Chapter 1: Ophelia

Chapter 1: Ophelia

These are the five things you should know about me.

One. My name is Ophelia Finnegan, and I was named after a character in Hamlet. I’m not a fan of Shakespeare, probably because his Ophelia falls in love, makes terrible decisions, goes crazy, and ultimately kills herself. Not exactly uplifting or inspiring. Thanks, Mom and Dad.

Two. I’m an accountant, but I don’t really want to be. The thing is, I’ve always been good at math and anything with numbers. I like my job well enough and I’m lucky to have it, but just because you’re good at something, doesn’t mean it’s your passion. On the other hand, numbers just make sense to me, and I find the hours spent lost in equations and spreadsheets oddly soothing.

My deepest desire is to write the next great romance novel. Unfortunately, all my life people have told me I can’t be right-brained and be creative at the same time. They say accounting is practical and smart, while romance novels are frivolous, and writing is a waste of time.

In some kind of bizarre rebellion, that only makes me want to write more. It seems fitting, considering my whole life I’ve never done what people expect of me, right from the moment of my unplanned conception, as my mother so often reminds me. Writing is therefore on-brand for me. Three years ago, I even went so far as to publish a short story about growing up as a misfit.

My best friend, Marley, loved the story. It was critically panned on Wattpad and in one scathing ClikClak video, and I haven’t been able to write more than a sentence since. So, I remain an accountant.

Thanks to COVID-19, I’m a stay-at-home accountant. My job is now permanently remote, so I’ve been working from my tiny one-bedroom apartment in Boston, which I rarely leave.

As a result of my limited human interaction, I’ve become a little addicted to social media. I’ve lost more hours on ClikClak than I want to admit. There’s something voyeuristic and satisfying about scrolling through strangers’ videos, and I can’t seem to look away.

In lieu of a real social life, I’ve spent the equivalent of weeks learning trendy dances that I dream of posting (but don’t). My draft folder is full of them, and that’s where they’ll stay. I’m not sure the world is ready for my dance moves. What I actually post are things that involve my cat, Sundance, who should probably have his own account.

Yikes. I just realized that my five-point list has strayed a bit. I promise I’ll stay on topic from here on out.

The third thing you should know about me is that I have an overwhelming fear of birds. Like seriously, if I see a sparrow I immediately assume it’s plotting my death. I have no real explanation for this fear, but it’s there. My adrenaline and cortisol rise the minute I hear the flapping of wings.

Best I can figure, it may be related to that one time a seagull stole my hot dog before pooping on me. I’ve considered getting therapy for my bird phobia, but there’s a lot more to unpack in my brain than just birds. It seems like a low priority.

Luckily, the pigeons in this city and I have come to an understanding. If they stay away from me, I won’t kick them in the head when I walk by. Let’s be clear, I’ve never actually kicked a pigeon, but if I had to, I would, in the interest of self-defense. So far, it’s worked for all parties involved, and I don’t have to pay for a therapist.

Number four: I’m a hopeless romantic. We’re talking candy hearts, bouquets of wildflowers, and all grand gestures that include, but aren’t limited to, Heath Ledger singing during Kat’s soccer practice, that little kid in Love Actually running through the airport to catch the girl he loves before she moves to America, Reese Witherspoon and Josh Lucas on the beach in the rain in Sweet Home Alabama, and drum roll please … John Cusack and his boom box in Say Anything. Yes, I know it’s an old movie, but it’s a classic for a reason. These are the love stories that fuel my dreams and feed my desire to find a love of my own.

I used to view writing as a way to merge the analytical and romantic sides of my brain, but since I can’t do that anymore, I’ve been focusing on immersing myself in a fictional world full of over-the-top yearning and forbidden romances. I get googly heart-eyes just thinking about it.

Sidenote: the heart-eye emoji is my favorite. I use it all the time, along with "XOXO" when I’m on social media. I picked it up from reading so many British romantic comedies. I’m obsessed with all things British. I’m looking at you, Colin Firth and Hugh Grant. Just not as you are now—how you were in the ’90s.

So "XOXO" it is.

As long as I don’t use it on a work email. Again.

This leads me to fact number five.

I can be pretty dumb, usually in the name of love. I have made a complete ass of myself in my quest to find that which poets write about. I’ve decided to call it research. I mean, how can I write the greatest romance novel ever written if I’ve never been in love myself?

Not that I don’t act that way at other times. As a kid, my parents would often tell me to stop being "so Ophelia." That was code for acting without thinking, having too much energy, and not following typical social conventions, like playing quietly and neatly. My grandmother used to tell me children should be seen and not heard. I always had trouble—a lot of trouble—with that one.

The first instance I can distinctly recall of my major social faux pas in the name of love was when I was in the fourth grade. I was writing my own life story as an American Girl, and I was sure I was destined to marry Bobby Daniels. So one day, I kissed him during recess. As a fifth grader, he was definitely not into my younger, nerdy, awkward self, so (with good reason) he pushed me into a mud puddle. I jumped up and kneed him in the ’nads. Fail number one.

My hussy-like behavior ended up with me in detention writing an apology letter. My face still burns with shame when I think about that. Not my finest moment.

I wish I could say it was a low point for me, but alas, it was only the beginning of dumbass decisions made because of a cute boy. I haven’t forced myself on someone or committed violence since then, so that’s good. Yet, I completely lack the knack for picking the right guy.

I’m thirty, and I still haven’t quite grasped the concept of choosing men who are even remotely interested in me.