Genre: Women's Fiction
When I was eight years old and still believed in happily ever afters, I swore I’d grow up and marry Tommy Devereaux, the cutest boy in third grade. I painstakingly stared at the class photo, tracing the letters of his name and repeating them to myself until I could spell it without thinking. I wrote “Brittany Devereaux” over and over, covering the insides of my notebooks, journals, any scrap of paper I found.
Fourteen years later, I met Colin Devereaux. No relation.
“Is this seat taken?” A guy about my age stood across the table. Hello, green eyes. One hand rested on the top rung of the empty wooden chair in front of him. Between the din of the coffee shop and my music, I barely heard his question.
I nodded. He let go of the chair. I pulled out an earbud and realized what he’d said. “Wait, sorry. No, it’s not taken. Yes, you can sit.”
“Thanks. I’m Colin Devereaux.”
A response tumbled from my mouth automatically, like when I was eight. “D-e-v-e-r-e-a-u-x.”
I wasn’t the most suave at talking to members of the opposite sex. That's probably why I could count the number of dates I’d had in the past four years on my right hand, not including hookups.
What? I said I wasn’t suave, not that I’m a nun.
Colin laughed as if impromptu spelling were a perfectly normal reaction to introducing himself.