As Seen on TV
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2022 by Meredith Schorr
Cover art and design by Libby VanderPloeg. Cover copyright © 2022 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Schorr, Meredith, author.
Title: As seen on TV / Meredith Schorr.
Description: First edition. | New York : Forever, 2022.
Identifiers: LCCN 2021053700 | ISBN 9781538754764 (trade paperback) | ISBN
9781538754733 (ebook)
Subjects: LCGFT: Novels.
Classification: LCC PS3619.C4543 A9 2022 | DDC 813/.6--dc23/eng/20211105
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021053700
ISBNs: 9781538754764 (trade paperback), 9781538754733 (ebook)
E3-20220502-NF-DA-ORI
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Acknowledgments
Discover More
About the Author
To my family, for always encouraging my vivid imagination, even when it dreamed up movie star sunglasses, a squeaky voice, and Mickey Mouse.
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Chapter One
The TV screen zoomed in on the face of a young Jennifer Hudson a moment after Carrie Bradshaw had asked why she moved to New York City.
“To fall in love.”
I groaned, even though I’d known the line was coming. “Mistake number one, Louise from St. Louis. But you’ll find out soon enough.”
From her spot on the couch, my mom looked over her shoulder with wide eyes. “You’re home early. How was it?”
I hung the denim jacket I hadn’t needed in the hallway closet. Mother Nature, in loud and clear opposition to the unofficial end of summer, had shown us who was boss with record-breaking ninety-degree temperatures, days after Labor Day. “My date stood me up. Maybe he fell off his Citi Bike and twisted his ankle, or perhaps he liquefied in the sun. Don’t know. Don’t care.” I hadn’t expected a first date with a guy I’d met on Hinge to lead to marriage, a committed relationship, or even a second date—at twenty-five years old, I’d been dating in New York City long enough to know better—but was showing up too much to ask?
Mom raised her glass of wine. “There’s an open bottle on the kitchen counter. You look like you need it.”
After pouring a glass of rosé, I sat beside her on our deep-blue velvet sofa in the apartment where we’d lived since I was four. I kicked off my sandals and wiggled my toes. “It’s hilarious how tourists paint this city as the romance capital of America when it is the worst. The worst.” I pointed at the screen. “Even Louise had to go back to her hometown to snag her man.”
Mom wiped a smudge from the glass surface of the coffee table. “I’m not sure I like how hard you’re being on our fair Manhattan, Squirt.”
I made a face. I’d asked her to stop calling me that when I reached puberty and decided it was disgusting, but my complaining had the opposite effect and sealed the nickname into eternal status.
“All of your big moments happened here,” she continued. “You learned to read and ride a bike. You became a woman. And I mean that in all of the important ways—you got your period, you lost your virginity, you had your bat mitzvah.”
“Not in that order.”
She huffed. “I should hope not. I’ll report myself to child services if you were already sexually active when you stood on the bimah at East End Temple and sang ‘Adon Olam’ to a room of tweens from PS 19.”
I snuggled into my mom’s side and took comfort in her familiar scent of Estée Lauder Beautiful. “No need to call ACS.”
“Relief. The blow-offs and false starts are all part of the adventure, Adi.”
My bad luck with men went as far back as sophomore year of high school, when I’d been catfished by a pimply thirteen-year-old pretending to be his hot eighteen-year-old cousin. I wanted off the ride.
I muted the TV. We’d both seen the first Sex and the City movie at least five times.
“How are you not jaded after all these years?” I asked. Mom had been mostly single since my dad died when I was three. She insisted she didn’t want to remarry, but I knew she sought something more reliable from a male companion than what she was getting on OkCupid and Plenty of Fish.
We’d always been close, but now that we were both single city girls, we had more in common than ever. Even our dating pool overlapped sometimes, despite our twenty-three-year age difference. Twentysomething men flocked to my seasoned but very well-maintained forty-eight-year-old mother as often as middle-aged men messaged me. It should have been weird, but it wasn’t. To clarify, men my age wanting to bang my mom was weird. Swapping dating sto
ries with her was not.
“Getting ghosted is nothing. Try losing your soulmate in a car crash at twenty-six.” Her cringe matched mine. “Never mind. Don’t try that.” She kissed the top of my head and pulled back. “Um, Adi. I hate to break it to you but—”
I shot up. “I smell. I know. I only had time for a five-minute shower after spin class to make it to the date that wasn’t. And it’s crazy humid.”
“You don’t smell. But you did have a Jolly Rancher stuck in your hair.”
“I had…” I touched my scalp. “What?”
She waved the hard candy in front of me—it was green apple—and stood to throw it out.
“Eww! Probably from some sticky child on the subway.” I shuddered and ran my fingers through my hair. What would I find next, a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup? “I’m done with this day. DONE.”
Mom returned to the couch and gave me an apologetic grin. “Sorry, Squirt,” she said, patting my leg.
“Tomorrow will be better.” I closed my eyes and breathed in positivity like I always urged in my cycling classes—inhale love, exhale stress. I’d have a good night’s sleep and start fresh in the morning.
Ping.
I opened my eyes, pulled my phone from my purse, and checked my Gmail. A second later, I wished I hadn’t.
Hi Adina,
Thanks for reaching out! Unfortunately, I didn’t get that WOW vibe over this pitch. I agree your role as a part-time barista could add a personal touch to a piece on a latte art competition, but the timing is off. Readers won’t care about a summer event in the fall. Feel free to nudge me about this after the New Year. In the meantime, please keep pitching. I’m a fan!
Derek
My shoulders dropped in disappointment. Derek was the editor of Tea, a weekly online pop-culture magazine where I’d interned while studying for my bachelor’s degree in journalism during college. It was mostly office work (coffee runs and filing), but I was also responsible for proofreading the editorial calendar and was sometimes allowed to tag along with writers out on a story. A full-time position hadn’t been available after graduation, and I quickly discovered that the chances of landing my dream job as a journalist for the entertainment, media, or lifestyle sections of the New York Times or New York Post without any prior publishing credits—or even with them—were about the same as a sixth grader’s.
“What is it?”
I gulped my wine. “Another oh-so-encouraging pass from DerDick.” She knew all about his particular brand of charm. He passed on all my freelance proposals, always concluding his rejections with a complimentary sentence about my writing skills and eagerly inviting me to keep pitching. But I was certain our history and my access to his direct email account was a gift that would eventually give as long as I kept at it. In fact, when he’d hired me to write Tea’s list column for a month, to cover for a staff writer on medical leave, I scored my first four professional bylines: “Ten books to read between seasons of Stranger Things”; “Five vegan recipes that have meat lovers screaming, ‘Yaaas!’”; “Twenty shopping trends Gen Z is bringing back”; and “Five best pet monitoring apps.” These credentials strengthened my portfolio, and updating my website and social media afterward had filled me with pride. My faith in Derek wasn’t entirely without justification, but it was wearing thin.
Mom mumbled, “Shit,” then frowned. “I’m sorry. Keep pitching. Persistence and patience, right?”
“I guess.” She was repeating what I’d always told her about trying to make a living as a lifestyle journalist. But it was getting harder to persist.
Hustling two jobs teaching spin classes and working the counter at a coffee shop while cold-pitching publications like Tea—not to mention the almost daily scouring of freelance sites like FlexJobs and ProBlogger for writing gigs—was exhausting. The competition in the city was merciless. When Sinatra said if you can make it in New York, you could make it anywhere, maybe he was really encouraging us to aim lower.
“I wonder sometimes…” I brought my wineglass to my mouth and emptied the contents.
“Am I supposed to complete the sentence? Are we playing that game now?”
I returned the glass to the table and looked at her. “New York City can be a lonely place. Sometimes I think we’d have been better off staying in Indiana.”
Mom scrunched her face, the faint wrinkles in her forehead becoming more pronounced. “How so?”
“Less competition for jobs, for one.” I could write lifestyle and entertainment features for the local paper—like the Stars Hollow Gazette from Gilmore Girls. I’d binge-watched the series on Netflix and loved it. Mother and daughter living in a storybook town, surrounded by eccentric neighbors? Yes, please.
“Not necessarily. With fewer people come fewer opportunities.”
I chewed my lip. “True.” I was fairly certain the Stars Hollow Gazette had a staff of five. “But I’ll bet the residents are friendlier and not as attached to their phones.” Although I was too young to remember the small town where I was born, I pictured bright blue skies, green grass, and trees—a lot of trees. I envisioned a town square buzzing with activity. I imagined being greeted by everyone who crossed our path like they knew us. Where neighbors weren’t just people who happened to live on the same street but people we could trust, who watched out for us like family.
“Doubtful. Small-town life is so dull. I’m sure everyone is glued to TMZ and MTV News all day.”
I mock-glared at her. “Do you have an answer for everything?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Try me.”
“Dating is probably less complicated. With a smaller population, word would get around about guys who stood up their dates or went MIA after a month. Who would take the risk of being labeled a flake?” A dating pool where men sought more from a connection than their own gratification or just passing the time, and where dick pics weren’t a thing, sounded heavenly.
“For one thing, love and sex are never simple. And for another, our pickings would be so slim, we’d run out of available men. You’d never have that problem here.”
“You met Dad in a small town!” They’d been high school sweethearts. “I’m not sure having unlimited options is a good thing.” I’d venture the single life in small towns was more about romantic walks and drinking cocoa than getting drunk and laid. Sex was great, but I’d bet it was even better in a relationship based on friendship, mutual respect, and attraction.
“Trust me, I’m your mother.” She stood and stretched her arms above her head, and it was like staring at a reflection of my future self. We shared the same light skin with a natural blush and faint dusting of freckles, and the same naturally wavy auburn hair, except the tips of mine were dyed hot pink and she had highlights to cover the gray. At five-foot-three, she was shorter than me by one inch, and we were both small-boned with almost nonexistent boobs. The only feature we didn’t have in common was our eye color. Hers were baby blue, and mine were a combination of brown and green with flecks of gold. I got those from my dad. “Moving you out of Nappanee twenty-one years ago was the best decision I ever made.”
After my dad died, she hadn’t wanted to be a burden on her folks, so when her well-connected best friend from college (my honorary Aunt Heather) found her a rent-stabilized apartment in Manhattan and a job with health insurance and a 401(k) at her father’s medical practice, she packed her bags and toddler and headed east. She was now a certified physician assistant and a proud New Yorker. “You can go anywhere in the world and recognize good pizza and bagels. The tap water here is amazing! And what about the ethnic and cultural diversity? You can’t find the same mix of world influences in small-town America.” She leaned down and tapped my nose. “Trust me,” she repeated. “You have no idea how lucky you are.”
She was correct. I didn’t. But I couldn’t find the words to express my increasing wanderlust for an environment so different from the one where I’d spent most of my life. Mom would say I watched too many Hallmark movies and romantic
ized small-town life. She wouldn’t be wrong.
My best friend Kate and I had a two-person book club where we read romance novels by Susan Elizabeth Phillips, Brenda Jackson, and Kristan Higgins, to name a few, set in quaint towns. And what began in high school as a once-a-year movie marathon in our pajamas branched into a yearlong tradition of monthly movie dates during Hallmark’s Winterfest, Countdown to Valentine’s Day, Spring Fling, June Weddings, Christmas in July, Summer Nights, Fall Harvest, and finally Countdown to Christmas.
After returning our empty glasses to the kitchen, Mom stood before me. “Heading to bed. You?”
“I’m going to stay out here for a bit. Not tired. Sweet dreams, Mom.”
“You too, Squirt. You working tomorrow?”
“Not until noon.” I had a shift at the café the next day. Living with my mom allowed me to save money, since she generously paid all the rent while I handled smaller expenses like utilities, internet, and our various streaming services. But I needed to stand on my own eventually.
I was trying to save, but it was slow going since spin instructors and coffee baristas didn’t exactly make a livable wage. I supplemented my income with freelance writing assignments. The experience was good for building my portfolio, but I worked best with external accountability. My dream was to secure a full-time journalist job, writing uplifting and engaging lifestyle stories, not submitting proposals to create dry content about household appliances. Additionally, many of the best freelance writing sites charged fees, took a portion of your earnings, or both. It was often counterproductive. Until I could catch my big break, I was grateful for rent-free living and a mother with whom I got along famously and who was in no rush to kick me out. This placed me at the back of the pack in terms of evolving into a full-fledged adult, but my time would come. Eventually.
Now, alone on the couch with sole custody of the remote, I switched the channel to a Million Dollar Listing New York marathon on Bravo. It would be easy to use the show as an escape in the same way I watched Hallmark movies—to engulf myself in a world so foreign to my own and play “what if.” But it wouldn’t serve my career or further my goal of financial independence. Instead, I kept the show on in the background while I checked my regular sites for new freelance-writing job postings. Monitoring these platforms took more time than I typically had, so my goal of submitting daily often dwindled to weekly. But you had to move fast, because open slots were snatched up quick.