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“What do you want?” I ask. “In a perfect world, would you stay on your couch? Watching Deadliest Catch?” “Probably,” she says, a smile in her voice. “But maybe…maybe there would be someone with me.” She pauses and I hold my breath. “Maybe I am lonely.”
“But what’s wrong with being a romantic? I can be a confident, independent woman and still want someone to hold my hand. To ask about my day. It’s a good thing to want passion and excitement and care. Attention and affection. I don’t want to settle for anything less than that. And I think I’ve just figured out—I think that’s why I’ve been sitting on my couch. That’s why I’m home all the time. Because I’m tired. I’m tired of trying so hard at something that comes so easily for everyone else.
“I like that. Thinking that I’m worth paying attention to. Something ordinary made extraordinary by the person you’re sharing it with.”
“He wouldn’t have texted you if he didn’t want to talk to you.” Oh, to have the optimism of a twelve-year-old.
I should have known as soon as I stepped foot in the restaurant. He was blond, for god’s sake.
Love isn’t”—he sighs, a deep, rumbling sound—“love isn’t always sunshine and daisies. Sometimes it’s hospital beds and shaved heads. But I wouldn’t trade any of it. Because all of it is with her.”
“I want to be the kind of man who deserves that laugh. Who earns it.”
