Research: Romance

coffee

"It's unrealistic." Robin twists up his face, shaking his head as if the words I've scribbled down in my notebook are a crude representation of him personally. His eyes scan over them once more, as if to check how much they disappoint him before resolutely shaking his head again and taking a drink of his coffee.

Sighing, I fell back into the booth and ran my hands over my face. Desi sits beside me, offering support by rubbing my upper arm before giving it a reassuring squeeze. The smile I pass her is limp, barely masking the cry of frustration building in my throat. She sends a piercing glare at Robin out of solidarity, and it makes me feel a little better. We had been arguing over the love interest's character for hours now, and there wasn't a resolution in sight.

With the one-bed trope happening this weekend, we all decided it was better to co-mingle the coffee meet-cute and the monthly meeting all in one. That way we could round out the project and the first quarter of the book without interference or travel stress. Plus, there was a unanimous decision to let the romance world be unexplored for the day. For the first time in all our lives, we were a little burnt out on our days revolving around love stories.

Coffee and a swift dose of reality were in order. Something that exponentially continued to injure today's strategy meeting. 

I throw a pleading look at Henry, who shrugs at me, his latte cupped in one hand while the other holds up his chin. His head bounces against it when he speaks, "I'm with him. Why on earth would he fall in love with a dead girl? He's been a medium all this time, and she's the one ghost who gets him going?"

"Hairy," Desi groans, throwing her dirty napkin at him, "God, do you have to make everything repulsive? It's not sexual! He's in love with her soul not her body."

"Then it's unrealistic!" Henry argues, dramatically rolling his eyes. "Is she just mist from the neck down? What man falls in love without physical attraction?"

"Theoretically, one who is romantic!" I huff, pulling the notebook toward me and slamming it shut.

The four of us were split over the love interest's reasons for falling in love with Isabella. I intended them to be fated for each other, Desi argues that the romance is born out of quality time and that fate is too cliche, Henry continuously suggests it's because he's a secret necrophiliac and my book is a gothic novel in disguise (he's the most unhelpful), and Robin steadfastly refuses to accept any of these while not producing any theories of his own.

Aside from the argument about the book, Robin had been in a strange and sulky mood all morning. He was brusque over the phone, distant when he arrived, and now the grumpy and stubborn air he was carrying about seemed to linger over our table like a storm cloud. Currently, it was my parade he was specifically raining on.

Henry winces at the slam, and I huff at Robin who remains unmoved, "Fine, I will work on the physical aspect of their relationship. But I still think, while fate bringing them together may be unlikely,--"

"There's no such thing as fate." Robin cut in dryly, examining his hands twist a napkin. "Maybe he's just a self-interested ass looking to cure his boredom."

What is his problem?

"You know, what?" I grit my teeth, sucking in patient breath as a last resort. It does nothing to quail the tautness in my chest, and I snap, "I'm starting to think you two have that in common today."

He lifts his eyes from the napkin and watches me for a moment in surprise. That's when I see it flicker over his expression. Whatever has him in a bad mood isn't the book, but it is poignant, and it stings at him when my words land. Robin sits back against the booth, folding his arms over his chest and looking down at his lap. I wait, we all do, but he says nothing. Apparently, that was the only response I was going to get.