After publishing our inaugural Cosmo Reads novel earlier this year, we have no plans to slow down: Get your TBRs ready for an absolutely stacked 2026 full of must-read releases, including a new romance by best-selling author Alissa DeRogatis. Her first book, Call It What You Want, was a breakout hit—and her second will have you falling in love with her writing all over again.
How to Find Love in the Cereal Aisle, which will be released on August 4, 2026, follows Ainsley Green, a romance author who decides to take finding love (for herself, this time) into her own hands. Her plan involves staging a series of meet-cutes, including (you guessed it) at the grocery store. What follows is wildly entertaining, poignantly heartfelt, and deeply relatable to anyone navigating dating in the 21st century. It’s an ultimately joyful, if not totally cheeky, meditation on what we can and can’t control when it comes to love and how sometimes the thing we’re looking for the hardest has been there all along.
Below is your official first look at How to Find Love in the Cereal Aisle, including a cover reveal and exclusive excerpt.
From the author of the smash hit Call It What You Want comes a fresh, charming romcom about the chaos of dating in your 20s, the ache of a brutal breakup, and the hilarious lengths one romance writer will go to get her spark back—including staging her own meet-cutes.
If you can’t write a good meet-cute, maybe you need to live one first…Ainsley Green writes happily-ever-afters for a rabid fan base of hopeless romantics. In real life? Her boyfriend just broke up with her, her editor wanted a new book yesterday and she’s starting to wonder if love actually exists beyond the pages of her favorite novels.
So when Lucas, Ainsley’s best friend and biggest cheerleader, insists the best cure for writer’s block is real-life inspiration, she’s ready to try anything. Enter: the meet-cute plan, a mission to take her head out of her heartbreak and force meet-cutes IRL to spark some new ideas. But as failed missions bumping into strangers at the airport and spilling coffee on men at the cafe result in nothing but embarrassment and stained clothing, Ainsley begins to wonder if maybe the romance she’s been chasing already has a leading man.
Because the truth about falling in love? It never goes according to plan.
Equal parts heartbreak, humor, and hope, How to Find Love in the Cereal Aisle is a fresh, flirty send up of dating in the modern age and a reminder that love finds us when we stop performing and start living.
And yes, we made sure you got everything you needed off your shopping list. Check out the gorgeous cover below!
Will Ainsley’s plan work? Or does life have other plans for the writer as she hopes to meet the love of her life? Check out the exclusive excerpt below to see how it all kicks off, then pre-order How to Find Love in the Cereal Aisle to find out what happens next!
Chapter 1
Now
“So I see you weren’t kidding about the breakup bob,” Ross, my publicist, says, jaw practically hitting the pavement.
I tug at the blunt ends of my new haircut, as if I can pull them back into the length I used to hide behind. “Is it really that bad?”
I never pictured myself with hair that doesn’t touch my shoulders, but I underestimated how much this breakup would affect me. In the salon, draped in that clingy black cape, I felt bold enough—or maybe just numb enough—to ask for a version of myself that my ex wouldn’t recognize. I watched in the oversized mirror, eyes tracing the harsh line of the bob, wondering if the stylist had snipped away more than just hair.
“No! I love it. I just didn’t think you had it in you,” Ross says, trying to reassure me.
We reach the entrance of the bookstore, where a chalkboard easel reads Meet romance author Ainsley Green tonight at 7 p.m.! in curly, whimsical handwriting.
“It was either this or bangs,” I say, catching my reflection in the glass. “Which do you think is worse?”
Ross doesn’t answer right away. His voice jumps half an octave when he finally does. “I mean…”
“Oh my god. It’s horrible, isn’t it?”
“No! Not horrible,” he insists. “The cut’s just very fresh. Give it a month to settle in. Lived-in bob energy, you know?”
He holds the door open and then continues. “Let’s make a pact. From now on no major decisions for three months postbreakup, for either of us. That means no impulsive haircuts, tattoos, or starting a podcast called something like Healing but Hot.”
I smirk as I step inside. “But I already have the cover art and a guest list of men who’ve wronged me! Starting with Cole.”
“I was really hoping we could go the entire night without mentioning that guy,” Ross says with a dramatic eye roll. His tone is light, but the edge in his voice is giving him away. He’s over it and not just for my sake.
We walk into the bookstore, and it smells nostalgic—the familiar mix of paperbacks and fresh coffee takes me back to all the Sundays I spent in places like this when I was younger. Quail Ridge Books has been a favorite of mine since I graduated college. For an indie bookstore, it’s surprisingly big. I like to think of it as Raleigh, North Carolina’s own version of The Strand. The walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with colorful spines, and the soft lighting against the dark wood makes the whole space feel even more intimate.
As we round the corner, I freeze mid-step. The rows of folding chairs aren’t just set up, they’re already nearly full. A sea of faces, some familiar, most not, all turned toward the tiny stage at the front.
They’re all here for me.
“Wow,” I whisper to Ross, my pulse quickening as my eyes dart around the room. “This is a much bigger crowd than I was expecting.”
He steps closer, a proud smile tugging at his lips. “You should be proud. This is an incredible turnout.”
I nod, but my throat feels tight.
This should be one of those once-in-a-lifetime moments. The kind I used to fantasize about while staying up to write well past midnight or refreshing Goodreads reviews like a maniac. But now that I’m here, I feel like I stepped into someone else’s life by mistake. The truth is that I’m barely holding it together. My relationship imploded. My friends took his side. I cut off a foot of hair in a moment of panic. And now I’m supposed to sit in front of a crowd and speak with confidence about something I no longer trust myself to believe in.
Who wants to hear from a romance author who doesn’t know how to make love last?
The version of me who wrote my first book felt sure of herself. She was hopeful, wide-eyed, and maybe a little naive, but she believed in what she was saying. She believed in love, in happy endings, in the idea that everything works out if you want it badly enough. But I don’t feel like her anymore. I feel like a shell of that girl.
I’m wearing her clothes, showing up to her events, smiling when I’m supposed to, but the certainty is gone. Most days I’m just trying to fake it until I make it. At home alone in my apartment, I can get away with that. But sitting in front of a room full of people pretending I still believe in all the things I used to? That feels impossible. And considering my current state, there’s a chance I’ll stumble over my words or freeze up when someone asks a question that I can’t fake my way through.
The sight of so many faces here for me is both thrilling and terrifying. What if I fall flat? What if I disappoint them?
Ross must sense that I’m spiraling because he places a hand on my shoulder. “Relax. You’ve got this. Mila’s waiting in the back. You can take a few minutes to breathe and chat with her before showtime.”
I follow him past the crowd, conscious of the curious glances that follow as we move through the store. My palms are damp, and I rub them against my cream-colored trousers. The sound of laughter and the soft rustle of pages fades as Ross opens a door marked Staff Only, revealing a small room with two mismatched armchairs and a vintage-looking round table.
“Ainsley, so good to finally meet you IRL! Happy pub day! I bet you must be on cloud nine.” Mila, my moderator for the night, greets me with a smile and a quick hug.
“You too! I think my body’s on cloud nine, but my brain’s somewhere between panic and blackout. Thanks again for doing this event with me.”
“Are you kidding me? When Ross reached out, I was thrilled. Funny how we both ended up in publishing after The Gist.” She’s referring to the fast-paced digital media outlet they both used to work for, a sort of Cosmo-meets-BuzzFeed place known for their listicles, think pieces and sex and dating advice. “Which reminds me, McAlpine sent me with advanced copies of my book for both of you.”
She hands us each a red hardcover, and I run my fingers over the raised title: Cheaper Than Therapy: A Guide to Flirting, Feelings, and Friendships in Your 20s.
Am I imagining the pitying expression on her face as I take the book, or does everyone truly think I’m so much of a disaster that I need self-help mantras to get me through? It’s fine. I’m fine! Totally fine. It’s not at all damning to receive this exact book on the day that my own personal crash-out tour kicks off. I flip it over to skim the synopsis, and the glossy finish catches the light from a nearby lamp, momentarily blinding me. Fitting.
Whether you’re navigating first dates, friend breakups, or figuring out who you are outside of a relationship, Cheaper Than Therapy is your go-to guide for surviving your twenties with your heart (mostly) intact.
Inside, you’ll find tips for how to flirt without spiraling, what to do when you’re the only single one in your friend group, and why healing doesn’t have to mean hiding. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll probably text your ex (don’t worry, we’ve got a chapter for that).
Take a deep breath. Trust the process. Find your people. And remember: You’re not alone in this.
Each sentence hits like it was personally written to make me unravel. Who knew that rock bottom came with assigned reading?
Tips for how to flirt without spiraling? Bold of this book to assume I’ve stopped spiraling in the first place. What to do when you’re the only single one in your friend group? Try losing your friend group to the breakup; then you don’t have to worry about it. And the phrase healing doesn’t have to mean hiding actually makes me want to scream. Healing does mean hiding! It means crying on your bathroom floor while your sad girl songs playlist echoes off the cold tile. It means DoorDashing food because you’re too lazy to go to the grocery store and then realizing you’re not hungry, wondering when the last time you ate was. It means wearing the same sweat suit until it starts to smell bad enough that even your dog won’t cuddle with you. Healing means doing whatever it takes to survive and in my case it’s all of the above.
It’s not that I’m not happy for Mila. Of course I am. It’s just that on a night when I’m barely convincing myself I still believe in the book I wrote, it’s hard not to feel like I’m wearing a giant T-shirt that says YES, I AM LOST AND SINGLE IN MY TWENTIES. THANKS!
“This couldn’t have come at a better time. I can’t wait to read it,” I say with a smile that feels just convincing enough.
“Two of my favorite girls doing big things,” Ross says before turning to me. “Do you wanna run through the questions one last time? And don’t forget, no tears. That guy doesn’t deserve them.”
That guy. That’s the second time tonight Ross has referred to Cole as that guy. It’s jarring, hearing someone I loved for so long be reduced to that. Like he was just a bad first date I never followed up with, or someone I ghosted after a few texts. Not the person I was building a life with. Not the person I imagined a future with. Not the person who ended it with a carefully rehearsed speech telling me that he had met someone else.
Ross wasn’t there for that part. The part where everything I thought I knew about love collapsed in under five minutes. The part where I realized I’d become background noise in my own relationship. I know he’s just trying to help, but tonight, it’s like we live on separate planets.
He’s only a few years older than me, but it feels like Ross has lived so much more life than I ever have. I guess a decade of dating in New York City will do that to you. I love his advice—blunt, snarky, borderline mean, but always, always right—but my favorite thing about him is his style. Absolutely no one comes close. Picture high fashion crashing into chic streetwear in a kaleidoscope of colors and bold prints, always styled with a funky pair of glasses.
He dresses not just for the day but for the role of the most interesting person in any room. I’d love to be able to pull off his outfits, but sticking to basics is more my speed. Tonight, I’m pushing my limits with a kelly green blazer that compliments the colorful cover of my book, but next to Ross, I still feel underdressed beside his short-sleeve cardigan, patterned trousers, and bold cherry-red loafers that look like they walked straight off a runway at Fashion Week.
“I’ll take another peek,” Mila jumps in, cutting off my train of thought. “Our FaceTime practice run clocked in right around thirty minutes, which gives us a good amount of breathing room and time for audience Q and A.”
“Yeah, one last look can’t hurt.” I agreed.
Before I can get even halfway through the questions, my phone buzzes—my mom’s calling. Mila and Ross tell me to take the call then leave so I have the room to myself.
I answer. “Hey, Mom, we’re about to start. Everything okay?”
“It’s Dad and me. Just wanted to say good luck! We’re so proud of you and can’t wait to hear all about it. My book club has been counting down the days until your Richmond signing!”
I feel my cheeks heat. Not just because the idea of my mom’s friends reading the spicier scenes is horrifying, but because I know exactly how far her book club will go. There’s nothing a middle-aged lady loves more than gossip, especially when it involves someone she “sort of” knows. And now they’ve all read the love story I wrote before my actual one imploded.
“Tell them hi for me, and maybe warn them to skip chapter nineteen,” I say with a laugh that comes out faker than I intended it to.
There’s a pause.
“You’ve got this, honey. We just wanted to check in,” she says gently. “Call us after?”
Before I can answer, from the background, I hear my dad shout, “Love you, peanut!”
“Love you too.”
They’ve been doing that a lot lately—calling more, checking in, reminding me that I’m loved. And I appreciate it. I really do. But there’s something about their concern that makes me feel like if I’m not careful, I’ll fall apart.
My parents have always been my biggest cheerleaders. They were the first, after Cole, to call me an author, even before I believed it myself. I grew up in a traditional home—Dad the breadwinner, Mom a kindergarten teacher. She’s the reason I majored in education and became an English teacher after college, even though writing was always the thing that lit me up most. See, when you’re eighteen and you tell people you want to be a writer, they look at you like you’ve said you want to join a cult. “Sure…” they’d say, and I could hear the laughter once I turned away. Teacher was a much easier path for folks to understand, me included, at least at first.
Now, I think about my parents reading this book, proudly telling everyone they know that their daughter writes love stories for a living, and I wonder if they’ll be able to tell I’m not so sure I believe in them anymore.
While my phone is in my hand, I click on Instagram to post a quick video to my story. By no means am I an influencer, just an author with a few thousand followers trying to promote her latest release. But still, I get a rush out of the interaction—the tiny bursts of validation, the readers in my DMs telling me how my words changed them. It feels performative and personal all at once. I tell myself it’s work, part of the job, but there’s no denying the thrill of people watching, liking, responding.
Pub day for authors is our most anticipated social media moment of the year (or years, depending on how often you publish). It’s our Super Bowl. So I need to keep the momentum going if I want to sell more books than I did with my debut. As soon as I hit post, I let my shoulders drop and take a deep breath, pretending that’s the end of it and that my worth isn’t tied to waiting for the view count to climb. I tap through the first few stories on my feed and then freeze when I see Cole’s profile picture lit up with that pinkish-orange ring. He never posts. Of course he chooses to now.
There’s this unspoken breakup playbook—one we all pretend not to follow but do anyway. First, you mute your ex so you don’t have to see their casual I’m newly single selfies. Then, suddenly you’re posting like it’s your job: curated candids, gym mirror pictures, a photo of a drink with a vague caption like can’t help but cheers or happiest hour. All of it designed to say, I’m obviously doing so much better without you. But then comes the unraveling. You swipe up on your own story, pretending not to care but obsessively checking the views until you’ve confirmed they’ve seen it. And even though you’ve muted them, you still check their profile religiously in hopes that they’re doing so much worse than you. I’ve seen it a hundred times in my twenties. I just didn’t expect it from Cole—the guy who used to call social media performative and refused to download TikTok.
My thumb hovers over his profile picture, heart pounding in the cramped room. I know better than to tap. I know now isn’t the time to look.
But I click it anyway.
It’s a video of his best friend, Tucker, about to make a serve in pickleball. The camera pans to show the whole court, full of the familiar faces from what used to be my friend group. Savannah and Grace in matching tennis skorts, laughing as they miss an easy return. Tucker and Drew are on the other side of the net taking the game way too seriously, as if they thought the girls would be any good.
My stomach knots so tightly it feels like it might cave in on itself. I watch the video again, and then a third time, before finally clicking out of it. It’s like I’m peering into a parallel universe where I don’t exist anymore. Everyone’s going on with their life as normal, as if they’ve erased me, and what’s worse is that they’re having a great time doing it. It’s like they don’t even miss me at all.
“Ready?” Ross asks, popping his head into the doorway.
“I guess so,” I reply, standing up. I straighten my blazer with a quick tug, smoothing down the fabric, hoping that I look much more composed than I feel.
I follow Ross back to the main area of the store, the sound of our footsteps echoing in the otherwise quiet space. As we wait for Mila to wave me over, I peek around the corner and spot my best friend, Lucas, in the front row. A rush of relief floods through me.
We met at a mandatory dorm meeting on the first day of college. We bonded over cheap beer, the air conditioner sputtering as we crammed ourselves onto a tiny uncomfortable futon. For the entirety of first semester our roommates “sexiled” us once a week, usually on random weeknights when we both had eight a.m. classes the next morning. I spent those nights in his roommate’s bed—his mattress pad was an inch thicker than mine, which I’d grown to appreciate—while Lucas was in his. We’d eat snacks, and watch bad movies, and eventually I became closer to him than my own roommate.
I was still clinging to a long-distance relationship with my high school boyfriend back then, the kind you try to make work just because it’s familiar. Lucas was the one who talked me through the breakup when it finally fell apart. Somewhere along the way, he started dating his girlfriend, Margo, so there was never that awkward should we try this? romantic negotiation between us. He’s been the calm in all of my chaos and the one who always shows up no matter what.
He catches my eye almost instantly. His tan skin is warm under the lights, his brown curls a little messier than usual. I spot the familiar pa’lante tattoo on his forearm. He got it for his mom as a reminder to keep going, no matter what. When he sees me, his whole face lights up. He throws me a thumbs-up, and just like that, the nerves start to ease.
Mila settles in, crossing her legs and picking up the small microphone resting on the table between our chairs. She smiles at the audience, her tone inviting and enthusiastic as she begins.
“Ainsley Green has quickly become a new voice in romance. You might know her from her debut novel, Where Do We Go Now?, but tonight we’re here to celebrate her latest release, The Lucky Ones. Please join me in welcoming Ainsley!”
The crowd claps as I walk out to join her. My heart swells, and for a moment, I forget about the breakup, the bob, and Cole’s Instagram story. I give a shy wave and take my seat beside Mila, who seems like she’s done this hundreds of times.
“Love your haircut!” a voice calls out from the back.
So much for forgetting about the bob, I guess.
“Thank you for saying that.” I manage a small laugh. “I’m not kidding when I say I’ve actually been having an identity crisis over it. So you have no idea what that means to me. And all of you being here, of course. It’s surreal, and I’m so excited that we get to spend the night together.”
Mila dives right into the questions. “The Lucky Ones is such a beautiful story about two nineteen-year-olds who meet and instantly fall in love. What inspired you to write this?”
I smile, glancing at the crowd. This was my favorite question—a softball that I knew I could hit out of the park. “The idea came from my parents’ most iconic story to tell—the story of how they met. I think I’ve heard it at least a few hundred times. They’ve been married for over thirty years, and my mom still swears it was fate that she and my dad reached for the same box of Lucky Charms at the grocery store that day.”
That’s the version I’ve been practicing in the mirror for the past few weeks. It’s simple, sweet, fated. But what I don’t say is how my dad made some cringey pun about being charmed to meet her (such a dad joke, by the way) and my mom rolled her eyes so hard she wanted to disappear. Or how she changed aisles just to avoid him, and he literally followed her to the dairy section, convinced he could win her over with a smile and a coupon for yogurt.
Whenever they tell the story, they talk over each other, both swearing that the other has it wrong. My mom always acts like she wasn’t impressed, but I’ve seen the way she softens when she thinks no one’s looking. And my dad always wiggles his eyebrows like of course he immediately won her over, hook, line, and sinker. It’s not just the story. It’s the way they still look at each other while telling it that made me believe that love can actually last.
“I wanted to write about the kind of love that doesn’t come from some big dramatic moment,” I say, returning to my practiced answer. “It’s not fireworks. Instead, it’s grocery store trips, inside jokes, and being there for each other when it matters.”
“What do your parents think about the book? Have they read it yet?” Mila asks, leaning in with curiosity.
“They have!” I reply. “I gave them an early copy, and my dad called me afterward and said, ‘You made me cry, peanut. I didn’t know books could do that.’ My mom’s entire book club is coming to my hometown signing in Virginia. It’s all they’ve been talking about for months.”
I’m feeling good, the answers are coming smoothly, and I can hardly even notice the Cole-and-friends betrayal knot still settled in my stomach. I can do this. Soon, the audience Q&A begins, and the first few questions start off easy.
“What’s your writing process?”
I smile and give the usual answer about outlining when I can and writing in short, concentrated bursts. (Binge Love Island. Panic at midnight when the guilt kicks in. Repeat.)
“Do you ever get writer’s block?”
I nod. “All the time.” (Currently, in fact.)
“Will there be a third book?”
I offer a tight smile. “I hope so.” (Does a love story have to have love in it? Asking for a friend.)
Each answer earns a laugh, and I find myself slipping into a comfortable flow until a younger woman in the middle row stands up, her voice clear and curious.
“Your novels read so personally. I know this one is based on your parents’ love story, but do you ever use your own experiences to pull emotion or inspiration for your writing?”
There it is. A variation of exactly what I was hoping to avoid.
My throat tightens. “Well, um,” I start, but my voice is shaky. “I think as writers, we pull from all aspects of our lives. Emotions and experiences shape all the stories we tell. So I guess you could say that—” I pause, feeling my cheeks burn. “That’s true to an extent.”
I can tell that answer doesn’t totally satisfy her because she doesn’t sit back down yet. Instead she asks a follow-up.
“Your first book was dedicated to someone named Cole, right? Would you ever write about your own love story?”
My stomach drops, and my silence lengthens. The crowd goes quiet. My mind couldn’t be louder.
Of course she remembers the dedication. How could she not? I made sure of it. I posted a dedication reveal a few months before the release, on our anniversary. The caption was something nauseating like this book wouldn’t exist without you. At the time it felt romantic, like the ultimate love letter, like I was cementing us in literary history. Now I can see how ridiculous it was. Who dedicates a whole novel to their boyfriend of two years? But when you’re that in love, there’s no talking sense into you. His name is printed in every single copy, a forever I thought I wanted but can’t undo, and that’s completely on me.
I fumble for words, any words, my hands gripping the arms of the chair. Do I tell them the truth? Don’t I owe them that? Or does telling them the truth just solidify the fact that I’m a fraud?
My eyes catch on Lucas. He gives a small nod like he knows exactly what I’m about to do and that I need to do it.
Before I can stop myself, the words fall out. “We broke up.”
Then they just keep coming.
“Yeah, so we broke up, and it was bad, and I don’t have the relationship anymore, or even the friends I thought came with it. I spent the last three nights ugly-crying over The Notebook and Gracie Abrams’s new album, but it’s fine. I’m fine. Or I know I will be, because isn’t everyone after a breakup? Eventually I mean.”
And because I don’t know when to quit, I keep going.
“Breakups are like, I don’t know, they’re like moving out of an apartment you thought you’d live in forever. You start realizing how much junk you accumulated, and suddenly you’re sitting on the floor with a half-empty box crying over a broken mug you didn’t even like that much. That’s what it feels like. And honestly, I thought I was handling it well until my Uber driver last weekend asked if I was okay, which means I’ve apparently reached the level of heartbreak where strangers feel compelled to intervene. So yeah. I guess that’s my love story.”
The room is dead silent. Not the polite waiting-for-an-answer kind of silence. This is more like a stunned car-crash silence. I blink at the crowd, cheeks burning. My hands grip the arms of the chair like they might hold me up.
That’s when Ross strides up to us, moving like he’s done this before. “All right, folks, let’s give Ainsley a quick breather,” he says smoothly, leading me away from the crowd.
Behind us, Mila seizes the mic like she’s been waiting for her moment. “And that, my friends, is exactly why my book is called Cheaper Than Therapy. Preorders are open now.” Her timing is flawless, her laugh contagious, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she sells more books than I do tonight, because what the fuck was that?
I thought I was at my lowest before, but I was wrong. This is it. Career, love life, dignity. All of it. Rock. Bottom.
Ross steers me down the hall, one hand on my elbow, like I might trip if he lets go. The back room is quiet, too quiet, and my stomach is still somewhere on that stage.
“Oh my god,” I whisper, pressing my palms over my face. “Tell me I didn’t actually say all of that out loud.”
Normally this is where Ross would make a joke—something about how it was good stand-up material, or asking if I can reenact the breakdown for TikTok. But instead he just crouches down so we’re at eye level and hands me a cold water bottle.
“You did,” he says. “But you’re okay. Just breathe for a second.”
“How am I supposed to fix it?” I ask.
“You don’t have to fix it,” he says. “You just have to finish it. Go sign their books. Let them see you. That’s all anyone wants.”
For a second, I just stare at him. My pulse is still racing, cheeks hot, mascara stinging the corners of my eyes. I want to argue with him and say that finishing isn’t enough because I’ve already ruined everything, but the words just sit in my throat.
Ross has never looked at me like this before. No smirk tugging at his mouth, no sarcasm in his voice. Instead, he’s got the kind of calm and steady patience that you offer to someone on the verge of breaking. And that’s how I know it’s bad. Because if Ross is handling me like I might shatter, then I must have really done it.
Then an even worse thought ricochets in my head: Was someone recording? Any second now, my word vomit could be clipped into a thirty-second TikTok captioned author meltdown, trending under #BookTokDrama. I can practically see my face on some gossip blog headline: Romance Author Confesses to Relationship Meltdown on Tour.
I want to crawl under the table, to rewind the last hour, to disappear entirely. But instead I nod, shaky, because he’s right—there’s nothing else I can do besides go out there and finish what I started.
By the time we step back out, Mila has the mic again, holding the room with ease while I try to remember how to breathe.
“Don’t even get me started on the Barbie movie discourse,” she says, earning a wave of laughter. “Half the internet wants to write their thesis on it; the other half still thinks Ken was the main character. I mean, he literally sang a song called “I’m Just Ken”—what are we doing here?”
The crowd laughs, and I feel the pressure lessen. Mila winks at me as Ross pulls out my chair. The applause that follows is soft and careful, but at least it’s there.
I sit, uncap my Sharpie, and try not to think about how many phones are angled in my direction. Every click, every glow of a screen feels like I’m one tap away from becoming the next viral meme.
The first woman in line steps forward, sliding her copy across the table. “For what it’s worth, I ugly-cry through The Notebook any time I get stood up by a Hinge date—which is way more often than I’d like to admit.”
My lips twitch into a small smile. “Good to know I’m in excellent company,” I say, signing my name across the title page.
By the time the signing is over, my cheeks ache from forcing smiles, and my marker is nearly dry. The people in line were kind, some even confessed their own heartbreaks, but it didn’t erase the weight of what happened onstage. If anything, their pity made it heavier.
When the last reader leaves and the bookstore finally goes quiet, I glance up and see Lucas. He’s leaning against a shelf stacked with thrillers, scrolling his phone like he hasn’t been waiting for me at all. After a night of nerve-racking and unfamiliar territory, seeing him is exactly what I need—it’s familiar and safe, like returning to a well-worn novel when you need to escape reality. When he notices me approaching, he shoves his phone into his jacket and breaks out into a smile.
“I considered getting you flowers, but champagne felt more on brand,” he says, grinning as he hands it to me.
“Oh yeah, this’ll be great to drown my sorrows in later,” I reply, giving the bottle a sarcastic little wave.
“It wasn’t that bad.”
I study his face. “You watched me crash out over my ex in front of a room full of strangers, and that’s your take?”
He shrugs. “You handled it. You were honest. That’s what people want, right?”
Maybe. But I can’t help but notice he hasn’t asked how I feel about it. He never wants to dig into the hard stuff. Instead, he’d rather keep things smooth and safe.
“Right,” I reply in a flat tone.
Before the silence stretches too long, Ross appears and jumps into the conversation. “There she is! My emotionally transparent, publicly unraveling author!” He grins, sweeping me into a hug that smells like cologne and judgment.
“Wow,” I say, shaking my head, but I can’t help laughing. Leave it to Ross to make my public breakdown sound like a brand strategy.
He leans back, eyes softer than his words. “Relax. I’ve been canvasing the room all night—hovering by the signing line, eavesdropping, even peeking over people’s shoulders to see what they were posting. And guess what? They weren’t dragging you. They were saying how relatable you were. That’s not a flop, Ains. That’s resonance.”
And then, like flipping a switch, his trademark wit returns. “Besides, vulnerability is trending. You were basically a Taylor Swift bridge with a book deal. Women are going to eat it up.”
Lucas lets out a laugh, but I can’t tell if it’s at me or with me.
Ross’s phone buzzes in his hand and he glances down, then back at me. “Okay, I’m heading back to the hotel. Early flight tomorrow morning. But seriously, Ainsley, even though it might not seem like it, tonight was a win. Be proud of yourself.”
He squeezes my shoulder, gives Lucas a smile, and disappears out the door like he’s never once second-guessed anything in his life. And just like that, it’s quiet again.
“You ready?” he asks.
I nod.
“By the way, the new hair suits you,” he adds, tugging at a strand as we step outside.
“Well, thanks,” I say, offering a small smile.
“That’s what I’m here for.”
The air is cooler than I expected, and the parking lot is mostly empty now, just scattered with a few leftover cars. We start walking slowly in the direction of our own without really talking. The silence between us isn’t awkward, exactly. Our banter’s always been easy and familiar. It reminds me why our friendship has lasted as long as it has.
“Thanks again for coming,” I say.
“Of course. You know I wouldn’t miss it.”
Even under the harsh glare of the overhead lights, he still somehow looks good. His curls, his easy smile, the scruff along his jaw. Meanwhile, I’m pretty sure the fluorescent lighting is doing my new bob zero favors.
“Everyone else did,” I remind him.
I stare down at the champagne bottle, my grip tightening around its neck. The lack of communication from the people I considered my best friends stings more than I want to admit.
“Margo’s looking forward to your signing in Boston,” he says. “So am I, as long as there’s no audience Q and A.”
I roll my eyes and nudge his arm. “Very funny. I haven’t seen her in forever. It’ll be nice.”
“Yeah. I’m sure she’ll tell you all about her new job.” He pauses. “So nothing from Cole? I mean, I didn’t expect much, but I figured he might at least congratulate you.”
A familiar ache tightens in my chest. “Nope. Nothing.”
“I’m sorry,” Lucas says, his tone softening. “For what it’s worth, I always thought you could do better than him.”
I know he means well, but the words land wrong.
You can do better. Has that ever actually made anyone feel better? It’s not a fix; it just makes things worse—like ditching a Band-Aid and twisting the wound open wider. He sucked anyway, so really, why are you still hurting? Honestly, it makes me feel even more self-conscious. Not just about the ending, but about the fact that I ever chose him to begin with.
I force a smile and nod as we pass a crumpled receipt stuck to the pavement. I’m suddenly very ready to be alone.
We reach our cars, say goodbye, and I promise to text when I get home.
When I finally slide into the driver’s seat, I set the champagne bottle on the passenger side and just sit there for a second, staring at the dashboard. Everyone keeps telling me how proud I should be, and I am, I think. But pride is hard to hold on to when you’re this distracted by heartbreak.
And the worst part is that I’m supposed to start my next book tomorrow.
Excerpted with permission of Cosmo Reads, an imprint of Sourcebooks, from HOW TO FIND LOVE IN THE CEREAL AISLE by Alissa DeRogatis. Alissa DeRogatis ℗ 2025 Sourcebooks, LLC. All rights reserved.
How to Find Love in the Cereal Aisle, by Alissa DeRogatis will be released on August 4, 2026 from Cosmo Reads. To preorder the book, click on the retailer of your choice:
AMAZON BARNES & NOBLE BOOKS-A-MILLION BOOKSHOP APPLE BOOKS KOBO LIBRO.FM TARGET WALMART HUDSON BOOKSELLERS GOOGLE PLAY
