A Novel Love Story

by Ashley Poston

There once was a town, and I was so certain that it would feel like home if I ever made it there. There once was a town, and it didn’t exist.

What did it feel like to love someone so much you ached? I thought I’d known once.

I didn’t need love. I didn’t need to fall into it. I didn’t need to find it at all. Not again. Never again. Because love stories were enough. They were safe. They would never fail me.

This man was made with tweed and argyle, and sewn together with an Oxford comma.

“Every day is about the same here,” Anders said after a moment. “A storm blows in around noon, and then another in the early evening. The inn is always under renovation, the burgers at Gail’s bar are always slightly burnt, the honey taffy is always sweet, and the starlings always make their nests in the eaves.”

Anders, Andie, Anderson—I didn’t remember the name in any of the books. He was the only part of this town, this story, that wasn’t familiar.

Sometimes, a book can change your life. It’s hard to explain that to someone who doesn’t read, or who has never felt their heart bend so strongly toward a story that it might just snap in two. Some books are a comfort, some a reprieve, others a vacation, a lesson, a heartbreak. I’d met countless stories by the time I read a book that changed my life.

Sometimes, that’s how it happens. Sometimes your favorite book just hits you out of the blue like a bolt of lightning.

So who could blame me for sinking into books, where I knew the people weren’t real, but they also never disappointed me? I knew everything would work out in the end. I knew happy endings were destined, ever afters fated, and no matter what trials and tribulations and, well, surprise fuckups happened, things would end up okay.

surface. I couldn’t remember the last time someone had kissed me that passionately—savored me, like I was the last sentence in his favorite book.

Even a book boyfriend didn’t want me.

Not all love happens at first glance—sometimes, it takes a reread at the exact right (or wrong) time in your life. And sometimes, it takes a little help from your friends.

“I did. Right on Eighty-Second Street on the Upper East Side.”

“I think you can do whatever you put your mind to, Eileen. You’re terrifying that way.”

“It would taste sweet, I’m sure,” he said, dropping his eyes to my mouth. “Like you.”

“No, it’s not fine,” he caved, whirling around to me. “Because just the thought of another person doing things with you. For you.” And his voice dipped into a growl, his eyes darkening with the promise. “To you. It drives me crazy.”

“He doesn’t matter. He let you go.”

“You’re…the person she dedicated all of her books to. She was your fiancée.” “She was,” he said, “once upon a time.”

I was falling in love with a real person, utterly and irrevocably against my will.

“and I think you’re worth the heartbreak.”

Because even after the people were gone, there were still stories. There were always stories. Other people took the heart of her books, and kept them close, and nurtured them and grew into something new, because nothing could ever stay in stasis. Nothing ever stopped. Nothing was permanent. Art lived and breathed, like love, like friendship. Life—like works of art—was transformative. It persisted. And through them, so did we.

Love was a bunch of small things that added up to bigger things. Love was feeling valued. And accepted. Just the way you were. It was never feeling too much, or not enough, even though often you were both, because Love loved you anyway. Not in spite of it, but because of it.

If you loved something—someone—sometimes you had to let them go. And if they loved you, too, they’d come back. Love—true love—always came back.