I check my phone for the seventeenth time as Eric Machado rambles on about his residency at Cedars-Sinai. It may be unforgivably rude, but despite the fact that this is a date, I'm not here to impress him.

No, instead, I'm waiting for my roommate and resident date-repellent, Kaiden, to emerge with an urgent call about being trapped on the fire escape or needing a ride to the hospital. It's been forty-five minutes into this date and he still hasn't come through. I tap my foot, fighting the urge to bite my French-manicured nails. The expensive atmosphere—complete with tiny portions of food that are inedible as well as impossible to understand, and menus without dollar signs next to the prices—and constantly circulating waiters offering wine refills don't set me at ease, either.

Eric Machado is just one in a long line of blind dates set up by my parents. My father is a world-renowned cardiac surgeon at Cornell Medical Centre, while my mother is an aesthetician in the same location. They both hoped I'd follow in their medical footsteps, and since I've declined in favour of, as they put it, "chasing celebrities around L.A. and writing about their sex lives," they're probably hoping that at least I can marry someone in their preferred industry. Unfortunately for everyone involved, I have no aspirations of becoming a doctor's wife or, at this stage in my life, becoming anyone's wife at all.

"And that's how I ended up taking out that guy's appendix, even though I wasn't even scheduled to be there," he says, finishing his story with what's supposed to be a winning smile if what he was winning is a prize for Most Boring Date Ever. "Anyways, enough about me and my work. You've been awfully quiet all night, Isla. Tell me about you."

"Me?" I drum my fingers on the table before picking up my wine glass and giving it what may be a too-aggressive swirl. Dots of red splatter across the white tablecloth and I see Eric wince. "What do you want to know?"

"What do you do?" he suggests, picking at his morsel of sea bass with pickled vegetables harvested by the light of the waxing moon. I'm not kidding, that's what the menu actually reads. "For fun, for money, in your free time?"

"I..." What would absolutely bore this man to tears? "I write a celebrity gossip blog by the name of I. Hart It. It's actually blown up a lot in the past months."

"Really?" He actually puts an elbow on the table and leans forward as if he's interested. "Tell me more."

Seriously?

"I also write a music review blog," I say. "It's not as popular, but I review all kinds of music. Pop, heavy metal, classical—"

"Did you cover anything good on your gossip blog? The Bachelor? Keeping Up With The Kardashians? Selling Sunset?"

Does this man... actually enjoy reality TV?

Am I going out with a man who watches reality TV for fun?

I have to watch those just to cover them for work, and even I can only sit through ten minutes of the brain-rotting catfights before I have to go scroll through Twitter for something at least one step above in terms of intellectual stimulation.

"I don't really watch TV," I say weakly. "I mostly just talk about pop stars or TikTokinfluencers."

"Oh." His shoulders sag under his too-baggy dinner jacket.

A moment of silence. I use it to mourn any last hope of this relationship, the last shred of excitement for this date going up in flames. My phone stays silent on my thigh under the table, absent of any texts from Kaiden telling me to come and help him save his cat who climbed up a palm tree or any other ridiculous excuse he comes up with.

How did my parents even meet? I'm sure they didn't fall in love over a blind date in an overpriced Los Angeles restaurant, looking at one another in the too-dim ambient lighting and trying to calculate how many times to check their phone was too many times. They didn't swipe endlessly through Tinder or Bumble or Hinge trying to find a man who could actually carry a conversation that had nothing to do with sex or partying. My parents fell in love in the Philippines, in the tiny beach town of ElNido, when they were both on vacation with their families.

They both lived in different parts of Palawan, but they would come to the island every summer on holiday, and their parents became friends. They grew up as the best of childhood friends, and eventually, they became something more. What they have is all that I want: a romantic love story. Not a distant relationship between two people who are shoved together by conniving parents or late-twenties desperation.

"So... what's your family like?" I say, feeling bad for being such an inattentive date. Sure, he's not the most interesting guy, but maybe we can learn to like each other. Or we can be friends or something. Maybe.

"I'm an only child," he says. "But I have cousins who are as close as siblings. My parents both come from big families, and they all moved to California around the same time, so the house was never empty growing up."

The smile that forms on my face feels genuine. "That sounds really fun."

"Yeah, and chaotic," he says, wearing a matching smile. His eyes are far away. "What about you?"

"All my parents' siblings stayed in the Philippines... they're the only ones who moved here out of their family. But I have a lot of siblings, so I never really felt like I was missing out. I grew up in New York, so we were all on top of each other. I shared a bunk bed with my little sister until I was sixteen, and we have two older brothers, too."

I miss them. Even my messy, loud, annoying brothers, Gabriel and Francisco, who used to tease me, tried to find my diary to read it, and ripped the heads off of my Barbies when we were growing up. I especially miss my little sister, Analyn, who's now twenty-two. I haven't seen any of them since I left New York five years ago.

"Wow, four kids in New York," he says, his eyebrows rising. "Your parents must have had—"

"Isla!"

A bell dings, but it's not a doorbell; it's the sharp, shrill ringing of a bicycle's bell. I turn around.

It's Kaiden Jones, shouting through the cracked-open window of one of Los Angeles's most expensive restaurants while straddling a tandem bike. He has the world's worst timing, which may be why he quit stand-up comedy to become a paparazzo.

"Do you know him?" Eric says, his grip tightening on his wine glass.

"I live with him" might not be the best response, but it's true.

"You live with him?" my date repeats.

Well, I look forward to him reporting this news to my parents.

Finishing my red wine, I eat the last scallop on my plate, fish out fifty dollars from my purse, and slide it across the table to him. "This has been really fun. Unfortunately, I'm being summoned away."

"I see," he says, blinking. Then, his eyes widen and he reaches for my hand. No. His hand is clammy. He smells like red wine and too much cologne. "Don't go."

I back up. "Uh, listen, Eric, you know this isn't going to work out, right?"

"No, Isla, please, listen to me." And then, before I have any idea what's happening, he drops to one knee and produces a ring box. "Isla Romero, will you marry me?"

My jaw hits the ground lower than his knee does. "This is our first date!"

"I know, and ever since I laid eyes on you, I've just felt such an instant connection to you. So Isla, please, won't you do me the honour of marrying me?"

I glance at the ring: three-carat diamond in a Tiffany-blue box. Any girl would wear it, love it, and become his wife. That's the problem.

There's not an ounce of personalization. This man doesn't even know my middle name.

"Isla!" Kaiden appears to be fighting the maitre'd, which I spot in the reflection from the mirrored wall at the back of the room. "Isla, we have to go! NaoyaSugawa is back in town and I don't want to have to fight the other paparazzo to take pictures of him when he leaves his hotel."

"Kaiden, I'm in the middle of something here." I toss the words over my shoulder. "Eric, you're a very nice guy and all, but listen, we can't get married. Everything we know about each other could fit in that ring box, and, as I said before, I actually have to go. So, thank you, I'm super flattered and all, but I have to say no."

Thankfully, Eric stands up. His dejected expression reminds me of a kicked puppy. "Is it because of your roommate?"

"Uh..." He can believe whatever he wants, but I'm not sure believing that I already have a boyfriend is going to soothe his ego. Then again, who am I to try to understand men? "Yes."

"I understand." He nods, and gathers my ten-dollar bills into a crisp stack before handing it to me and waving the waiter over. "Keep your money. I'll take care of this. You go be with the love of your life."

As I walk out of the restaurant, keeping my head high, the sad truth is, he's probably correct.

Writing is the love of my life, not Kaiden, even if it means I have to write fluff pieces about celebrities. And I wouldn't exchange this life I have right now, no matter how crazy it may be, for anything else.