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home.
    Hmmm. That wasn’t too bad. Kind of negated my setting myself up as yet another expert, though. Still, I kept writing.
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    The truth is, no one knows the rules for dating. That’s because there are no rules—every situation is different. Every person is different.
    So wouldn’t you love to have your own personal dating guru to help you navigate the bumpy road to love?
    â€œHe didn’t call when he said he would—what does it mean?” Ask...
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    I stopped and leaned back. Think of a title , Lisa had told me. Something catchy.
    Sasha had called me a breakup savant, but that brought to mind a stammering Rain Man—not the best image for a relationship guru. “Ask the Relationship Guru”? No. I got a mental picture of a swami sitting cross-legged on a mountaintop. “Ask... Madame Mojo”? Sounded like a dominatrix. Dr. Love? That just sounded like a bad seventies porn film. The Love Doctor?
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    â€œI love her but hate her kids...can it work?” Ask the Love Doctor...
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    It wasn’t bad.
    I leaned forward again, my fingers tapping on the keys.

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    I ran the finished product by Sasha Wednesday night before I turned it in to Lisa.
    â€œWhat do you think?”
    She frowned into the screen, chewing her bottom lip. “I like it. It’s good.”
    â€œBut...?”
    â€œWhat? I like it.”
    I sighed and flopped down onto her plush red couch, where she sat with my laptop balanced on her knees.
    â€œSash, you never just ‘like’ anything. You love it or you hate it. What did I do wrong?”
    She drew her eyebrows together, staring at the screen. “That’s the thing. I don’t know. It’s good—really,” she insisted at my rolled eyes. “It’s just not...special. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.” She gestured absently behind her, where her bookshelves spilled with titles like How to Find Him, Hook Him, and Reel Him In ; Dating: A Survival Guide ; How to Be Married in a Year ; Get Him to the Altar .
    I flopped over so I was lying on my stomach, my legs bent up. “But readers can write in about their personal dating situation. I can answer specific questions.”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œIt’s like having your very own self-help book, personalized just for you.”
    â€œMmmmmm.” She nodded slowly, still eyeballing the screen.
    â€œSo what do you think? Is it ready? Should I turn it in? Is this what Lisa was looking for?”
    Sasha stared intently into my laptop as if it were trying to teach her calculus. “Well...yeah. I like it. It’s good.”
    It needed work.

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    I took another stab at it...and then another stab...and then another, until I had taken so many stabs I felt like a serial killer. Finally I wound up with something pretty close to what I originally shown Sasha, and I sent it in.
    Thursday afternoon, my cell phone rang with an unfamiliar number.
    â€œIs this the Love Doctor?”
    For a second I stared dumbly at the phone before I realized it wasn’t a prank call. “Um...yes,” I stammered.
    â€œMy name is Tabitha Washington. I work at the Tropic Times ? I just saw your first article, and...and I...” She faltered to a stop.
    â€œYou had some questions?” I’d figured there’d be some rewrites called for. Even after all my efforts, I wasn’t completely happy with the final result.
    A brief pause. “Uh-huh. I was wondering...”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œCould you, um...”
    Tabitha Washington was pussyfooting around as if my ego were fragile as glass. “Whatever it is, you can just tell me,” I told her. “I’m sure I can fix it.”
    â€œOh, thank God!” And for the second time that week a strange woman burst into sobs as I listened in bewilderment. “My boyfriend...his wife... here ...!” I made out between her ragged gasps. “I