The Rom-Commers

by Katherine Center

There was a good writing lesson in there—that being dismissed is worse than being scorned. In a different frame of mind, I might have paused to think about it: Of course not mattering is worse. It means you didn’t even register. It means you’re not even worth getting mad about. It means you’re literally nobody.

I imagined my dad and Sylvie and Salvador sitting at our dinette table, and then I just took in the sight in my head. “It feels warm,” I said, eyes closed. “It feels hopeful and kind. Sunshiny. And soothing.” And then, knowing there was a chance he’d scoff at me for talking about “the heart” and call it a cliché, I went ahead and said: “It feels like your heart is glowing.” Because that’s true. That is what it feels like. Sometimes clichés are clichés for a reason.

there are conversations that happen sometimes when you’re waiting around that would never happen if you were just scurrying from errand to errand like we all do most of the time. There are conversations that can happen only after waiting has slowed things down.

I could have denied it, I guess. But it was late. And quiet. And we were already telling truths.

“I don’t know how I let myself get so cynical,” Charlie went on. “I’ve been wondering about that a lot. All I can figure is this: it hurts to be disappointed. It hurts so much, we’d rather never get our hopes up. And it’s humiliating, too—right? How foolish are you to hope for the best? How pathetic is it to try to win after you’ve already lost? How naive must you be if you don’t know that humanity is dark and vicious and totally irredeemable? But the argument Emma’s been making this whole time—and I’m paraphrasing here—is this: If those are the only stories we tell about ourselves, then those are the only stories we have.”

“But I disagree. I don’t think marriage is hard. I think, in fact, if you do it right, marriage is the thing that makes everything else easier.”

“Well, you’re lucky. Because love is something you can learn. Love is something you can practice. It’s something you can choose to get good at. And here’s how you do it.” He let go of his walker to signal he meant business: “Appreciate your person.”

“Choose a good, imperfect person who leaves the cap off the toothpaste, and puts the toilet paper roll on upside down, and loads the dishwasher like a ferret on steroids—and then appreciate the hell out of that person. Train yourself to see their best, most delightful, most charming qualities. Focus on everything they’re getting right. Be grateful—all the time—and laugh the rest off.”

“There it is. The whole trick to life. Be aggressively, loudly, unapologetically grateful.”

It’s all about the details you notice. And the joys you savor. And the hope you refuse to give up on. It’s all about writing the very best story of your life. Not just how you live it—but how you choose to tell it.

I don’t need to tell you that as a culture we regard romance novels as the lowest category in fiction, do I? You already know it, the way we all do. And yet, I just keep thinking we’re wrong.

Our lovers might not be good at love when they start out. But if they want that happy ending, they damn well better figure it out. And so, over the course of the story, they master the many arts of listening, and connecting, and nurturing, and caretaking, and trusting, and appreciating, and savoring, and sharing, and empathizing. They have to overcome their prejudices, learn to apologize, forgive each other, and sacrifice.

When we read love stories, we get to see kindness in action. And human compassion. And connection made visible. And people choosing to be the best versions of themselves in the face of it all.

It’s not nothing to witness acts of goodness. In fact, it creates an expansive, uplifted, physical feeling in our bodies that psychologist Jonathan Haidt calls “moral elevation.” It impacts us—and changes us. This is documented. Witnessing other people doing good makes us want to do better ourselves.