Love in Focus

by Lyla Lee

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

Delilah Green Doesn't Care meets The Bold Type in this sapphic rom-com where two exes reconnect and are given a second chance at love. 

When her boyfriend of seven years suddenly breaks up with her, relationship advice columnist Gemma Cho is convinced that real love doesn’t exist. As a bisexual woman who’s had zero luck with both men and women, she’s ready to give up on her own romantic prospects. That is, until she's paired up with world-renowned photographer Celeste Min on a potentially career-saving piece on modern love. 
 
Celeste is extremely talented and sexy, and would be the perfect collaborator and rebound for Gemma if it weren’t for one major fact: she’s Gemma’s ex, the one that broke her heart in college and moved to a whole other country before Gemma could even make sense of what went wrong between them. Heightened by the unmistakable sparks that still fly between them, Gemma and Celeste struggle to keep their relationship strictly professional. For the sake of her career, Gemma needs this piece to do well. And for the sake of what’s left of her beaten up hopeless romantic heart, she wants to fall head over heels for Celeste again. But can she trust Celeste to feel the same this time around?

Release date: May 27, 2025

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 352

Sample

True love doesn’t exist. Or, at least, I’m not sure if it exists for me.

I know that’s a grim statement coming from someone who writes for a romantic advice column. But I’m a realist. And I’m human, too. I’m not some wise, omniscient fairy godmother who doesn’t have her own fucked-up love life to worry about.

In college, I fell deeply in love with my roommate, Celeste. I didn’t even know I was bi until we met, and I loved her so much I was ready to come out to my very traditional Korean parents and possibly upend my entire life, just for her. But then the next year, Celeste not only dumped me through a text, but also moved back home to Seoul without any explanation whatsoever.

Then I met James, who I thought was the One. We dated seven years and got engaged. And even after all that, on one random, rainy day, he said he didn’t love me anymore.

The beauty of being bi, I learned, is that you can get rejected by both women and men.

I press my forehead to the cold surface of the Muni train window. The rain’s really coming down now, persistent and miserable. After living in sunny Southern California for the first twenty-two years of my life, I find San Francisco’s wet season to be unbearable. Seven years of living here, and I still hate the cold rain and fog, which makes it seem colder than the fifty something degrees it really is.

In college, people called the journey home after a hookup the “walk of shame.” Back then, getting caught doing the walk seemed like the worst thing ever, which, in hindsight, was pretty sad, because why should anyone be ashamed of having a sex life? But whatever shame I felt then is nothing compared to the utterly soul-crushing sense of failure I feel now on this train, on my way to crash on my friends’ couch at age twenty-nine with a cardboard box filled with my stuff.

Half of my friends are engaged or married, while most of the rest are in long, committed relationships. Some even already have kids. Sure, a few are single, but a lot of those friends are uncoupled by choice. Meanwhile, I thought I’d be married by next year. Instead, here I am, newly single and without even my own place to call home. A rogue car spinning off the track as the others race past.

When I tearfully asked for—no, demanded—an explanation, James just frowned and apologized, saying he was sorry he didn’t realize sooner he didn’t want to marry me. And then, in an almost fugue state, I gave him back my ring, dumped all my favorite clothes and belongings in a box, and left. Because I didn’t want to waste even another second with yet another person who clearly didn’t want to be with me.

The train slows down to let people off at the next stop, and I close my eyes and try to look on the bright side. At least we’re breaking up now, before we got married. I’ve heard enough horror stories through my relationship column to know it’s much better to separate while we’re engaged than to have to file for divorce later.

But as much as I try to be positive, when the train starts speeding up again, my thoughts spiral, and I think about how I don’t know what went wrong. One moment, James and I were happy and talking about wedding venues, and then the next, I was putting my things in a box.

Maybe there’s something wrong with me. Maybe I have a big MEANT TO BE FOREVER ALONE sign on my forehead that everyone can see except me. Whatever the reason, as much as I love love and made a whole career out of it, in my personal life, I give love my all, only for other people to decide they don’t want to be with me. Well, romantically at least.

In the realm of friendship, though, I’m thankfully blessed. When I texted my best friends, Val and Kiara, about what happened, they immediately offered to let me crash at their apartment.

Come on over, girl, Kiara had replied. There’s always space on Clementine for you.

Clementine is the name of Kiara’s atrociously orange sofa, the one she managed to acquire in college for only five dollars. The legend goes that she bought the couch as a joke but never had the heart to get rid of it afterward. I’ve sat on it whenever I came over, and it seemed comfy enough. And apparently people sleep on it all the time whenever they have guests from out of town, so hopefully it’ll be fine.

Thankfully, the rain stops by the time I get off the train and walk to the apartment with my box. The Inner Sunset, my friends’ neighborhood, is on the opposite side of the city from where I lived with James, but it’s still much closer than Irvine, in Southern California, where my parents are.

I’ve been to Kiara and Val’s place plenty of times before, enough to know where to turn and which hill to climb. But I’ve never been here at night. Compared to the perpetually loud streets and brightly lit high-rises of my old neighborhood, my friends’ street is dimly lit and quiet. Aside from the fleeting headlights of passing cars, the only sources of light are the streetlamps that dot the sidewalk and the occasionally uncovered windows of people’s homes. After living near the hustle and bustle of the Financial District and Chinatown, I find the sudden silence jarring.

“Hey!” Kiara waves at me from where she’s standing in the doorway to her building. She’s holding the door open, and light filters out from the hall, casting a warm, faint glow on her pink braids and brown skin. When she sees my face, her expression softens, and she approaches me with her arms outstretched.

“Come here, baby,” she says.

Tears erupt from the corners of my eyes as we hug. During the train ride, I naively thought I was done crying. But now that I’m in the refuge of Kiara’s arms, uncontrollable sobs rack my body. Waves of grief hit me one after another, each one leaving me emptier than the last.

“You’re okay,” Kiara says, gently patting my back. “Good riddance to him! He’s a complete mess. I still can’t believe he couldn’t even give you a straight answer for why he’s breaking up with you.”

Val steps forward from behind Kiara to join our group hug. A direct contrast to Kiara’s cute white blouse and pink skirt, Val’s in a black turtleneck, khaki pants, and combat boots that, along with her fade haircut, make her look like she’s about to report to basic training. They can’t be more different, and yet they give off the same loving energy, incredibly in sync with each other in a way that only the luckiest couples are.

“You’re all right, kid,” Val says. “James was only dragging you down. There are lots of other men and women out there for you. Or even nonbinary folk! The world is your oyster.”

I know her well enough to get that she’s channeling her suburban white stepdad, Bill, to try to make me laugh. It’s a bit she likes to do sometimes, since the phrases he commonly uses sound ridiculous coming from a petite, Mexican butch like her. And I’d be cackling, too, if I didn’t feel so hollowed out inside.

Kiara pulls away and says, “Okay, so… we should go back inside before our neighbor throws a shoe at us.”

I blink away tears. “Is that a real problem you guys have had?”

“Yeah… they hate us. Not everyone appreciates our spontaneous EDM parties.”

“Why pay to rave when you can have a rave for free at home?” Val adds with a shrug. “Besides, I like not having to leave the apartment or deal with lots of people.”

A small laugh finally escapes my mouth. Even though Kiara and Val are very different, they’re still two peas in the same chaotic, but good, pod.

Val grabs one side of my box and tries to lift it up. “Geez!” she hisses. “How did you bring this heavy thing across the city? And walk up and down the hills?”

Kiara grabs the other side, while I hold the middle.

I shrug. “Just pure stubbornness I guess.”

“Well, you don’t have to go through everything alone anymore,” Kiara says. “You’re stuck with us now. For better or worse.”

Quietly laughing, we carry the box up the stairs.

The first Monday after the breakup is even more excruciating than I thought it would be. For the most part, I love working for Horizon Magazine, one of the only surviving regional magazines in the San Francisco Bay Area, but even that feels like a big middle finger from life when I run into James on the elevator.

Yes, my ex is also my coworker. And yes, I’ve read the million think pieces about how you should never date someone from work. I’ve written some of them.

But in my defense, I met James in college during my senior year, so it’s not like we started out as an office romance. Since we were two job-searching seniors, we dated casually at first. After what happened with Celeste, I was in no rush to get into another relationship. But when we were both hired by the same magazine fresh out of college, it seemed like destiny. And things got serious fast, especially after James’s very well-off parents bought us a condo in San Francisco and we moved in together, four months after we met.

In retrospect, what James and I did was ill-advised. But back then, everything was so fun and exciting. We spent most of our twenties exploring every inch of the Bay Area together when we weren’t at work, sometimes even for work, since I had to constantly visit new places for my articles. A good chunk of the memories I made since moving to the area, like eating clam chowder for the first time at Fisherman’s Wharf or renting a convertible to drive down to Santa Cruz, were with James.

But today, James gets on the elevator, not even saying hi or otherwise acknowledging that I exist. It’s so obvious from his unnaturally stiff posture that he’s actively trying to avoid eye contact with me as we make our way up to where our office is on the fifth floor.

While he stares at the elevator buttons like it’s his first time seeing them, I scrutinize his face, searching for red eyes, new wrinkle lines, or any other telltale sign that he’s as fucked up about our breakup as I am. Or some clue as to why he decided to call off our engagement in the first place.

But every brown curl on his head is perfectly tousled, and his blue eyes look sharper than ever. If anything, he looks more well rested than usual. Son of a bitch.

By the time the elevator doors open again and we walk to our respective desks, I’m channeling my inner Lady Gaga. Your career will never wake up and tell you it doesn’t love you anymore. Your career will never wake up… I repeat the mantra over and over in my head. Forget James. Forget everyone. I don’t need to be in a relationship to win at life. In fact, historically, romantic relationships have only brought me down.

Single, powerful, beautiful. I repeat another mantra I once came up with for a newly divorced woman who asked for advice on the column. I’m single, powerful, and beautiful.

Pushing away all thoughts of James from my head, I focus on work until my lunch break.

My favorite time of the workday is lunch, since it was the only time my friends and I could regularly see each other during the week before I started living with them. With only twenty employees, Horizon is a pretty small magazine owned by Citrine, a larger, out-of-state parent company. But Val works in IT and Kiara in design, and our jobs keep us all busy. If it weren’t for the icebreakers at a company-wide mixer seven years ago where we discovered we were obsessed with the same music artists, we might never have become friends in the first place.

“How are you holding up?” Kiara asks when we meet in front of the café on the first floor. Since Kiara and Val had to run some errands on their way to work this morning, we barely had time to say “hi” before they left.

“Well, I had an awkward run-in with James at the elevator,” I reply. “He pretended I was invisible.”

Kiara and Val groan.

“Maybe we could get him fired,” Val jokes. “Want me to log in to his computer and see if he’s been watching porn during work hours?”

Kiara giggles. “Oh God, I hope he hasn’t.”

“Same,” I say. I don’t think James would watch porn at work. But this past weekend taught me I don’t know anything about him.

How can someone randomly decide they don’t love you after seven years? Just like that?

A fresh burst of pain hits my chest, and for a split second, it’s hard for me to breathe. If James and I fought a lot or if there was any noticeable tension between us, I might have been less blindsided. But besides a couple of minor disagreements here and there, which we quickly resolved with a joke or a laugh, I can’t remember if we ever actually fought. Maybe that had been our problem, in the end. After all, some conflict is healthy. But I never thought that deeply about James’s and my lack of conflict until the sudden death of our relationship.

I need a distraction. Fast. Hoping they won’t notice the tears forming in the corners of my eyes, I steer my friends toward the line for food.

“I’m starving,” I say. “Let’s go eat. Can we talk about something other than James?”

Kiara’s face pinches, like she can tell I’m not okay but she’s trying her best not to say anything.

“Yup, sure thing,” she says as we get in line. “Have you heard from Evelyn about the new project we’re doing for Valentine’s Day yet? The ‘Modern Love in Focus’ one? The freelance photographer they hired is so hot! I heard you’re attached to conduct the interviews and write the text.”

I’m always so deeply buried in emails on Mondays that I’m not surprised I haven’t even heard of this project yet. But it sounds like the kind of ambitious work that Evelyn, our executive editor, would sign me up for. She’s always been pushing me to do bigger and better things every year, even though I’m mostly content just writing local lifestyle stories and contributing to Dear Karl, Horizon’s romantic advice column that’s named after the San Francisco fog.

Information about the project is probably in my inbox somewhere. I’ll have to get to it after lunch.

“That sounds cool!” I say. “I haven’t read that email yet. Do you remember the name of the photographer?”

“I forgot her name, and I don’t think I’m supposed to share it anyway because she’s not one hundred percent confirmed yet,” Kiara says sheepishly. “But I remember seeing from her bio that she went to UCLA like you. And like I said, she’s pretty. She looks like a model herself!”

I frown. My college ex, Celeste, was a photographer, but so were countless other women who went to my alma mater. I shake my head, like doing so will get rid of my thoughts of her.

Val raises her eyebrows. “Man, the way you’re talking about her, I guess I should consider myself lucky that you’re not into other femmes.”

Kiara giggles, giving Val’s arm a squeeze. “Oh, stop! And even if I were into both femmes and mascs, you know you’re irreplaceable to me. There’s no one else in the entire universe I’d rather date than you.”

“I’m kidding,” Val says, giving her a peck on the cheek. “Same here.”

Suddenly feeling very painfully single, I stare up at the overhead menu.

Since I’m not in my early twenties anymore, I usually try to choose the healthier options, like the salads or veggie wraps. But today, I’m famished. And I need a little pick-me-up. My stomach is already growling from the rich smells of sweetly marinated beef permeating the air, so I decide on the Texas barbecue sandwich.

“Didn’t you say you dated a photographer in college once?” Val suddenly asks me then. “Your ‘the one who got away’?”

Kiara gasps. “Ooh, yeah! The roommate who made you realize you’re not straight, right?”

“Yup,” I reply with a sigh. “But it’s probably not her. She broke up with me and moved back to Seoul during the winter break of our senior year without telling me why.”

“Damn,” says Val. “How long were you guys together?”

“A little over a year,” I reply. “From fall quarter of junior year to the winter break of senior.”

I’ve tried my best to talk about Celeste very minimally with my friends over the last several years, since (1) it’s painful, and (2) I could pretty much predict what they’d say about her. So I’m not surprised when Val replies with, “A little over a year… during college? Wow, you two were basically engaged, then! As far as sapphics go, anyway.”

I sigh. “Yeah. We had all these plans of what we were going to do after graduation. And then she just… disappeared one day.”

Kiara grasps my arm, a pitying look on her face.

I turn away, refocusing on the menu. “Anyway, our school has one of the best photography programs in the country, and I’m sure a lot of alumni stay in state afterward, so it could be anyone, really.”

“For your sake, I hope the photographer they hired is gay,” Val remarks. “Like, even if she’s not your ex. You deserve a sexy rebound.”

I snort. “I’m not looking to date anyone anytime soon.” The guy in front of me finishes ordering, so I add, “Right now, the only hot thing making my heart flutter is a smoky barbecue sandwich.”

Kiara and Val laugh, and I wink at them before placing an order for the true love of my life.

My resolve to stay single and focus on myself lasts for two weeks, until I walk in on James making out with one of my coworkers in the printer room.

She’s mostly covered by him, but even so, I recognize Daphne Smith right away because, with her five-foot-eight height and long golden locks, she’s a total Greek goddess of a human being who looks like she could be on Bachelor in Paradise. James has her pushed up against the far side wall, in a corner that’s out of the overhead security camera’s field of view, a fact I know because James and I have made out before in that very spot.

My stomach drops, and I freeze from the sheer shock of it all. The three of us are alone in the small space, and James and Daphne would have totally noticed me walking in if they hadn’t been so disgustingly all over each other. Thankfully, they both still have their clothes on, but from the noises they’re making, they may as well be naked. Sultry moans escape from Daphne’s mouth, while James sounds like a cross between a caveman and a porn star.

I try to remember if he always sounded like that. If he did, I must have gotten used to it in my seven years of dating him. Suddenly, I feel very, very sorry for Past Gemma. And not only because she just walked in on her ex.

Belatedly, I turn around, deciding to get the papers I printed later. But before I can leave the room, the door opens, revealing Shane, one of my other coworkers.

Fuck.

Three things happen, in quick succession.

“Oh hey, Gemma,” Shane says. “Is the printer jammed—”

James yells, “Shit!”

“Oh God!” Shane cries out, covering his eyes.

James and Daphne jump apart, and I mentally scream.

“What the fuck, Gemma?” exclaims James. “Have you been watching us this entire time?”

I raise my eyebrows. So now he decides to acknowledge my existence. Trying my best to avoid his gaze, I peer back at Daphne, instead. Her face is flushed, and she’s glaring at me with utter contempt in her eyes. I can’t say I blame her. In this one horrible moment, my coworker, my ex, and my ex’s new… something all stare at me, eyes wide with confusion and disbelief.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I say, trying to ignore the heat burning up my cheeks. “I was just trying to get some printouts. Speaking of which, excuse me!”

Zeroing in on the printer like a horse with blinders, I rush in, grab the still-warm papers from the tray, and dash out before anyone else can say anything. On the off chance that James will chase me down, I speed into the elevator and repeatedly hit close.

The doors mercifully shut without incident, and I press the button for the first floor. In the sudden quiet, I feel numb all over as I lean against the back wall of the elevator. The world spins, and when I look down at my hands, it takes me a moment to register that yes, those are my hands that have accidentally crumpled up the papers I needed for work.

I sigh. I’ll h. . .