Chapter Text
Poppy Magazine
IN THIS ISSUE:
IF YOU EVER THINK YOU GOT IT WRONG — Are Second Chances the New Firsts?
MISE EN SCÈNE: — Five Ways to Set the Stage for Your Own Romance
HAUNT ME, THEN! — Why He's Still Under Your Skin
PLUS: HOW TO LOSE A GUY IN TEN DAYS...AGAIN! — Our writer tries the film's challenge IRL, but what if he's already the one who got away?
A Letter from the Editor
Welcome to our Rom Com Renaissance issue! This month, we're celebrating the genre that gave us love's formula and asking: what happens when real life doesn't follow the script?
Inside, you'll find our tribute to the films we adore and the love stories that don't end when the credits roll.
Bisous,
Celine DuPont
Editor-in-Chief, Poppy Magazine
Are You Ready for a Second-Chance Summer Romance?
Take POPPY's Quiz!
You're at your favorite bar with your best friend, and Liz Phair is playing (or maybe Sixpence and None the Richer) when you see HIM. He's beautiful, he's tall, he's…laughing. (When did he learn how to do that again?) You:
⬜ Immediately hide in the bathroom
⬜ Play it cool, flip your hair, pretend you didn't see him
⬜ March right up to him because you're a mature sophisticated adult now
☑️ Freeze completely while your body betrays you with a full-system malfunction
Belly chooses the fourth option. Or rather, the fourth option chooses her.
Her cocktail glass hovers somewhere between the table and her mouth when she spots him across the bar. Conrad Fisher, nine years older than when she last saw him and wearing black on black, leaning against the exposed brick of a dingy-chic bar like he was sculpted there.
[The bar is that perfect amount of crowded where you can still hear yourself think to reconsider bad decisions but not well enough to make good decisions. Norah Jones, actually, is crooning for you to come away with her. The lighting is all amber and buzz. This is the kind of bar where people fall back in love.]
Conrad has a black button-down rolled to his forearms, black slacks that fit like they were designed specifically to ruin Belly's life, and the same handsome face that's haunted every almost-relationship she's had since she was seventeen.
Taylor is mid-sentence about the new bartender's arms, but Belly has gone offline.
"B?" Taylor follows her gaze. "Oh my effing...Is that—"
"Don't." Belly's voice comes out a total wreck. "Don't say his name. If you don't say his name…maybe he's not real!"
"Oh. He's real, B. And he's—" Taylor's eyes go comically wide. "He's looking right at—"
"Don't look at him!"
"Uh, okay, well. He's looking at you. So."
Oh god, oh shit. He is. Conrad Fisher is looking at her.
His eyes widen—just slightly, just enough for her to catch it, just enough to know he's as blindsided as she is. Just enough to make her wonder if he's been thinking about her too, in the dark, in the spaces between his old life and his new one.
"We should go," Belly hisses to Taylor, eyes still locked on his across the room.
"Uh, no." Taylor whispers back. "You're not seventeen anymore, Belly. You're a hot, successful magazine columnist with an unrealistically fabulous rent-controlled apartment. You can handle seeing your ex, especially after a fresh blowout."
Then it doesn't matter anyway because he's moving toward her in slow motion (or maybe that's just her brain still buffering), weaving through the crowd like he's being pulled by an invisible thread. Like every romantic metaphor she's ever written.
Belly can't breathe. She can't think. She can only catch the stray details: the nervous energy in his shoulders, the cautious hope written across his face like he's afraid she'll disappear if he moves too fast.
And then he's there. Right there. Close enough to touch.
"Belly."
His voice hits her like a wave, a gentle one now. Like it comes easier to him maybe. He's taller than she remembered, or maybe she just forgot how much his presence is craved by her field of vision. His hair still falls into his eyes that same way. But there's something different too, something lighter in his shoulders, less shadow in his jaw. He's nervous. She can tell by the way his hand flexes at his side, like he wants to reach for her but can't quite convince himself it's allowed.
"Hi." She sounds almost normal, a small miracle. "Conrad."
"Hi." He's just standing there, one hand shoved in his pocket, looking at her with some impossible emotion in his eyes. "You look—"
"Different?" she cuts in, defensive. Afraid. Because she knows what she looks like. She knows her mascara is probably smudged and her hair is frizzing in the humidity and she's wearing the dress she wears when she wants to feel powerful but actually just feels exposed.
"Great," he finishes quietly. "You look really great, Belly."
Taylor makes a noise. Belly's face goes hot.
"Thanks," she manages, her voice doing this embarrassing high-pitched thing. "You too. I mean—you look, um…" She waves a hand. "Like you. Haha. You look like you. Which is. Great."
Belly, stop talking.
Conrad gives her a tentative smile, then glances over at— "Hey, Taylor. Long time no see."
"Conrad Fisher, as I live and breathe. Well." Taylor hikes her tiny purse up her shoulder. She slides off her stool, squeezes Belly's hand in what might be encouragement or might be a threat. "Goodbye!"
And then she's gone, swallowed by the crowd, and Belly and Conrad are alone.
Well. Alone in a crowded bar with indie rock bleeding through the speakers and more than a decade of summers between them.
When you think about your childhood crush, you:
⬜ Feel nothing. Ancient history! You've moved on. (Seriously…drop it.)
⬜ Remember the good parts through a hazy golden filter
⬜ Remember EVERYTHING in high-def surround sound
☑️ Actively suppress the memories because thinking about him makes your heart hurt
"Can I—" Conrad gestures to Taylor's abandoned seat. "Can I sit?"
"Yeah, sure." God, why does she sound like that? All sharp edges and angles when what she wants is to be soft with him, the way she used to be. The way she's never quite managed to be with anyone else.
He sits anyway, undeterred. Close enough that when he shifts, his knee brushes hers under the bar, and the contact sends electricity skittering up her spine, lighting up nerve endings she forgot existed. But she doesn't move away. She can't move away.
"There are so many things I want to say that I have no idea what to say," he admits, and the honesty in it nearly kills her. "I saw you and I just...I had to come over. Even though I probably shouldn't have. Even though you probably hate me."
"I don't hate you, Conrad."
"No?"
"No, I—" Fun fact: I've actually never stopped loving you! I've been carrying you around like a wound that won't heal. I've measured every man against the ghost of you at seventeen and they've all come up short. Very fun! "I just thought you were in California."
Your editor assigns you to write an article where you have to make a guy fall for you and then break up with you in the same ten days. The catch? The guy is your ex. You:
⬜ Quit your job immediately
⬜ Laugh nervously and say absolutely not
⬜ See it as an opportunity to prove you're completely over him, potentially seeking a bizarre form of closure and slight revenge in the process
☑️ Agree even though every part of you is screaming that this is a terrible idea
[This part hasn't happened yet. This will happen tomorrow morning at the 9 AM Poppy Magazine staff meeting, when her editor Celine will remove her sunglasses like a weapon being unsheathed, and the entire conference room will hold its breath.]
"Ladies. Benito." Her French accent will curl around the words like her smoke. "Our July issue is deadly boring. Seven Ways to Spice Up Your Summer Fling boring."
Anika will raise her hand. "Um? That's...my actual pitch."
"I know, darling. It's very thorough. Very well-researched. It's also putting me into a—comment dit-on?—a coma." Celine will tap her sunglasses against the conference table. "We need something bold for this issue. Rom-com tributes, yes? So it should be fun. It should be compelling. Something that captures the beautiful chaos of modern dating shaped by the delicious delusion of classic romance. The desperation of it all."
[The fluorescent lights will buzz. Someone's coffee will have gone cold. Belly will be thinking about Conrad's text from last night.]
Gemma will clear her throat. "I'm working on something inspired by When Harry Met Sally. When Sally Met Sally. And is the heteronormative "can men and women really be friends" trope finally over?"
"I love it. Next."
Taylor will jump in with something about 10 Things I Hate About You and dating apps. Benito will pitch a photo narrative about grand gestures in the age of minimalism. All of it will wash over Belly like white noise because she'll be staring at her phone under the table, at Conrad's message, at the little typing bubble that has appeared and disappeared six times this morning from his side of the thread.
Then Celine will flip through her notes, and Belly will hear her own name.
"How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, Isabel," Celine will say, and the room will shift. "Let's talk about it."
Belly's heart will stop. "Actually, I had a great idea for a 13 Going on 30 piece—nostalgia, arrested development, the fantasy of—"
"Non." Celine will lean forward, elbows on the table, fingers steepled. "You, ma chérie. How to Lose a Guy. You wanted me to push you out of your box? Consider yourself pushed. Ten days. One man. Make him fall for you while trying to drive him away. Document everything...the psychology, the manipulation, the feeling. But I want you to make it modern. Interesting. Real. Give me a twist, give it some teeth."
Belly will open her mouth and struggle to find words in it. "I—okay, but let me think on it, maybe workshop some ideas, find the right subject—"
"No, Isabel." Celine's eyes will gleam. "It has to be now. We go to print in three weeks. You should be able to think on your feet."
[This is the moment. This is where everything pivots. This is where Taylor, chaotically well-meaning Taylor, will lean forward.]
"What if," Taylor will say slowly, "it's someone she already knows? Like...an ex?"
Belly will kick her under the table. Hard. Taylor will not even flinch.
"An ex?" Celine will repeat, tasting the word. "Say more."
"Think about it—what if the guy is someone she has history with? Someone who knows her, who she knows. It makes it more emotionally complex. More layered. Better story. It should be a feature." She'll wink excitedly at Belly, who will be fuming.
Celine's interest will sharpen like a blade. "I'm listening."
"Taylor, I swear to god—"
"We actually ran into him last night! Total coincidence. They have this, like, whole epic past—childhood summers together, first love, total heartbreak, the works. It's like something out of a movie."
Belly will want to simply cease to exist.
"And you think he would agree to this?" Celine will ask.
"He doesn't have to know," Taylor will say sweetly, like she's suggesting brunch instead of emotional warfare. "That's the whole point of the movie, isn't it? She's secretly sabotaging while he's falling. The deception is the story. It stays anon."
"Absolutely not." Belly will stand so fast her chair will scrape against the floor, a horrible sound that will make everyone wince. "I am not doing this with Conrad."
"Conrad," Celine will repeat slowly, rolling the name around in her mouth like wine. Testing it. Tasting it. "Tell me about Conrad, Isabel. Did he break your heart?"
"It's more complicated—"
"It would feel good to write your own ending this time, no?"
"No, I don't need to—"
"Is he attractive?"
"That's not…relevant."
"Isabel."
Belly closes her eyes. Sees Conrad at eighteen, bleary-eyed and beautiful in the Cousins morning light. Sees Conrad last night, twenty-seven and still beautiful in a crowded dim bar.
"Yes," she whispers. "He's attractive. And he did break my heart."
"Wonderful. It's real. It's yours. And Isabel? For the love of god, don't actually fall back in love with him. That would ruin everything."
Complete this sentence: "The problem with first loves is..."
⬜ They set an unrealistic standard for everyone else
⬜ You never really get over them, you just get better at pretending
⬜ They're important, but not as important as lasts
☑️ All of the above
That will happen.
Right now, we're still at the bar.
"Yeah. I'm, uh…" Conrad runs a hand through his hair. "I'm working at Mount Sinai for a few months. Research fellowship. It's temporary, but—" He stops and looks at her. "I was thinking about extending it."
"That's, that's great," she says and knows she sounds frantic. "The research thing. Not the—I mean, yes, also the extending thing, if you want to, that's—well, it's a great city. Lots of people."
His mouth curves, his stare reaches out to caress her cheek. "Yeah, I'm noticing the people."
The way he says it makes her skin feel tight.
"So what about you?" he asks, leaning in slightly, and god, he's always done this, always leaned into her space like he can't help it, like gravity works differently between them. "Last I heard you were—" He stops himself and clears his throat. "Okay, sorry. I shouldn't...I don't want to be weird about the fact that I…might have kept tabs on you. A little bit. So I do know things already, through Steven and Laurel. Not in a creepy way. Just in a…concerned way? Like a friendly, concerned way."
Belly shifts in her seat, trying to leash her glee. "You kept tabs on me?"
"Yeah. I did. I'm sorry if that's—"
"I kept tabs on you a little bit too," she admits before she can stop herself. "So. We're even."
His eyes darken and he smiles. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
[Conrad's knee is still pressed against hers. Neither of them moves. Someone bumps into Belly's back, jostling her forward, and suddenly she's even closer to him.]
"So then you know I write for a magazine now," she says quickly, retreating into facts, into safety. "Poppy."
"Yeah, I do know. I read your column." He's looking at her like they're not in a crowded bar but somewhere private, somewhere sacred. "Every month. I have a subscription."
He what? "You what?"
"You're a really good writer, Belly. You always were. Remember those stories you used to write? The ones about the—"
"Please do not bring up my merman phase—"
"I was going to say the mystery series. With the detective." He's grinning now, full and genuine. "Those were so good."
"Ugh god, no, embarrassing! Those were just...total Nancy Drew rip-offs."
"Hey, Nancy Drew could never call her villain Mr. Asshole."
Belly bursts out laughing—she can't help it—and the sound surprises her. When was the last time she laughed like this? Easy and real and unguarded?
"I can't believe you remember that," she says softly.
"I remember everything." The words are quiet. Heavy. They land between them like a confession. "Belly, I—"
[The bar spins. Or maybe that's just her. The music swells—something dreamy and stretched out, all reverb and yearning—and Belly can feel her defenses crumbling, can feel herself leaning into him the way she always has, the way she's never been able to stop herself from leaning into him.]
"I—" Her voice breaks abruptly. "I have work tomorrow. Early. So I should go."
There's something on his face, disappointment wrapped in understanding wrapped in barely concealed panic. "Oh. Yeah, of course."
"Yeah. Sorry. It was nice to…"
"No, yeah, you too."
They stare at each other.
"Belly, would it be okay if I got your number?"
Belly thinks she's saying yes halfway through the sentence.
So they exchange numbers—or rather, Conrad pulls out his phone, and Belly's hands shake so badly typing in her digits that she has to do it twice. His fingers brush hers when he takes his phone back.
"I'll text you," he says.
"Okay."
"I mean it," he insists. "Not in a week or some other vague point in the future. Tonight, tomorrow. I mean it, Belly."
Her mouth is dry, her face is hot. "Okay."
Conrad smiles, small and uncertain. Then he rejoins his friends, and Belly's knees genuinely buckle.
"Holy shit," Taylor breathes, appearing again all of a sudden, a Steve Madden-clad fairy.
Belly's phone buzzes.
Unknown Number: It's Conrad. ☀️
Her heart stops. The secret message, the bittersweet memory of her young excited self buried in that seemingly harmless sun emoji sends a chill through her bones.
"I need another drink," Belly says faintly.
"Babe, I think you need a therapist," Taylor corrects. "Or an exorcism. Or maybe just a one night stand with that man immediately."
"Taylor—"
"I'm serious. Just like, consider a villain era, I beg you."
Belly glances back. Conrad is watching her over his beer. When their eyes met, he doesn't look away.
[They spill out onto the street, into the thick summer night. The city is alive around them—taxis honking, people laughing, the distant wail of a siren. But Belly barely notices.]
When he looks at you, you feel:
☑️ Nervous, like he can see too much
☑️ Seen in a way no one else has ever given you
☑️ Terrified that he'll notice you're still not over him
☑️ Like you're sixteen again, wild and soft and his
QUIZ RESULTS: You are…ISABEL CONKLIN! Conrad Fisher is watching you from across the bar as you leave it, not even pretending not to. In 12 hours, your editor will weaponize this moment. In 10 days, everything will be different.
Good luck!