Not Quite by the Book

by Julie Hatcher

I fell onto my backside, hands covering my face, and a decade of pent-up emotion unleashed. The ugly sobs caught me off guard, but I went with them, needing the immense release and glad no one would ever know. My family, who I loved dearly, had absolutely drained me, for years, and they hadn’t even noticed. I’d had to move to another town just to find the time to cry.

Most of my relationships that lasted more than a month should’ve ended inside a week. I’d made excuses and accommodations for bad behaviors, all in the name of remaining open minded. I was patient when they were moody and short tempered, accepting when they were habitually late, and I’d dutifully provided the princess treatment to every single frog. Thankfully I’d since learned there was a difference between staying open minded and being a willing doormat.

“Love is something we can all understand, whether romantic, platonic, or the sort we have for family. Love is the little silver thread connecting all of humanity, around the globe, century to century, forevermore.”

He tells his son that being in love is a good thing, maybe the best thing, and he tells him not to let anyone ever make light of that. Then, he issues a warning about the sorts of people who wield love like a weapon, who are unkind and use the attachment to control their partners or break them down. But the right kind of love, that sort that comes from all that is good in oneself and based on true respect for their partner, will lift you to new heights of confidence, strength, and wisdom.”

Sometimes people find themselves in love with someone who doesn’t return their affections, but that does not invalidate the feeling, because it is always beautiful to love.

Unfortunately, the more I read, the more evident it became that Emily had preferred the company of plants to people. And hours of contemplation over conversation. I could not relate. For the first time, I wondered how Emily and I could be so painfully different when her poems spoke the words of my soul.

“I put a sign in the window last night letting folks know we’ll open at lunchtime this month. Now your dad and I won’t have to worry about rushing around to get there.” I clamped my mouth shut, processing the news. I hadn’t slept in—or had breakfast out—in years, because I felt obligated to open the store at nine. But as soon as I took a few weeks off, Mom just taped a sign to the window, and poof! The hours were now more convenient? Did she even care about sales?

Alone, not lonely Enjoying a pretty day Learning to be fine

Emily had written a number of poems about death. I’d skipped over them when I was a kid, then grew obsessed with them as a young adult. These days, the topic of death was something too sad for me to enjoy. Nonetheless, her words seemed especially poignant as I sat with Davis. She believed that those we love never truly die. They live on in us and in our hearts. In that way, our love gave them immortality.

We should’ve ended the night giddy with the knowledge that something new and intimate existed between us. Instead, he’d expressed his instant regret, thoroughly crushing my hope and joy while nearly embarrassing me to death in the process.

“I worked late and missed kickoff, so I decided to spend the evening with my favorite girl instead of at the game.” My mouth fell open. Davis adjusted the dog’s leash, and I chastised myself internally. The dog was his favorite girl. Not me. Obviously.

My skills with the pen had improved minimally, but I was learning to take all wins for what they were. I pulled the metal nib downward and began to write. I wanted a life With an epic love story Instead I died alone I hung my head, then closed the book and stared through the window at my pitiful garden. I would grow old, alone, fighting forest creatures for wilted plants and eating so-so baked goods. And I’d be happy about it, darn it.

I love bunnies, the little nuisances.” I laughed, understanding completely. Why did a gardener’s archnemesis have to be so darn adorable?

I thought of Emily, wondering what she’d say if she could see me now. The words of one of her poems came swiftly to mind. The soul should always stand ajar, ready to welcome the ecstatic experience. Alone in the night with Davis and his dog, quietly enjoying a fire, definitely felt like an ecstatic experience, even if I knew it shouldn’t. And though I came to town to break my habit of longing for love, I suddenly felt badly for Emily, who’d never had any known lovers. How awful, for a woman who felt things so deeply, to have missed out on the wonders of romantic love and its incredible chemistry.

I’d never begrudged Annie’s opportunity to follow in our parents’ footsteps, living on campus and meeting her mate there. I was proud of the sacrifice I’d made so she could have the college experience she wanted. But I’d also silently mourned that I hadn’t had the chance to do the same.

You say you’re a subpar Emily Dickinson, but I think you’re a really great Emma Rini, and isn’t that better?

It felt good knowing I’d handled things myself. I supposed I usually did manage to reach my goals, whatever they were. I’d just never taken any time to appreciate that. There was always something else in need of my immediate attention.

I think I’m cursed in love, I declared silently. I’ll never have the one thing I’ve always wanted, and this catastrophe of a would-be romance is one more way the universe is telling me to let that dream go.

I’d been making myself miserable, working around the clock in search of love via earning praise, instead of opening myself up to share time and receive affection. Which meant I’d essentially created a lifestyle that had kept me away from the things I wanted most. I’d never even adopted a dog because I was too busy to take on a new responsibility. More irony. Because the dog would’ve cheerfully given me its time and affection, if I’d made room for it. I was willing to bet my family would have as well. Round and round I’d spun, working to earn compliments and thanks. Believing that would make me happy, and knowing it was never enough. Attagirls were not love.

I snorted an ugly little laugh. We really were the closest, most loving, but most dysfunctional family in all the land.

“Ah.” She nodded, and her lips pursed into a small grin. “Mr. Rogers’s mother said when there is tragedy, look for the helpers. They’re always there.” Now it was my eyes that blurred with unshed tears. “I’m not a hero,” I croaked. “To her, and to your parents, you were.” Her words hit like torpedoes, spoken with such assurance I sucked in a ragged breath. The possibility my family saw me as a hero gutted me in multiple ways. I wanted so badly for them to see my sacrifices and acknowledge them, but I didn’t want credit for credit’s sake. I wanted them to know I did it all from love. I’d do it again, a thousand times.

“I’m revising the plan as I go.” She grinned. “Smart girl. The tree that bends grows strong.”

Emma, I was reading a classic today and thought of you. Having never been a fan of Mr. Darcy, I can see his dilemma now firsthand. He was a man previously in command of his own being who quickly became powerless in love. The shift is immeasurably frustrating. The results, unsettling. Yet I remain a glutton for more. Why is it that authors a century gone can so easily know our modern hearts? Were some of us born in the wrong era? Or do some things simply transcend time? Forever Yours

How could I give up on love when there was at least one man in the world who wrote things like that? A man who saw straight to my heart. I let my head fall back and my arms go limp on a bone-deep sigh. If I could fall in love via letters, then spend the rest of my days exploring the life with that man, I’d die happy. There wasn’t any point in denial. The possibility was too romantic to resist.

I’d been kidding myself to think that leaving Willow Bend for any amount of time would erase this from me. I wanted a big, epic love, and a loud, full life. But for the first time in years, I was ready to wait for it, however long that took. Because finding the right person would be worth it.

Mom made a small sad sound. “Oh, hon. You’re meant to have your heart’s desires, so be careful with your thoughts. Sometimes the lies we tell ourselves are the most dangerous ones.”

The only man I wanted sat right in front of me, close enough to hold and beg to see things my way. The flicker of hope diminished as a new thought came to mind. Davis was right here. He’d confessed all sorts of personal things to me. We’d regained a strong footing after an earlier fallout. If he had feelings for me, why not say so? I’d kissed him once, so he knew I wouldn’t reject him, if that were his fear. But I couldn’t imagine Davis fearing anything. Look at all he’d overcome. I wet my lips as the silence grew suffocating. What I’d told Mom was true. I couldn’t force what I wanted into reality.

“There’s nothing wrong with perfect penmanship,” I argued. “I think it’s nice.” “It’s calligraphy,” he said. “You be real.” “You’re trying to make it sound dumb.” “Didn’t have to try,” he said, taking another pull from his bottle.

“I bet the dexterity and small motor skills used in calligraphy are important in tying complicated knots—around your wrists—so he can keep you in his mother’s basement.” I wadded a paper napkin and threw it at his face. “I’ll bet he’s incredibly smart.” “That only means the cops will never find you.”