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inexplicably peopled only with boys I like and my grandmother. And ever since then I have never been able to do it—I could never read one of those books without feeling that flush, unable to stop being utterly aware of how embarrassed I’d be if someone found out what I was reading. It’s never about the romance novels; it’s about me. And I’ve never questioned it. Who these people are that would judge me and what conclusions they’d draw. Nope. Instead, I’ve just stuck to the classics—where the racy bits were never mentioned, just inferred from knowing glances across crowded rooms, and everything hinged on witty banter during a quadrille.
    I sit back down behind my desk with the book in hand, deciding not to dismiss it so quickly. I’m not a teenager anymore. Although I do close my door and tell my assistant not to enter for the next half hour as I’ll be “on a call.” She is, of course, confused, as I’ve never done this in the years we’ve worked together and she knows perfectly well there is no call.
    Apparently Ms. Helen Brubaker knows what women want. And I need some answers. From anyone. I Google “Be the Heroine, Find Your Hero” and millions upon millions of entries pop up instantaneously. Helen Brubaker has been on every morning television show; she’s been written about inevery top magazine, newspaper, website . . . you name it. And there she is meandering through the First Lady’s garden deep in conversation. How have I not heard of this book before? I pick up the phone and dial.
    â€œArt room,” a student answers.
    â€œIs Mrs. Alvarez there?” I ask. The student puts her hand over the phone.
    â€œThis is Mrs. Alvarez,” Allison says.
    â€œHave you ever heard of a book called Be the Heroine, Find Your Hero ?”
    â€œYeah, why?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œIt’s everywhere.”
    â€œHow did I not know about this?”
    â€œBecause you live under a rock, my dearie. Oof, my next class will be here in ten minutes. I’ve still got to get their stuff out of the kiln. Talk later?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œLove you.”
    â€œLove you, too.” I set my phone down and continue researching online.
    To say the book is a phenomenon is an understatement. It’s bigger. Cult big. Religion big. It’s the book of the moment . . . it’s the everything of the moment. It’s way more successful than any other dating book. The hook? It’s a dating advice book that uses romance novels as a modern-day guide for women who are searching for their Mr. Right.
    Sasha comes back with our lunch to find me fully engrossed in her book.
    â€œI’m so sorry, I saw it there and—” I drop the book. I can feelthe flush in my cheeks as the embarrassment settles in the pit of my stomach. This is my teenage nightmare.
    â€œOh, I don’t care. I can’t believe you don’t have your own copy.” Sasha sets down the food and starts pulling out containers, condiment packets, and little utensils.
    â€œThanks for picking up lunch,” I say, scanning the food.
    â€œDon’t worry about it. You’ll get dinner.” The stark reality that we will be stuck in this office overnight hits me. I’ll get dinner. Right, because we’ll still be right here at dinnertime and breakfast.
    â€œI’ve never even heard of it,” I say, bringing the conversation back to the book. I take my container of sushi, pull my chopsticks out of their wrapper, rub them together to protect myself from splinters, and dive in.
    â€œIt’s all about how romance novels have it right. First you have to consider yourself the heroine and then you attract the hero. Make your man slay dragons and save the world before he gets to ravish you,” Sasha says, settling into the chair across from me with her sashimi.
    â€œAre we saying ravish now? Are we ravishing now?” I