Prologue

When I was in fifth grade, I got cast as the female lead in a school play. Yes, you guessed right… Romeo and Juliet.

At first, I was totally shellshocked. I kept wondering why I was picked because, at the time, I was fully rocking what can only be described as the Annie-from-the-80s-but-with-less-charm look. Frizzy hair that defied gravity, buck teeth that announced my presence before I even opened my mouth, and an overall aura of someone who had never met a hairbrush she liked. To the best of my knowledge, Juliet did not come with frizz or orthodontic ambition.

Still, I convinced myself this was my moment. My glow-up arc. My destiny. This could have been one of the silver linings of my life. If only my Romeo had not completely chickened out.

There was a kiss scene, of course, the scene every girl secretly dreams of. Lights dimmed, hearts pounding, stage magic and all that nonsense. I had been counting down to it with the enthusiasm of a kid who just discovered that chocolate exists.

And then it happened. I puckered my lips. Heart racing. Eyes closed. Ready to step into my leading-lady era.

He screamed. Not politely. Not quietly. He full-on screamed.

Then he ran. Right off the stage. Claiming that my “unfortunate appearance” reminded him of the Big Bad Wolf.

As if I was supposed to shapeshift into a swan mid-scene. As if he had not known exactly what he was signing up for when he auditioned. And to be fair, he was not exactly a Renaissance painting himself. His head was as huge as Thor’s butt. Picture that.

That moment marked the beginning of my tragic relationship with Romeos, or rather, the lack thereof. From then on, love and I reached a quiet understanding: it would appear, wreak havoc, and leave me emotionally naked on a metaphorical stage while everyone watched.

Still, I refused to give up. I genuinely believed I would become one of those windblown, utterly adored girls. The ones who get love letters, flowers, loyalty, and lifetime warranties on happiness.

For a short while, I actually had it all. Popularity. Designer clothes. A boy who absolutely loved me like his life depended on it.

And then poof.

Popularity, gone.

Friends ditched.

The boy, history.

The life I thought I had evaporated.

I still own a pair of Louboutins and an issue of A Lady’s Guide to Not Messing Up Twice. That counts for something, right?

My name is Annalise McDermott. And for the record, I am a nerd. A hopeless romantic. A person who believes in love even when it clearly hates me back. This is my playbook, a chronicle of terrible timing, questionable decisions, and the kind of love that shows up when you least expect it, usually right after you've sworn you’re never falling in love again.

So here is a little friendly advice: do not follow my advice. At least not until the very end.