Can't Help Falling (Sweater Weather, #3)

by Courtney Walsh

“But, last night, I was picking up on some serious vibes.” I don’t say anything. “Tension.” I make a disagreeing grunt sound. “She must like cavemen.”

“I know. I was a jerk.” She looks away. “Emmy’s been telling me that for a while.” “She said you were a jerk?” I laugh at that, mostly because I can’t picture it at all. “She said I wasn’t giving you a chance,” she says. “That you’re not the guy I think you are. And she was right, I think.” Emmy said that? About me? “I’m sorry, too,” she says. “For what?” “For not being more understanding,”

“She’s a hopeless romantic. She’s basically just waiting for some sappy guy to come in and sweep her off her feet in the rain on the hood of a truck.” She laughs. “What?” “You dope.” I shake my head. “That’s not me.” “So?” “So what? That’s not me.” She narrows her eyes. “But it could be.” “No,” I say. “It couldn’t. Trust me. Emmy and I are different.” “Different isn’t always bad,” she says. “And she makes you better.”

“It makes sense now,” she says. “Why Emmy never dates.” She spins and faces me. “She’s been pining for you!” “For eight years?” I scoff. “Doubt it.”

I think again about the slow dance in the bookstore. Yes, it was staged, but something happened. I liked the way she felt in my arms. A lot. And I haven’t let myself feel that way about anyone in a really long time. It felt good. Safe. Easy. Natural.

She’s right. As pointless as I think romance is, Emmy lives for it. And somehow, that makes it seem less pointless and more like something worth trying.

Dear Hopeful Romantic, Found the “Contact Us” link. Hopefully this doesn’t go into some assistant’s junk mail. I stand by my original belief that practical is better than romantic any day of the week. However, I’m kind of stuck. If a practical person—like me, but not me—were to become interested in someone else who is way more into romance, is it insincere for that person to do the things you suggested in an effort to win her over? Asking for a friend. —Practical in Poughkeepsie

Dear Practical, First, I think it’s fun that you nabbed that email address. Second, I don’t think it’s a bad idea at all. Third, I know you’re not asking for a friend. ;) Doing something because someone else would like it is never insincere, especially if your goal is to prove to her that you want to put her feelings first. I must say, I’m glad to see you trying something new! Funny twist, you’re not the only one. I guess you got me thinking, and I’m going to give “practical” a shot just to see if you’ve got a point worth taking. Who knows? Maybe we’ll turn you into “The Practical Romantic!” Signed, Hopeful

I reread the email. Practical romantic. Two completely opposite things. Like Emmy and me. I crack my knuckles and write back.

Dear Hopeful, Caught. It’s me. Figured I’d give it a shot. And you, going practical? Never thought I’d see the day. I’m assuming this is going to end up in some future podcast. —Practical

Dear Practical, Oh, it is. A bit of research, a bit of experimentation, just keeping that romance door open a sliver in case he gets a few ideas. What romantic gesture are you starting with, if you don’t mind my asking? —Hopeful

Dear Hopeful, Going with the flowers for no reason. I figured that’s the most practical of the romantic gestures :) —Practical

Dear Practical, Ha. Flowers are always a good choice. And if I can be so bold, I’d find out her favorite flowers OR pick a flower that reminds you of her. And tell her why. It just adds that little personal touch. Oh! And don’t get flowers from the grocery store. Make it the farmer’s market or a florist. And if you DO get them from the supermarket, take them out of the plastic and wrap them in something else. Brown paper is always a nice touch. Good luck! —Hopeful

Dear Hopeful, And here I thought it’s the thought that counts. If I may be so bold, pay attention to the little things. A solid guy is better than some big, grand gesture. Focus on his strengths. He may not be charming, but is he kind? He may not be witty, but is he a good listener? He may not be romantic, but is he thoughtful in other ways? A stand-up guy is a good thing. Even if he doesn’t sweep you off your feet. —Practical

Dear Practical, You make a lot of sense. I’ll keep it in mind on my date this weekend. Would you ever be up for an interview down the road? We can discuss practical versus romantic. I think it would make a great episode. —Hopeful

Dear Hopeful, Send over details, and I’ll consider it. But I’m not telling anyone my real name. —Practical

Dear Practical, Well, good, because I’m not telling anyone mine either. :) —Hopeful

After I click send, I look at the time. 12:19 a.m. I’m not sure how I got lost in all of this back and forth, but I feel weirdly exhilarated. Like I have a secret friendship. Just like before.

Reagan walks over to where I’m standing, which is out of sight, but with a good view of the door. “Are you hiding?” “No, just trying not to be seen.” “That’s literally the definition of hiding.” She frowns. “What’s his name?” “Chad.”

“What about the firefighter? He seems a little more exciting.” Well, duh. “There is nothing wrong with a stable man,” I say, trying to convince myself that this is a good decision. “I predict you’re going to be home and in bed by ten,” she deadpans.

“Emmy is special,” Marco says. “If your intentions aren’t honorable, speak now.” Chad’s eyes go wide. I grab onto his arm and tug him toward me. “Okay! Great! Thanks, guys! We’re fine, gotta go!” “I’m serious, Emmy,” Marco says. “I want to hear him say it!” He points a finger in the air, and I shake my head at him. They remind me of Statler and Waldorf on The Muppet Show, if they had two brothers.

I do another gut check. No sparks. No embers. No flickers. I remind myself, that’s not what I’m after. I’m after practical. And judging by the car and the khakis and the loafers, that’s exactly what Chad Rober is. Practical. Is it a little troubling that he’s not wearing socks with those loafers? Yes. Is it a deal breaker? I’m going to say no for now, but I reserve the right to change my mind. We’ll see how much it bothers me. All I can picture is sweaty feet.

But as we drive in the direction of the restaurant, I can’t help but think of the way it felt when Owen walked me to my car the other night. Or the way it felt when I was in his arms during the photoshoot. Or the way it felt when he helped coach me through my panic attack the day of the clean-up. And as much as a part of me wants to put all of those feelings in a little box and bury it in my backyard, the truth is, a bigger part of me wants to take them out and relive them over and over again.

There are flowers on the seat of my truck. Not just any flowers. Emmy’s flowers. Sunflowers.

If her questions were a test, I failed, because I pretty much just mumbled “They’re just for a friend,” followed by “I’m in a hurry,” and ending with “Do you have brown paper to wrap them in?”

Now I’m sitting outside of Book Smart, waiting for Emmy to flip the sign over to “closed,” and the flowers seem to be looking at me with their big brown faces. If I walk in there and hand her this bouquet, she won’t be able to misinterpret anything. I’ll be crossing the friendship line. Is this a horrible idea? I feel like I’m about to lose my nerve, so I open the door to my truck and step out onto the street. I reach in and pick up the flowers, thinking they really do remind me of Emmy, when I hear a familiar laugh. I glance up and see her, not flipping the store sign, but stepping out the door. She’s not alone.

He’s wearing a plaid button down with a gray cardigan with khaki pants and. . .are those loafers? Without socks?

Before I head home, I drive around the back of Book Smart and see Emmy’s car parked in its usual spot. I know she doesn’t lock the doors because she claims our city is “one hundred percent safe,” something I only half agree with. Emmy is a little naïve that way. It’s part of her charm. I pick up the flowers, step out of my truck, and walk around to the passenger side of her car. I open the door and set the flowers on the seat. I bought them for her. I want her to have them. Even if for no other reason than no reason at all.

Bonus points for him, though, he did leave a bouquet of sunflowers in my car. I love sunflowers. They’re my favorite flower—how in the world did he know that?

I’m halfway through my shower when out of nowhere, a wave of nausea rolls through my body, making my skin hurt. It’s the kind of nausea that can only mean one thing: I’m getting sick. Or maybe something I ate last night didn’t agree with me. Or maybe this is food poisoning. Or maybe this is how I die.

Practical, I’m sorry it didn’t work out like you thought—and I know you’re looking at this as the final straw, that you’re going to stick with practical from now on. You’re thinking that romance just isn’t your thing. It doesn’t seem like you gave it a real chance, though, does it? Are you a one-and-done, 50% kind of guy? Or are you a fighter? Instead of throwing in the towel, I think it’s time to double down. Actions speak way louder than words. ;) —Hopeful

Like a loser, I’d actually gone back and written out the different romantic things she mentioned on her podcast, but I’m at a complete loss as to what to do next. It’s not like I can wait for it to rain, lure her outside, and kiss her in the street. Strangely, I don’t hate that idea.