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It feels like every time I get my hopes up for something good, reality comes out swinging. I don’t know how to be a hopeful person anymore. It’s easier not to be.
Aiden Valentine: Flowers die. Everything dies. Caller: I thought this was a romance hotline.
“There’s nothing to fix, Lucie.” The smile slips from my face until I’m staring down at the chip in the top lip of my coffee mug. I drag my thumb over it. “You’re not a toaster. Or faulty wiring. And I’m not a guru or a psychic or a…professional…in any sense of the word. I’m just a person. A person who likes talking to other people. Who, occasionally, has mediocre advice to give. You’re safe with me, and with the people listening. I promise.
I don’t want to settle for something just to say I have it.
don’t want to try. All I do is try. All day long, I’m trying and I’m so tired. Why can’t this be the one thing I don’t have to try at? Why can’t it be a thing that just…happens? I don’t want—I don’t want to think about what I should say or how I should act or…or have talking points in the notes app of my phone for a dinner date at a restaurant that I don’t really like. I want to feel something when I connect with someone. I want sparks. The good kind, you know? I want to laugh and mean it. I want goose bumps. I want to wonder what my date is thinking about and hope it might be me. I want…I
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“When the whole world tells you you’re silly for wanting the things you want, you start to believe them. You start to think you’re not worth it. That if the things you’re waiting for do exist, they’re not for someone like you.”
“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.
they’re not giving me something I don’t already have. I don’t want to waste my time on things that don’t feel like everything I’ve always wanted for myself.”
I got my hopes up. All for a shitty guy in cropped chinos and boat shoes without socks. I should have known as soon as I stepped foot in the restaurant. He was blond, for god’s sake.
I’m sprinting across a field of conversational land mines, tossing out the most devastating milestones of my life like they’re party favors.
I can’t kiss her, even if the devil on my shoulder is bellowing obscenities, daring me to drop my mouth to hers and see if she tastes as sweet as she sounds.
Yes, I’m fine. Except for the feelings I’m not supposed to be feeling and the dreams I’m not supposed to be dreaming and the excuses I’m not supposed to be making. I like Lucie. I like her so much it feels like there’s a band around my chest, constricting my breathing when she’s not around. I’m entertaining possibilities and that’s not—I need to not do that.
Lucie rolls her eyes and pops her chocolate in her mouth, a smile curling at the corner of her lips. I want to feel the shape of it against my fingertips. I want to bite the edge of it. I’m afraid my crush has slipped into an infatuation. I don’t want to fight it anymore. I don’t think I can.
But affection isn’t the thing I’m feeling. It would be easier if it was. I’m drunk on her smile. Desperate to know more about her. I want to know her favorite pizza toppings. What sort of toothpaste she uses. If her blush disappears once it reaches the top of her chest or if her whole body flushes pink. I’m buying mint chocolates at CVS because I can’t quit the craving. I want my hands in her hair and my mouth at her throat.
I’m not standing at the edge. I’m all the way over it.
Kissing her won’t lead to anything good. But I’ve never claimed to be all that good to begin with, and I’ve been on my best behavior for weeks.
Because I’ve spent the last decade telling myself not to want anything at all, and Lucie is the first thing I’ve let myself reach for.
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.”
“Long-time listener, first-time caller,” he says over the line. There’s a reluctant grin in his voice. It twists his words up at the edges, just like his smile. “I was hoping you could give me some advice.”
“I want to be the kind of man who deserves that laugh. Who earns it.” “It’s not about deserving,” I say, my throat tight. “If someone gives you something, you have it. You don’t have to earn it.”
“She told me once she doesn’t want to settle anymore and I think that’s what I’ve been doing. My whole life, I’ve intentionally broken everything down because it’s been easier for me to handle. And it’s been the same with her. I’ve been letting myself have sips of her, afraid of what might happen if I let myself go. But I want—I want to kiss her when other people are around. I want to hold her hand. I want to have pancakes at her house on Sunday mornings and I want to help with Indiana Jones costumes. I want her people to be my people too.”
“I know what falling in love feels like because I’ve been falling in love with you.”
I’m thinking about her, about us, about this. About this tiny café across from her house and all the places we almost met. About the right time, the right place, the right moment. I’m thinking about the way her hand fits in mine, and the way my heart drums out a beat that matches her name.
