Samuel Cooke knows most women wouldn’t give him a second glance even if he were the last man on earth. He’s the cripple with the crutches, the nerdy computer genius every female past puberty feels compelled to mother. So when he leaves his lucrative career to teach programming to high schoolers, romance definitely isn’t on his radar.
Perhaps that’s why Greta Cassamajor catches him off guard. The sarcastic gym coach with zero sense of humor is no beauty – not even on the inside. But an inexplicably kind act toward Samuel makes him realize she is interesting.
Samuel is certain she won’t accept his invitation to dinner – so when she does, he’s out of his depth. All he knows is that he’ll do whatever it takes to keep her as long as he can. Pretending he’s got his class under control? Easy. Being vulnerable enough to admit why he ditched his programming career for teaching? Um, no. That would require honesty. And if there’s one thing Samuel can’t live without, it’s the lies he tells himself.
In this poignant, witty debut, Ramsey Hootman upends traditional romance tropes to weave a charming tale of perseverance, trust, and slightly conditional love.
Totally digging Samuel’s Note!
Keep reading to see the full Love Note!
Greta:
I know what you’re thinking, but this is totally not a love letter.
I know you don’t celebrate Valentine’s Day, never have, never will, etc. Give me a little credit, okay? I’m not stupid enough to disobey a direct order. Well, mostly.
This is just a completely spontaneous note from a husband to his wife, because that’s the sort of thing husbands do after a whopping two-and-a-half years of marriage.
(Oh my God, Greta. It seems like a lifetime. Not, like, in a bad way. More like, I had no idea that it was humanly possible to be so happy for so long. I totally thought you’d have called it quits by now. But you haven’t, which means I’ve managed to make it this long without seriously screwing up. Congratulations to me!)
Back to this letter which I am totally not at all writing because I will feel like a complete douche if I don’t do anything for my wife on V-Day again. You want to know a secret? Sometimes, when we’re fighting—like, when I’m as pissed off as it’s possible to be—I get this urge to just, like, grab your face and kiss you as hard as I can. What we have, it just… I dunno, it breaks through everything else.
I was thinking (for no particular reason at all) about how much I love you. How absurdly simple and stupid that sounds. I love you. Yeah, duh, who wouldn’t fall head over heels for a badass chick who rides a motorcycle and coaches basketball? I mean… yeah.
Greta, you are everything. That’s probably emotionally unhealthy, to pin so much on another human being, but… it’s true. You are the center of my nerdy little world.
I kind of suck at this, don’t I. “This” being writing totally random letters that aren’t at all tied to any holiday whatsoever. Maybe I can do better in person. If I timed this right, you’re reading this as you’re packing up to leave school. As you head out to your car, I would also like to point out that the box of candy I left on your dash (oh shit, you park in the sun, I bet it melted didn’t it) is white and black and not at all red or heart-shaped. Nuts and chews are your favorite, right? It would be an awful waste to throw those in the garbage or, you know, at my face.
Especially since the only thing I’ve got to protect myself is this bedsheet. Which I am hiding under. Naked.
For, you know, no reason. I mean, maybe I was planning on taking a bath. Later.
But if, in the meantime, you were to come home and, say, remove certain articles of your own clothing? That might be something I would be interested. In doing. With you.
Yeah, I suck at this.
Please just come home and fuck me.
Mr. Cooke
Ramsey Hootman lives with her family in the San Francisco Bay Area. She loves hearing from readers via email (ramseyhootman@gmail.com) and is almost guaranteed to say “yes” if you ask her to do a Skype session with your library or book club.
