The baseboards he’d dusted when I’d asked. The stick shift sports car he’d traded in for the automatic Golf that I could also drive. The pretty little ring on my finger.

The countless things that had never been part of Ron’s life until I’d come along.

And what kind of dream lover was I? I tried to steal his forty-eight hours of TV time a year and complained about the way he made the stupid bed.

I walked over to where he stood at the stove and slipped my arms around him. I pressed my cheek into his sweatshirt and hugged him tight.

“Did the Giants win?”

For Ron and Robert

(and Chase Blackburn)

Dear Reader,

Thank you for reading my short stories. I hope they made you smile. Please consider taking a moment to leave a review on Amazon or Goodreads in order to help other readers decide whether they might like this book. I know your time is precious, so I greatly appreciate all reader reviews, which are so helpful to spreading the word about an indie author.

Reading sure can be an adventure, and I hope it always brings you joy!

Sincerely,

Geralyn Corcillo

About the Author

When she was a kid, Geralyn Corcillo wanted to one day become the superhero Dyna Girl. So, she did her best and grew up to rescue animals and constantly pick up litter. At home, she loves watching black and white movies, British mysteries, and the New York Giants. Corcillo is a native of Chinchilla, Pennsylvania and now lives in a drafty old house in Hollywood with her husband Ron, a guy who's even cooler than Kip Dynamite.

You can see all of her works at 
‪author.to/GeralynCorcillo