Finding Gene Kelly

by Torie Jean

Clutching the chocolate to her chest, she squeals, “You’re too good to me.” “Queens deserve to be spoiled,” I say, leaning in for a bise.

Falling into the chair, my eyes narrow at his broad shoulders, tight waist, and tall frame. Damn you, reality. I can’t ignore it. The man’s a freakin’ Dorito.

“I’m sorry.” I relent. “Ignore me. I’m probably just grumpy because I was promised donuts and got a head wound instead.” He snorts. “Fair. I guess I’d be grumpy too.”

He’s everything—late nights chasing fireflies, picking lilacs in blossom, boombox blaring, singing and dancing in the rain, and utter defeat and humiliation. He, frankly, is home. And I’m suddenly sick.

I am and would always be so much more than my ability to create tiny humans inside of me.

“Ah—hence the apolocheese.” I quirk a brow. “Really?” “I thought it was grate.” “Are we about to fondue this?”

He shakes his head, smiling into his cup. “I have no doubt you could win whatever you want with me, Peaches.”

None of this gets easier. I just have to get tougher. Hell, I am so tired of having to be tougher.

“I know you get all weak-kneed when you’re around me, Peaches, but I’d appreciate it if you could quit falling all the time. I have fragile nerves.”

I dislike the ending because I’m a happily ever after or get the fuck out kind of gal with my fiction.”

“Life sucks hard most of the time. Let me escape into a promised land where everything works out in the end.”

“Let yourself fall, Peaches. It’s okay. I’ll catch you,” he says with an unfamiliar softness.

“But the eye contact thing is entirely your fault. Nobody else looks at me as intensely as you do.” “I look at you how you should be looked at.” He shrugs.

How long have I been surviving without living? And how long has my heart just been left to pump blood?

“Why do I keep you around if you’re always this damn useless?” I grump. “Because I’m easy on the eyes and a fucking delight.”

“Well, now I think you’re doubting my acting skills.” “I saw you in our school performance of Chicken Little. I was very unconvinced the sky was falling.”

“I expect you to be very mature about this information in the future,” he whispers. “But Evie, I shut a door in your face the other day because I was hard, and I panicked.”

But when I glance his way again, he’s just staring out at the tower, one hand stuffed in his pocket, a warm smile plastered on his face, fingers tracing his lips. And I fight back the urge to do the same.

“Why, Liam Kelly, I think that was almost a compliment.” I place my palm over my heart. “Thank you for watering the garden. I think it’s blooming already.”

“My ass is bleeding, and I’m dying. Can you grab me a baguette so I can lube it up with Nutella and shove it down my throat? Thank Xanadu, I don’t have a gag reflex. *Raised hands* *Raised hands* Love you!”

“No one else elicits the kind of feelings in me that you do, the desire, the passion, the overwhelming need to smash your face with both my fist and my lips at the same time. How every time you touch me, I run the risk of being putty in your hands. I’ve tried to keep my heart safe from you, but you had it in a death grip before I knew I’d given it to you, and I don’t know that I want it back anymore—because I think, for the first time in maybe ever, I like that I’m in love with you.

My heart has found its home. I just never imagined home would be a person.

People don’t have to connect or commiserate to show kindness and compassion. Sometimes it’s better if it’s clear they can’t relate.