The Rom-Commers

by Katherine Center

My dad was always the dad everybody wanted. If there were a dad store, he’d be a bestseller.

Charlie was there, seated at the table. And so was half the food in the city of Los Angeles. Charlie saw my eyes widen at the sight. “I wasn’t sure what you liked,” he said, “so I just got it all.”

ASTONISHING, REALLY—HOW A five-thousand-dollar paper check can perk a girl up.

I fell in love all the time. Just … nobody fell in love with me back.

I had a theory that we gravitate toward the stories we need in life. Whatever we’re longing for—adventure, excitement, emotion, connection—we turn to stories that help us find it. Whatever questions we’re struggling with—sometimes questions so deep, we don’t even really know we’re asking them—we look for answers in stories.

we’ll be stronger on the other side, as all of us always are, for facing hard things and finding ways to keep going.

Bearing witness to the suffering of others? I don’t know if there’s anything kinder than that. And kindness is a form of emotional courage. And I’m not sure if this is common knowledge, but emotional courage is its own reward.

But it was one thing to live your dreams in theory—and it was absolutely another thing to clumsily, awkwardly, terrifiedly do it for real.

“Believing in things that aren’t real? Making something out of nothing? Connecting dots that don’t need or want to be connected? That’s what all the best writers do.”

“I don’t have anxiety. I just worry all the time.”

“Pessimism’s always a safe bet.”

“I won the dad lottery, for sure.”

I couldn’t concentrate. His voice was like a deep-tissue massage.

Charlie Yates. Had dropped down on one knee. In front of me. On the floor of a honky-tonk. And was now tying my sneaker laces in double knots with gruff but unmistakable affection.

He felt real. But more than that: he made me feel real.

“I think,” he said, surprisingly lucid for a moment, “that you’re my favorite person I’ve ever met.”

“There is absolutely no way to predict the infinite random forces in the world any of our choices will expose us to. How paralyzing would it be to even try?”

“Whatever story you tell yourself about your life, that’s the one that’ll be true.”

But that’s not a choice. All we have is what we have.”

“Here’s another thing I accidentally figured out: happiness is always better with a little bit of sadness.”

I shrugged. “He turned out to be disappointing.” My dad nodded. “Most people are.” “I liked him,” I clarified. “But he didn’t like me back.” My dad was appalled on my behalf. “Then he’s much worse than disappointing! He’s a dolt.”

If you wait for other people to light you up, then I guess you’re at the mercy of darkness.

All I know is, I really don’t want to die. And the reason I don’t want to die is because I just want more time with you.”

“I’m so sorry, Emma,” he said then. “I would write a hundred happy endings for us if I could.”

Because the more we can imagine our better selves, the more we can become them.”

“More proof for my theory,” I said. “What theory?” “Sometimes things get better.”

Was this a happy ending? Of course. And also only a beginning. In the way that beginnings and endings are always kind of the same thing.

We don’t get to know the whole story all at once. And where we’re headed matters so much less than how we get there.

We act like “and they lived happily ever after” is trying to con us into thinking that nothing bad ever happened to anyone ever again.

Tragedy is a given. There is no version of human life that doesn’t involve reams of it. The question is what we do in the face of it all.

Charlie fully supported my commitment to independence. But, even still, every single day … he asked me to marry him. Which I loved.

AND THAT’S HOW this story comes to an end: with a total of not one, not two, but three weddings. Do you have to get married in life to be happy? Of course not. But it’s certainly one way to go.

“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.”

“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.

But now I’m changing my mind. Maybe it’s not just that love stories aren’t any worse than other kinds of stories . . . Maybe they’re better. Maybe love is more valuable than we think.

Maybe stories that help us see our best possibilities are exactly what this bedraggled world needs.

Love stories show us people getting better at love—in real time.

Your inner compass will guide you to the particular stories that you need to hear.

What I want to say is just this: If you’ve been shamed away from reading love stories? Hello, friend. Come over to the fun side.