Fiction Fanatic

By Guest Writer Lindsay Sledge

“For crying out loud, we’re in the middle of the hallway,” my friend snatched the open book out of my hands and snapped the cover closed. “You do realize what they call you, don’t you?”

I managed a casual shrug before my cheeks reddened. “I don’t think it’s that bad, actually.” 

“Read-ing Rain-bow?!” she enunciated each syllable with effort. “It is so lame.”

“You’re so lame,” I mimicked her middle school drawl, reaching for the yellow bound book she gripped beneath her purple nails.

She shook her head and permed curls swished above her shoulders. Then she leaned in closer. “Did you hear back from him?”

“Him who?” The sandwich I ate for lunch lurched inside my flared jeans with the reminder of the folded up piece of paper I found in my locker. I’d passed the note to my crush earlier that day, a question written in boldness and haste. Do you want to go out with me? Circle yes or no. 

She rolled her eyes, and I blew out a sigh. “He circled no,” I said, widening my own eyes just enough to communicate that this conversation was over.

“Oh,” she hesitated. The awkward silence was louder than the chatter of our classmates. 

“Well, I guess I’ll see you later then.” She shoved the book back and strode away.

“See you,” I mumbled, already prying open the pages. My broken heart was stuck in middle school, but my mind was free to escape to the mysterious town of River Heights, where Nancy Drew drove around in her blue Roadster with her boyfriend, Ned Nickerson. I tagged along in the backseat, willing their on-again, off-again romance to mask the pain of my first rejection. 

//

Seven years of paperback pining taught me to always be on the lookout for an unlikely match. I spotted mine in the common room of our college dorm playing pool with my friends, his dark brown eyes hidden behind unkempt hair and an unruly beard. “You know,” I said after cursory introductions, “Your face could really use a trim.”

He grabbed a cue stick from the corner and pivoted in my direction. With a hint of a smile, his fingers lifted to scratch his chin, “It could use a few more months, I think.” 

For the next semester, I lingered in the common room under the guise of improving my game of pool. He was witty and ridiculous, and my skin tingled beneath his stare. We exchanged banter and called shots, each interaction more enticing than the last. But as exams edged closer, I began to wonder if he’d ever commit. Was I living out my love story, or was this just another work of fiction?

Uncertainty replaced the tingling. Flirtations came to an end. “Either date me or don’t,” I demanded, taking the tone of the protagonists I’d always wanted to emulate. Then I sank the eight ball into a side pocket and left him to make the next play. 

During the following weeks, I was desperate for a distraction. I busied myself with textbooks and final exams. But as I prepared to close the chapter on my third year of college, a surprise knock sounded on my door before I could turn the page. 

I flipped the lock and twisted the handle, tilting my head at a familiar stranger. He stood on the threshold with a tentative grin. “I told you I needed a few more months,” he winked. 

My mouth flew open and delight filled my chest. He’d cut his hair short, and his face was clean shaven. “So,” he continued, placing two dozen daisies into my eager hands. “Will you be my girlfriend?” 

My own life became immeasurably more interesting after that day, leaving me less time—and inclination—to read. Three years of moonlight walks and make out sessions culminated in a mountaintop proposal with a guitar serenade. When he brushed a kiss across my lips beneath the spotlights at our wedding, I was certain I’d secured my happy ending.

//

Books taught me how to fall in love, but staying in love was not the same. Two weeks after the honeymoon, I stood in the center of our apartment with my hands on my hips, “I just feel like we’re missing something.” 

My husband furrowed his brow, but his voice remained steady. “Isn’t it a little early for this kind of a commitment?”

My eyes narrowed in incredulity. Color bloomed on my cheeks. “All I’m asking for is a fish!” 

The fish we picked out was a cranky blue betta who took up two gallons of space on our kitchen counter. But the familiar longing returned on our one-year anniversary. Soon a freckled-faced dog bounded through the apartment with unrelenting energy. The mania of his adolescence stifled my urge for subsequent additions.

But the lifespan of a fish is short, and a grown dog has fewer needs. “You know what is missing now?” I asked. This time my husband grinned. 

We packed our belongings and moved to a starter house in a decent school district. Five years later, our three children occupied every square inch. While motherhood sated my desire for a family, the endless responsibilities of parenthood created discontent in my marriage. 

A stack of books began to accumulate on my nightstand. Twenty years after middle school, I was ready to escape again.

//

“Does it count as cheating if the man doesn’t exist?” I speared a roasted potato onto my fork and peered across the table at my old college friend. We met for dinner once a month, though the topics of our conversations had changed over the years. While we once discussed classes and crushes, we now shared life updates and swooned over characters in the books we read. 

A crinkle appeared on the bridge of her nose as she sipped her tea and considered my question. “Let’s hope not,” she said, causing us both to burst into guilty giggles. 

“It’s not that I’m unhappy,” I continued, searching for the words to explain. But what was I looking for? What was so alluring about the fictional men in the novels I read? Why wasn’t I as captivated by my husband who was at home tucking our three kids into bed that very minute? 

Scenes from the romance books mingled with distant memories. The way his brown eyes lit with wonder when he opened the door for our first date. The tingles that shimmered along my arm when his fingers grazed my hand. The citrus scent of his shaving cream when he wrapped his arms around my waist. The curious curve of his mouth before he leaned in for a kiss. The wild flutter of my heartbeat when my lips pressed against his.

My friend cleared her throat, and I snapped out of my reverie. I blinked away the longing, “I just miss how we used to be.”

//

“Enough!” The anger in my voice splattered around the playroom walls. “Why are you always fighting?!” I pointed into the scowling faces of my kids.

I glanced at the clock, noting with annoyance the slow tick of the second hand. My husband had several minutes left of work, so I was on my own again.

“But Mom,” my oldest started. Then my middle kid cut him off. The boys toppled to the floor with kicks and punches and stumbled straight into my youngest. 

“Go to your calm down corners!” I growled through gritted teeth. They stomped in opposite directions and took cross-legged seats.

Hearing the commotion, my husband called up the stairs, “I need two more minutes, and then I’ll be up.” I rolled my eyes, bit back my retort, and threw myself on the couch.

His quiet footsteps on the carpet added to my fury. “I’ve got the kids for the next half hour,” he said, “Go to our bedroom, and I’ll see you at dinner.”

I stalked out of the playroom, huffed down the stairs, and slammed into the bedroom. I startled at the sight of the dimmed lights coming from candles arranged on the dresser and nightstands. My fists clenched at the thought of yet another need I would have to assuage. Then I noticed the book lying in the center of the bed.

Gratitude filled my heart, pushing against the overwhelm. I closed the door, settled onto the mattress, and lifted the book into my hands. A smile spread across my lips, relief radiating through my skin. Then I opened up the cover and fell into a faraway place. 

Words turned to sentences. Paragraphs turned to pages. I was safe amidst the fairy tale, a respite from the weariness and flaws of my everyday world. But when I closed the book at dinnertime, it wasn’t the fictional man I desired any more. It was the real man living in my house whom I loved most of all.

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This essay won third place in our annual Love After Babies writing contest—exclusively open to Exhale members. Learn more here.

Lindsay Sledge

lives in Music City with her college sweetheart and three charismatic kids. She spends half of her week in car lanes, disappearing into magical worlds of fantasy fiction and drafting essays about everyday life. Her essays have appeared in Coffee + Crumbs, Her View From Home, and Kindred Magazine, along with others. You can read more of her writing on Substack or Instagram.

Photo by

Jennifer Floyd

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