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The Santillian Triplets

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The Belle and The Beard

From the desk of Jasper-Anne Cleary

If you find yourself publicly humiliated, out of work, and unemployable at 35—not to mention newly single—here’s how to salvage your life:

1. Run away. Seriously, there’s no shame in disappearing. Go to that rustic old cottage your aunt left you. Look out for the colony of bats and the leaky roof. Oh, and the barrel-chested neighbor with shoulders like the broad side of a barn. Definitely look out for him.

2. Stop wallowing and stay busy. It doesn’t matter whether you know how to bake or fix things around the house. Do it anyway. Dust off your southern hospitality and feed that burly, bearded neighbor some pecan pie.

3. Meet new people. Chat up the grumpy man-bear, pretend to be his girlfriend when his mother puts you two on the spot, agree to go as his date to a big family party. Don’t worry—it’s only temporary.

4. Cry it out. Screwing up your life entitles you to wine, broody-moody music, and uninterrupted sobbing. 

5. Get over it all by getting under someone. Count on your fake boyfriend to deliver some very real action between the sheets. 

6. Move on. The disappearing act, the cottage, the faux beau—none of it can last forever. 

From the desk of Linden Santillian

If a hell-in-heels campaign strategist moves in next door to you, here’s how to survive the invasion:

1. Do not engage. There is no good reason you should chop her wood, haul her boxes, or pick her apples. 

2. Do not accept gifts, especially not the homemade ones. Disconnect the doorbell, toss your phone over a bridge, hide in the basement if you must, but do not eat her pie. 

3. Do not introduce her to your friends and family. They’ll favor her over you and never let you forget it.

4. Do not intervene when she’s crying on the back porch. Ignore every desire to fix the entire world for her. By no means should you take her into your arms and memorize her peach-sweet curves. 

5. Do not take her to bed, even if it’s just to get her out of your system.

6. Do not, under any circumstances, fall in love with her.

Warning: This steamy starting over standalone includes a meet-burglary, an immortal cat, a biohazard of a banana bread, a meddling mother, fancy toast, and a temporary fling that starts feeling a little too permanent.

Boss in the Bedsheets

Mr. Santillian,

Despite the fact I’m currently living out of your guest room and sleeping with you most nights, I am writing to announce my resignation effective two weeks from today. 

In other words, I’ll locate someone who is both obscenely overqualified and willing to devote their days to the handful of tasks you are able to wrench from your perfectionist, micromanaging grip. It may be difficult to find a Nobel laureate genius looking for basic filing work on such short notice, but I’ll do my best. 

Don’t worry about your sister’s wedding this weekend. I still plan to attend as your date, assuming you’ve finished hating me by then. 

Thank you in advance for your understanding. 

Zelda

Ms. Besh, 

Resignation not accepted. 

I’ll see you at home. 

Ash

The Magnolia Chronicles

My mother’s New Year’s resolution for me was simple: make a serious effort at putting myself out there and dating again, and do it for one full year. 

Or until I fell in love. Whichever came first. 

How hard could one year of swipes and matches and awkward first dates be? 

In a word: bad

In nine words: bad and also hilarious, demoralizing, exhausting, and ridiculously amusing. 

But the only thing worse than dating in the era of hookup apps and unsolicited dick pics is the absolute whole-life-flail of falling in love.

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