Dating Dilemma
Copyright ©️ 2017 Rachael Brownell
All right reserved.
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Cover Design by Pink Ink, Designs
Editing by Paisley Reader & Editor
Formatting by Classic Interior Design
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No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any form or any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Dear Maggie
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Dear Maggie
Chapter 5
Dear Maggie
Chapter 6
Dear Maggie
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Dear Maggie
Chapter 9
Dear Maggie
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Dear Maggie
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Dear Maggie
Chapter 16
Dear Maggie
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Dear Maggie
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Dear Maggie
Chapter 21
Dear Maggie
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Dear Maggie
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Gigi
Dear Maggie
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
About the Author
Also by Rachael Brownell
Dating Dilemma
Rachael Brownell
1
Lauren
"What do you mean I have to write the column?"
"Exactly what I said. Maggie is taking some 'personal time,' and I need you to fill in for her until she returns," Mr. Phelps explains.
He's been my boss for less than an hour, and I'm already questioning the decision to take this position. When he hired me last month, I was under the impression I would be researching and writing local news stories. Interest pieces. Heartfelt, happy stories. Recognizing the local, small-town hero on a larger scale.
What I'm certain I did not sign up for was to write a column on love. That's something I never would have agreed to, no matter what they offered me. I'm far from being an expert. In fact, I've never been in love, and I have no interest in being in love. The few experiences I've had with relationships have ended poorly.
Don't get me wrong. I enjoy the companionship of a man. What I don't enjoy is being told what to do or having my every decision criticized. Maybe I've been in the wrong relationships, maybe not. What I do know is what I want in a relationship seems unattainable, so I've stopped trying.
I've been living the single life for two years, almost three, and I've never been happier.
"How much personal time does she plan to take? Are we talking a week? A month? A year? I can fake it for a few columns, but I can't guarantee people won't be able to tell I'm not Maggie."
Dear Maggie runs twice a week, Wednesdays and Sundays.
"She said six weeks." Running his fingers through his graying hair, I watch as he studies my reaction.
Six weeks is a long time.
There's no way I can survive that long without at least one of Maggie's dedicated readers realizing she's not the one writing her column.
"Look, go back and read the last few weeks of the column. Maggie was slipping, becoming cynical. We're already skipping both columns this week, running an ad for the resort Maggie is supposedly on vacation at. When you take over next week, they'll assume she's back, and as long as your responses are upbeat, they won't notice a difference. You can do this, Lauren. I wouldn't have asked you to if I didn't think you could."
Did he ask? I’m pretty sure I missed that part of the conversation.
"I'm glad one of us is confident in my abilities," I retort skeptically.
"There's one more thing," he says, leaning across his desk. "You can't tell anyone. That includes the people in this office. No one can know Maggie isn't behind the column. Our reputation is on the line."
Essentially, I’m now on an island. I can’t even ask for help or vent to my new co-workers, people who have been reading this column for longer than I’ve known about it.
"So, how am I going to explain my presence, then?"
"You're her assistant. She's working from home, broke her leg while she was on vacation. You're communicating with her through email to keep the column moving along. If anyone wants to speak with her directly, tell them you'll get her the message and then let me know."
This is too complicated. One missed step and it will all fall apart. My mind is running a mile a minute, processing everything he's telling me. I can't do this. The words are on the tip of my tongue, but I can't bring myself to utter them. That would mean crawling home to Mommy and Daddy's house. Their opinion on my choice of career would be shoved down my throat until I choked on it.
I'm not willing to do that.
I will find a way to make this column work.
It's only twelve articles.
Fake it until I make it, right?
Mr. Phelps draws up a confidentiality agreement and has me sign it before I leave. The rest of the day is mine. Tomorrow, the real work begins. Tomorrow, I am Maggie Tuttle, relationship expert. Need advice on love, dating, relationships, marriage, or divorce? Submit your question to be answered by Dear Maggie. She tells it like it is, and her years of experience make her the leading expert in the town of Brighton.
Her column was the beginning of the Daily News. Apparently, Mr. Phelps and Maggie have been friends since grade school. He gave me their entire back story before he broke the news to me today. They dated once, decided to be friends instead, were in each other’s weddings, and are Godparents for each other’s kids. The one thing he wouldn't tell me was why she needs time away.
In the end, it doesn't matter, so I didn't push.
Right after Maggie graduated college, she moved home to Brighton, married her high school sweetheart, and gave up her career in journalism to be a stay-at-home mom. Two years later, she became a divorced single mother. That's when she started writing Dear Maggie on a mom-to-mom blog. It took off, and she decided to make a career out of it. It allowed her to be home with her daughter and provide for them.
Maggie remarried when her daughter was four. Her relationship with her new husband enriched her column. From the time they started dating, to when she walked down the aisle, Maggie shared everything with her readers. That's when they fell in love with the column according to Mr. Phelps.
Ten years ago, he moved back to town and reconnected with Maggie. Together they decided to start the Daily News. It's an online daily newspaper with a growing readership.
Their biggest column? Dear Maggie.
That's why I can't screw this up.
Dear Maggie is what keeps everything going. It's the money maker. The advertising on that page alone pays the bills.
No pressure there at all.
As soon as I get home, I open my laptop and start going through the Dear Maggie archives for the last month. She's definitely talented. Her advice seems solid. It's not until I reach the columns from a few weeks ago that I notice a change in things. Her advice seems lackluster. She sounds bitter in her responses. All the questions she's chosen are about marriage.
If I had to guess as to why she’s taking a break, I would say she's ab
out to go through another divorce. I'm not an expert, far from it, but any observant person can read between the lines on most of these comments.
Pulling out a notepad, I make a list of all the things I want to research before Monday rolls around and I officially become Maggie. Google is going to get a workout tonight.
Dating tips.
Relationship advice.
Tips for a happy marriage.
I should probably scan through Maggie's previous columns to see how she would answer questions. That way, if she's already answered a similar question, I can rephrase and sound consistent with how Maggie would answer it.
Maybe Abby will be able to help me out, too. She may be the only person I still talk to these days, but she's had plenty of experience in the field of love and relationships. In fact, she's seen more ups and downs than anyone else I know. She's the perfect person to help me out with this.
She answers on the first ring, screaming into the phone in excitement.
"Lauren!"
"Hey!" I scream at her, pulling the phone away from my ear.
"Did you get settled?" she asks, the sound of her voice returning to a bearable noise level.
Looking around at all the boxes I have stacked everywhere, some open with stuff pouring out, I lie through my teeth so she doesn't scold me like a child. "Yep. It's starting to feel like home more and more every day."
"I don't believe you because I know you. Your apartment is more than likely trashed. You haven't put anything away, and you can't find anything you need. Do your socks even match?"
Nope.
"Are you're panties are clean?"
Nope.
"Did you brush your hair this morning?"
With my fingers.
"Do I need to come visit already so you can live like a normal person?"
God, yes. That's what I want to say, but I hold back. As nice as it would be to see her, even though it's only been ten days, she has bigger things to worry about than me and my mess of a life. Speaking of which...
"No. I promise to get it done. This week work is light since I'm just getting started so I'll make it a priority. I'll even send you pictures when I'm done so you don't have to worry."
"More than one picture of each room so I know you're not just moving the boxes around."
Damn, she's good.
"Deal. In return, I have a favor to ask you."
"Anything, you know that. What's up?"
The best I can, I explain to Abby the situation I've walked into. She laughs for a good ten minutes when she finds out the column is about love. I let her, waiting patiently for her to catch her breath before I dive in for the kill.
"I may need you to help me hand out advice. We both know you're more of an expert than I am."
"Everyone is more of an expert than you, Lauren. Yes, I'll help you, if I can. Getting knocked up on accident, then getting hitched so I don't disappoint my parents, doesn't exactly make me an expert on love, though."
"No, but you've dated a few people, been in love once or twice, or at least thought you were. Plus, little Johnny was not an accident, stop calling him that. He was a blessing in disguise. Things worked out great for you and John. You're happy, right?"
"We are, but our path to happiness wasn't conventional. From the way you make it sound, neither was hers, but she has her shit together now. Or at least she did."
"I don't think the path to love is ever conventional, Abby. As inexperienced as I am, I know that much,” I reply, pouring myself a shot of whiskey, the only thing I have to drink in my house right now.
"You know what would be a great idea?"
Her tone, that hint of laughter I hear, tells me I'm going to hate the idea as much as she loves it. Before I can stop her, she's making her suggestion known and my mouth is agape in surprise. My best friend is a genius.
Thank God for whiskey. Tossing back my shot, it burns as it goes down, leaving behind a warm feeling.
"Are you sure it's safe?" I ask, not wanting to get myself into something dangerous when I have no one to rely on here.
"Yes. Just make sure you use a reputable site and only meet in crowded places."
"I'll give it a shot," I say, laughing to myself as I look down at my empty glass and wonder if I should fill it up again.
"Want me to create a profile for you?"
Hell no! That would be a really bad idea. She’d share details about me that I wouldn’t want anyone to know.
"I've got this. How hard can it be to fill out an online dating form? It's not like it’s rocket science," I say, acting like I’m not freaking out on the inside.
"The good ones will take you a minute. Just be honest, Lauren. I know this isn't you looking for romance or love or any of that since you've sworn it off forever. But, if you're not you on these dates, your research will be skewed and then you're back to square one."
No, I’m not interested in finding love. This is just about research. I’ll be able to give better advice if I can live some of these situations. Plus, this will give me something to do on my nights off. And, if I’m busy dating, I won’t have to unpack. It’s a toss-up as to which I like less–unpacking or dating.
I can't believe I agreed to this. Online dating. Matchmaking generated by a computer algorithm. I'm in so far over my head there's no way out of this but to keep moving forward.
2
Kyle
I knew things were going to suck today when Hope burst through my bedroom door this morning all sunshine and rainbows. Why did I give her a key to my house again?
Sure, her heart is in the right place, even though her method is a bit obscure. If there's one thing she should know about me after all this time, it’s I can't be pushed into anything. I'll fight it tooth and nail until I win. Last time she tried to push me too hard, we didn't talk for a week. The only reason my vow of silence ended that soon was because mom and dad forced us together.
"Get up, Kyle. It's almost noon," she hollers, ripping the pillow out from under my head and beating me with it before throwing it on the floor.
Last time, she pulled the covers off of me. She'll never do that again. I wasn't awake enough to care that I was as naked as the day I was born in front of my big sister, the one who should never see me that way. She screamed, I screamed, and the dog started to howl, thinking we were playing a game.
"Don't you have anything better to do with your Saturday morning than torturing me? Not that I don't enjoy your company, but I just prefer a cup of coffee or two before having to deal with you," I say, pulling the covers over my head to hide from the sunlight streaming in through the blinds.
"Coffee's in the kitchen. I brewed it, but you can pour it into a cup yourself. I'm not your maid. Five minutes and I’m coming back in here," she threatens, leaving the door open on her way out.
Knowing she’s not going to give me the full five minutes, I hop out of bed and pull on some running shorts and a t-shirt. I emerge to find Hope in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, drinking a cup of coffee from my favorite mug. There's a smug smile on her face, waiting for me to react. I'm too hung over for her shit this morning.
Snatching the mug from her hand, I dump out her sugar-filled concoction and refill it with straight black mud.
Hope is the spitting image of our mother. In looks, personality, and drive. She's a spitfire and protective as hell of her own. That’s why she’s here, forcing me out of bed and annoying the hell out of me. If she wasn’t, my mother would be. I should be grateful she cares enough to save me from our mother this early on a Saturday.
Me on the other hand, I'm my father. Laid back. Level headed. Go with the flow. So much so, that when my fiancée left me, I didn't even flinch. I held it all in, walked calmly down the aisle and out the front doors of the church to where the limo was waiting to escort us to the airport. Our honeymoon was already paid for so I went, alone, and stayed drunk for eight days and seven nights in Jamaica.
No one called.
No one
tried to find me.
I'm predictable. They knew where I was. They knew I would call if I needed them. I didn't. I wanted to work through it on my own. That didn’t happen, but I had to try.
It's been almost six months, and I'm still trying to work through it. Only now, Hope is "helping" me the only way she knows how. She's pushing me to start dating again. I've explained to her I'm not ready yet, but I swear she doesn't listen to me. Either that or she doesn't care that I'm not ready.
"To get over that bitch you need to hop on another one. This time, not a bitch," she said to me last week.
That was her pep talk the day she suggested I fill out an application for some online dating website. According to her, they will screen out the crazies and match me with someone that's good for me. I refused. I wonder what's on tap today. Does she have another award-winning pep talk planned? If nothing else, they're amusing.
"So, what brings you to my house this fine morning?" I ask, sipping my coffee.
“Afternoon, Kyle. You slept the morning away,” she says, moving around me.
Hope pours herself a fresh cup of coffee and takes a seat at the counter. Twisting from side to side on the barstool, she eyes me but doesn't answer. Something is brewing inside that head of hers. By the look of things, it's big and I'm going to hate it. That's not a surprise, though. I tend to hate all her ideas when it comes to my relationship status.
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