Love, Liana... Sincerely, Kade...

By Allie Doherty

Meet Liana Dawson, a perpetually single romantic-advice blogger. 

She's one set of granny-panties away from proclaiming herself New York C

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lake Country Press & Review
• Release date: Sep 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9798986074818

Book preview

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Oh, not again ! My eyes collided with the clock standing on my frosted glass desk reading 8 a.m. and I discovered, for the third time this week, I’d been up all night. I lifted my head from my work and saw the sun peeking out over the steely clouds of the Manhattan sky, a stream of light mocking me through the crack in the sheer white curtains of my Upper West Side apartment.

My body ached in an all-too-familiar way; the sweet twinge that came with being hunched over a keyboard for ten hours. With a soft groan, I stretched like a cat in my desk chair, the bones in my back cracking and screaming at the first sign of movement.

Across the room, past the plush white sofa, I saw the door to my bedroom standing ajar; showing the edge of my fully made bed, taunting me with its ruffles and throw pillows like a painted whore. If only I had time…

My hand moved to my mouse and double-clicked on the email that had kept me up for the better part of three days. Rereading it for the ninetieth time, it continued to stump me. Never, in all my time as a romance-advice-blogger, had I encountered such an… ass. Though I admit, he was an intriguing ass. A man named Kade with a fascinating complex: an egotism he felt inferior about. And, to top it all off, he didn’t believe in love. How cliché of a bachelor to say? To me, it sounded like an excuse to sleep with every woman he could from Manhattan to Jersey, and back again.

Dear Liana,

I’m a busy man approaching my thirties and find myself tired of endless one-night-stands—brief interludes of two-hour sessions twice a week with women I meet at a bar near my office…’

He considered two hours brief interludes. I didn’t know whether to scoff or be impressed. In the end, I went with skeptical. In my experience, no way sex could last that long. Bile lurched up my esophagus at the thought of my two-pump ex, Ronnie, and I once again questioned the lapse in judgement that led me to him. He wasn’t a bad guy, but a selfish son of a bitch in bed, who only ever took.

I shivered and continued reading.

‘The women are like me: high-pressured, fast-paced, workaholic-types looking to let off steam. But I’ve found myself in more than one sticky situation where they couldn’t let me go.

Not that I blame them. I’m a pretty impressive guy.’

There’s that confidence. Not for the first time, I rolled my eyes at his words.

‘But letting them down easy isn’t as ‘easy’ as I’d like, and though I don’t like hurting people, I’d be lying if I said I was nice about it. My best friend, Stephanie, calls me cold-hearted, but I’m not sure I am. I think I’m… different.

Different—synonymous with asshole, apparently.

Lately, I’m surprised to find I’ve been pondering the mechanics of relationships. Once or twice, I’ve caught myself daydreaming about how I’d be as a boyfriend, a husband, and even as a father. I don’t think I’d be good at any of it, but that hasn’t stopped me looking at the women in the bar with more interest—searching for qualities in them that might work well with me long-term.

Unfortunately, every woman I’ve come across as of late has been so boring, I’ve considered, on over one occasion, diluting my whiskey with a shot of arsenic.’

I loved that part. The snort that ripped from my nose was an inhuman mix of a bear and a moose. I’d been there. Every date since Ronnie had been mediocre—forgettable, really. A blur of thirty guys who all looked the same, spouted the same cheesy lines, liked the same six TV shows, and bragged about how they understood women, but didn’t.

‘My problem: I hear sonnets about fireworks and butterflies, songs about hearts racing and kisses that make knees quiver, but I’ve never understood, nor experienced, such a kiss. I’ve never had flutters in my stomach or felt fireworks from a touch. I’m not sure I understand what love is, or how a person could fall into feeling it. I’ve never loved anyone or anything. Even Stephanie—I’m not sure I love her, rather I’ve become accustomed to having her around.

Maybe there’s something wrong with me. My last therapist muttered something about impulse control issues and ‘prescribed’ meditative breathing exercises, as if I don’t know how to fucking breathe after twenty-nine years of doing it daily.

I quit therapy there and then, leaving me to seek out answers in unlikely places.

And so, I turn to you, Liana, and ask: If love exists, is it something that can be taught?

(P.S. Do you have any tips on impulse control exercises that don’t involve sitting cross-legged with my eyes closed and humming like a damn bird?)

I await your answer with anticipation.

Sincerely, Kade.’

I, too, awaited my answer with anticipation. Despite being able to recite his email from memory, I had nada when it came to being able to help him. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to. He seemed like any other bachelor having a mid-life crisis at the thought of growing old alone after pissing away his time in the clutches of sex. He didn’t need love advice; he needed a car shaped like a penis and a beach house in Malibu.

The door behind me swung open, and I jumped, remembering I had a roommate. Kit giggled, seeing me there—my hair piled atop my head like Cindy Lou from The Grinch—and rolled her eyes.

Up all night? she teased, narrowing her dark brown eyes with a perfectly manicured hand on her hip. The white line of where an engagement ring used to be stuck out like a sore thumb against her semi-tan skin. Why are you such a vampire?

I ignored her remark. My readers are up early today.

Her shoulders shrugged. So? Give ‘em something to read.

She didn’t get it. It wasn’t as easy as throwing out any advice. I had a reputation to uphold. Grumbling a response, I slammed my laptop shut—the noise sent a shockwave through my brain that made me wince.

Tapped out? Kit moved through our open plan apartment to the wall-mounted mirror in the hallway and flattened her sleek black hair with one hand as she applied her lipstick with the other.

I nodded. Completely, and I’m yet to respond to the email I got Friday night. I half-whispered the last part, hoping she wouldn’t hear me. Her eyes widened and the heat of shame rose on my cheeks. Even on my worst days, riddled with writer’s block and menstrual cramps, never had it taken me so long.

"The Kade guy? Kit, already in her pantsuit and ready to take on the world, whirled on me. What about your one-day guarantee? That can be deemed false advertising."

I groaned, not in the mood to hear the ins and outs of PR and advertising again. Kit, can you not be ad girl right now, and just be my sister? I’m freaking out as it is without stressing about the guarantee. Two days of trying to think of something to say to him, and all I’ve got is a migraine.

Kit sprayed her wrists and neck with her favorite designer perfume. My nose wrinkled, inhaling the smell of hyacinth, eucalyptus, and a faint tinge of dollar bills. Sometimes it was easy to forget I was the eldest sister. It wasn’t that Kit looked older than me; it was that she possessed a more mature vibe. One that told the world she would never be caught in her pajamas at three o’clock on a Wednesday, eating Nutella out of the jar with a spoon…

She made her way over to our modern black and white kitchen and performed the magic of coffee-making with an annoying amount of perk. I hoped making the coffee would distract her from asking the dreaded question I knew was on the tip of her tongue. You have the bookstore thing today, right?

No such luck. 

My chest inflated and concaved as I heaved out a sigh. Yes, I am dipping my toes in the ocean of public speaking, even though the thought makes me want to hurl.  

"You know, it’s not as bad as you think it is. I loved my time as an actress in high school. Kit beamed, pouring black liquid into two cups, and adding creamer to mine. I brought a depth to Sandy that Olivia Newton-John herself would call a miracle. If I wasn’t so good at my job, I would be famous by now."

As she mentioned her job, my eyes collided with the ID card swinging from around Kit’s neck—the one that told the world she was a big deal—and the familiar surge of sickening failure and doubt creeped in, the same way they did every day since I quit my job. 

"What if I made a mistake going out on my own? There’s not a huge market for freelance romantic advice columnists. At least at Liberty I had a following… and a wage."

Kit’s eyes softened. Lee, that sinking ship of a magazine was beneath you. You weren’t happy there. Your boss was a pig, and the whole environment was so overrun with testosterone, it was a pubic hair away from being a giant testicle.

I know, but—

Kit held up her hand, cutting me off. "You deserve better than that. I mean, sure, your office was really, really nice, the perks were great, and oh my god, the money… Wait, what was I saying?" 

I deserve better?

And don’t you forget it. Kit grinned, putting her perfectly straight teeth on show. Lee, nobody knows more about love than you.

Ironic, considering I was one set of granny panties away from becoming Bridget Jones, but she was right. The undergraduate degree I held in psychology and my staunch belief in love made me uniquely qualified to offer advice on romance and relationships. I was damn good at it, too! But going out on my own had a price that I wasn’t earning enough to cover.

I’m not getting enough traffic on the site to pay my half of the rent, I said as Kit slid my favorite elephant mug onto my desk, brimming with caffeine. It’s not fair of me to rely on you.

I have a solution for that, but you may not like it, she said, with a sly upturn of her lips.

My eyebrow lifted. What is it? I asked, bringing the rim of my coffee mug to my lips, and inhaling the deep scent of burnt, bean-roasted energy.

Kit squirmed under my stare and my nerves jolted, putting me on edge. I squinted my eyes. "Kit?"

The upturn of her mouth strained, forced into a smile against its will. Don’t worry about it. Go get ready for your appearance, and by the time you get home tonight, I will reveal all. And who knows? With any luck, you’ll be gaining fans as fast as I gained new purses in Italy last year.

I pouted, recalling the memories of succulent carbs and gelato, garlic, and pesto… and the fun I had, carefree in le strade di Roma once a year for the last decade. But not this year. I sighed. I should’ve gone to Italy one more time while I could afford it.

Mug in hand, I stood from my desk chair for the first time in almost ten hours. My legs wobbled under me, but I managed to stay upright long enough to walk off the pins and needles without them giving out.

I opted to use Kit’s bathroom, knowing using mine would require the strength to bypass my bed without crawling in it. I headed in the direction of her bedroom and through her open door; stopping for a moment to feel the squidge of her fluffy, white carpet between my toes, and marvel at how organized she was—and wasn’t—at the same time.

A neat freak by nature, Kit’s room was always spotless with nary a dust particle in the air. The white wooden surfaces of her desk and wardrobes were gleaming, the books on her shelf were arranged by color, and every item of clothing she owned—despite being housed in built-in wardrobes—lived in its own crease-free bag like private apartments. Her desktop, rarely used, was polished so much the screen shined, and the gray-painted walls were regularly washed down with a cloth and water spurted from the rose pink glass spray bottle that sat on her desk like a pretty ornament.

Nothing was out of place, which made it all the weirder how she left her comforter heaped in the middle of her unmade bed.

My spine tingled as I fidgeted on the spot, clamoring to make it. I almost did, stopped only by the realization of my hypocrisy. My room was a perpetual bombsite. Books collected dust in every nook and on every wooden shelf, paper notes, crinkled into tiny basketballs, were dunked in places even I couldn’t find, and heaps of makeup products were scattered on my vanity—despite having ample number of cases to pack it all into. And, to put the cherry on top of the sloppy cake, all shoes, sneakers, and hell, even my extremely-comfortable-despite-being-ugly-as-shit Crocs, were piled up in one messy mountain in the corner. I was as opposite of neat as a person could be, but Kit’s habit of kicking the sheets to one side and leaving them—shudder.

Forcing myself to move past it, I pushed the door to her bathroom open and flicked the light switch. The six spotlights beamed down on me, too bright for my delicate, sleepless eyes. I hissed, looking at the ground until they adapted. It took a few seconds before I could look up, and when I did, my mouth gaped, seeing the renovations Kit had made to the bathroom since moving in. Before Kit, the bathroom was plain and uninteresting. Now, the moss green tiles decorating the walls sparkled at me with subtle specks of glitter. The dark stone floors, partially covered with two plush bathmats were somehow warm as I made my way across them, and… her bathtub! I gasped.

The beautiful, freestanding ceramic tub with built-in jets stood proud in the middle of the room, flaunting its magnificence over the less attractive amenities. I was awash with jealousy, picturing my bathroom’s basic plastic tub. I itched to slide down into the ceramic haven and let the jets massage the kinks out of my back, but I didn’t have time. Instead, I headed for the shower, hoping a minute under ice-cold water would jolt my body awake.

Fiddling with the nozzles, I found the perfect pressure and braced myself. The tumbling water hit the base of her shower like hailstone hits the ground, so hard I expected the floor to dent. Before I could talk myself out of it, I stripped off and stepped under the cascade and suppressed a scream as the water stung my skin like mosquito bites, leaving welts of red in its wake.

As quick as I stepped in, I stepped out. My heart pounded and my adrenaline soared—spurred on by the sub-zero temperature of the water, but the thought of addressing a crowd made my body feel heavy and exhausted again. I sighed, grabbing a towel from the heated rack on the right, and moved in front of the mirror. On the left side of her double sink, Kit’s hair section: a shelf of products and styling tools all wrapped up so neatly, it was like an episode of The Home Edit swept through the place. I grasped a can of dry shampoo and popped the lid. Getting to work, I unleashed my hair from the tangled updo it had been in for two days. The tightness in my head relieved as my hair ran all the way down my body, tickling my skin, and landed an inch above my navel. It was long-overdue for a cut, but the thought of yet another thing in my life changing made me want to cling to every strand on my head.

Pressing down on the can, I sprayed until my hair looked almost freshly washed, and brushed it through, wincing at every knot—and there were a lot of them. I scraped my hands through my thick locks and held my hair in one hand, wrapping the hair tie on my opposite wrist around it three times. When I was sure it was tight enough, I sprang back upright and reveled in the dizzy feeling that accompanied the movement. The long ponytail was frizzy and messy, with finger-raked bumps in the front, but somehow, it looked better than it did when I took great care to make it perfect. I tamed the great Aslan.

I breathed out and stared at myself in the mirror. I frowned. The cold water did nothing to banish the bags underlining my eyes. With no other option, I got to work covering them with concealer and heavy amounts of gold and brown eyeshadow to take the focus off. Honestly, I wasn’t convinced any amount of make-up would help me. My skin took the form of an aggressive tomato, my eyebrows were overgrown crops on my face, and a bout of stress-acne claimed my chin as home. If only it paid rent.

Crackheads look more alert than I do, I muttered to my reflection.

I dropped my towel and looked down at my body. It wasn’t a model body, by Instagram’s standards, but it was pretty great if you asked me. In fact, it was pure luck I looked as good as I did with a diet of coffee, carbs, and nothing green. And a workout plan that said, "not today, but maybe tomorrow." (I even owned a T-shirt with those words to live by printed on it.) My stomach, semi-flat on the good days, couldn’t be called toned but nor would I want to be. I loved that my legs and butt jiggled when I moved, my thighs kissed when I walked, and my breasts—chef’s kiss.

My one insecurity: A love-hate relationship with the length of my legs—they looked amazing in skirts, shorts, and dresses, but in certain high-waisted jeans, I could cosplay as a trendy praying mantis.

I finished up with a touch of cherry lip gloss, careful not to smudge, and tinted my eyelashes with the black wax until they reached so high, they’d be sure to smear on my glasses.

Finished, I poked my head out of her bedroom door, surprised to find Kit still home. In the kitchen with her eyes glued to her phone screen, she took a deep breath and huffed. Why was she hanging around? She was usually the first in the office.

I’d have to be stealthy. Kit would have a bitch-fit if she saw my fully-made face. Using her bathroom was one thing but daring to touch her makeup… a death wish. Clear to run, I left her room and rushed to my own before she could chew my ass for using her products. I almost lost my balance on my way, but by the grace of God, stayed vertical long enough to make it into my room and shut my door before I landed with a slap on my hands and knees.

I pulled myself up on my bed, grazing the sheets as I went. So soft. So tempting.

Letting out a whimper, I headed for my closet—which was relatively bare since most of my everyday clothing lived on what I liked to call my floordrobe. Only the ‘need to impress’ outfits stayed on the hanger. I rifled through the selection, emerging with a black, knee-length tulle skirt, and a white, silk T-shirt. Elegant, but trendy.

Dropping the towel, I fished out some of my prettier undergarments—for the extra confidence boost—and got dressed. I tucked the shirt into my skirt and finished the look with a pastel pink blazer, and a pair of black, calf-high boots that laced up in the front. Very Carrie Bradshaw.

"Whoa! Kit exclaimed as I emerged from my room. You’re speaking to a few people in a bookstore, not walking the red carpet at Fashion Week." 

Is it too much? I fidgeted in the clothes. They were itching against my skin, almost as if they knew they didn’t belong on me anymore. The shirt was on sale. 

"I can’t tell. Do you feel overdressed?"

I thought about it. No. These people are coming to see me. I think I at least owe it to them to make an effort, right? I left out the part about how my outfit would most likely be the most impressive thing about the speech I was yet to write.

Then you’re good to go. Kit gave me the thumbs up. I’ll get you a car… She pulled up an app on her phone and pressed a couple of buttons. Six minutes out. 

Time was ticking on. By the time my car arrived, it would already be nine-thirty, leaving me only ten minutes to get to Minnie’s bookstore on 79 th and 5 th, which in rush hour was cutting it fine. 

Anxiety chomped at me as I envisioned being late to my first public appearance. I squirmed on the spot, unable to stay still, nausea swelling in my stomach. I was freaking out, which seemed as perfect a time as any for Kit to drop a bomb.

Dad called while you were in the shower.

My eyes widened. I stopped moving, my head whipping in her direction. "What does he want now?"

"Us. She scoffed, sucking her teeth. He’s determined to be the Kris Jenner of the talent agency world and, apparently, having two prominent daughters who won’t speak to him is bad for that image… He offered me a job."

I snorted. Of course, he did. I’d had three offers in a month, not including a snide bid to buy my blog, which I could only guess was my father’s attempt at derision, said with a condescending smirk. But no matter how desperate I got; Eric Dawson wasn’t even on the list of last resorts. I’d rather sell feet pics online. (Perhaps I should invest in a pedicure, just in case.) Was it at least good?

"I got a full verse of lots of money and my own department with a chorus of, ‘at least forsaking your fiancé would be worth something,’ which he’s not wrong about. Mark dumped me because I chose my job over him. I don’t regret it, but I’m busting my ass every day and I’m in the same position I was two years ago. Kit licked at her bottom lip, a nervous habit. Lee, I— Her phone chimed in her hand. Your car is here."

Eek. I grabbed my over-the-shoulder bag from the hook by the door and headed out, giving Kit one quick smile as I went. We can laugh about Dad’s delusion of us working for him ever again when I get home. Wish me luck! 

Iwas late by a couple minutes—not a good start to the morning.

From outside, the store looked quaint. A tiny hole in the wall I wouldn’t have noticed if my old assistant turned social media advisor, Jana, hadn’t sent me a photo of the entrance when she’d arrived. The door was down three little steps and looked more like a hobbit hole than a door. I opened it and it gave a loud ding that didn’t stop until I passed the threshold and let it close.

Once I got inside, the store’s Tardis-like charm surprised me. There wasn’t an enormous amount of space, but a lot more than I thought at first glance, and every inch was purposeful. The bookcases stood as high as the ceiling, pushed back to the walls, which created an open space for the shoppers to peruse and have a coffee at the café bar in the middle of the room. Between the cases, deep alcoves with comfortable beanbags and overhead lights, acting as multiple reading nooks. And, to the back of the store, a small stage where I assumed I would stand to give my talk. In front of it, an abundance of people muttering my name.

Gulp.

A small-ish, old woman with a stern look on her face stepped up to me and sighed. You’re late. I don’t take kindly to having my day delayed. Follow me.

Taken aback at her brash tone, I blinked twice before obeying her command and had to catch up with her bobbing head as her little legs moved faster than I expected. Minnie, I assumed, led me behind the till counter, through a black wooden door, and into what looked to be a stock room. Books were everywhere, stacked up in boxes, most of them unopened. My interest piqued at the thought of new releases, awaiting prying eyes. I tingled with the desire to rip into them and move into a nook full-time, but Minnie’s sour face as she caught me ogling told me to not bother asking. Continuing, she led me to the other end of the stock room where another door stood slightly ajar.

Minnie stopped, ushering me in front of her. I stopped, too, unsure what she wanted me to do.

The door sticks, she said, as though it should have been obvious. Unless you wish to see a frail old lady break a wrist tugging it open? Are you sadistic, dear?

My eyes widened. I— no, I said, and moved to pull it open. It squeaked against the floor. Sorry.

Minnie rolled her eyes and huffed. Stay here until I announce you out front.

Satisfied I’d arrived at my destination, she turned on her heel and moved back through the stock room, leaving me in the makeshift waiting area behind the stage.

The room had cream walls, a concrete floor, and stood completely bare; aside from a couple chairs and an espresso machine that had seen better days. I moved past it, holding my breath. Not one to pass up free coffee, it shocked me to find the smell made me sick. But then again, that could’ve been the noise of the crowd whooping as Minnie started her introduction speech making my stomach twirl. I swallowed hard and tried to keep the nausea at bay.

I was so lost in my nerves; I didn’t see Jana until her hand on my arm made me jump.

Oh good, you’re here, she said, relieved. I thought you’d bailed, and I wasn’t sure Minnie would let me out alive if you had. Her tone suggested she was joking, but the chips in her long, matte-black nails told me she’d been chomping at them with nerves.

I didn’t blame her for questioning me. I would have bailed if not for Jana. The effort she’d put into arranging the meet-and-greet made it impossible to leave her hanging. She’d used hashtags, geotags, Instagram Stories, Twitter ads, and she’d even capitalized on the irrational fear of missing out a lot of people seemed to have. The result: crowds of people… all there to see me.

Oh God.

Ready? Jana asked, her high cheekbones protruding through her skin as a smile widened on her blemish-free face. She brushed another finger through her pink side bang and straightened her glasses. Behind them, her crystal clear blue eyes shone with excitement. Lifting her phone camera, she pointed it at my face. I’m going to scan the crowd first. When the applause dies down, you flash them your dazzling smile and start your welcome speech, moving swiftly into the Q and A. Keep it brief, ten questions max before snapping a few pictures with fans. Then, we get the hell out of dodge before the mean-mouse, Minnie, kills us both. Got it?

Not giving me a chance to argue, Jana ushered me up three steps, through a black curtain, and pushed me out onto the stage. I froze, my legs refusing to move me to the podium. It took Jana ramming my body in front of the crowd for me to get where I needed to be.

I forced a smile as the crowd went wild, and Jana gave her a countdown with her fingers. Three. Two. One.

Action.

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I saw your date of the day as she ran past me in the hallway. My roommate, Stephanie, stood by my bedroom door massaging rose-scented moisturizer into her flawless dark skin. Her hair was magenta this month, tied on the top of her head in a tight braided knot. I always wondered how she didn’t suffer from headaches with her hair that high and tight. She smirked. I think she thought I was your girlfriend about to catch you in the act. She had that deer in headlights look.

They all think you’re my girlfriend, Steph. I laughed. Shaking my fresh-from-the-shower-and-soaking-wet head, I stood from my bed and pulled my favorite blue jeans over my legs. Stephanie threw me a fresh towel from the hallway closet that I caught with one hand. I rubbed at my hair until it dried to an unruly mess of brown, two shades darker than the tan skin I inherited from the man my mother had a torrid affair with on a vacation to Maui in her twenties. She was pretty though, right?

She narrowed her emerald eyes into a squint. "Are you asking if I thought she was pretty? Or did you drink so much whiskey you genuinely need to know?"

Ha. Funny. Is that for me? I pointed to the bottle of water tucked under her arm. I have serious cotton mouth.

Stephanie nodded, tossing it carelessly at me. It took my hungover reflexes a few seconds to kick-in and the bottle bounced off my chest before landing in my hand.

"Well?" I persisted.

She was beautiful, Steph admitted. Are you going to call this one back?

Why would I do that? I scoffed in disbelief as though she’d asked me to slap a nun in church on Sunday, and then spank the priest on my way out for added measure. It was a one-time thing. But I have her number if you want to take a shot? 

Oh, gee, thanks. She snorted. Not only do I not want your leftovers, buddy, but I’m with Cleo. You know that.

 My spine turned rigid. I shrugged, not wanting to get into another argument over Cleo Kilmer—or as I liked to call her, the lovechild of a Banshee and a Mongolian Death Worm, with the attitude of a high school mean girl.

Get ready, we’re late for work, I said, pulling a white dress shirt from where it hung in my wardrobe. Slipping it over my arms, I buttoned it up, sure to leave a little gap at the top for my own vanity. I had my eye on a girl in the coffee store around the corner from my office and hoped a little flash of the chest would get me a bed buddy cute enough to keep the nightmares away.

Steph’s lips tilted up and her arms crossed. You own the place. I think as your best friend and assistant, I’m allowed a few late days.

I almost snorted. Every day was a late day for Stephanie. 

"Whatever. I’m going in now. We have a ton of submissions to go over. One or two of them may even