How Freaking Romantic

by Emily Harding

My mom likes to say I was born angry. It’s usually something she brings up during holiday meals or to her latest boyfriend, inevitably followed by a tittering laugh, as if it’s everything you needed to know about me.

Marriage is peddled like love’s fail-safe, but no one tells you to read the fine print.

“Right. I should just smile and ignore the fact that you’re sitting here talking to me like I’m five. Or that almost every other man that approached me tonight was more interested in getting me to come home with him than discussing my résumé. Or that I spent the entire subway ride down here tonight aware of every single person that came in and out of the train because I didn’t want to get assaulted before I had the chance to feel like shit thanks to my would-be colleagues. Or that if one of those colleagues did decide to give me a job, I’m almost guaranteed to make fifteen percent less than a man doing the exact same thing. And even then, I’ll have to smile and be grateful. Because God forbid I be angry, right?”

When you finally decide to stop being a bitch, what’s left?

“Flowers and chocolate and jewelry, it’s all bought for the sole purpose of being romantic, and that automatically defeats the purpose.” His blue eyes are studying me so intensely that my mouth snaps shut and I need to look away, take a moment to formulate my thoughts. “If something is really, truly romantic, it isn’t self-referential. You know?”

“Except people don’t see it that way. They see that I’m too angry and too opinionated. I’m abrasive and let my emotions get the better of me, and that’s a lot for people to deal with, so—” “Who told you that?” I sigh, working to make my tone light, like I’m joking. Like this isn’t the most honest I’ve been with anyone in my entire life. “Everyone has told me that.” His blue eyes narrow on me. “You’re not a lot, Bea. You care about the people in your life. You defend them and you don’t try to be anyone other than yourself. If anybody has a problem with that, it just means they’ve learned somewhere along the line that those things are faults. That’s for them to work out, not you.”

I’m buzzing with fury, not because he’s wrong but because he’s uncomfortably right. He hasn’t been privy to my private thoughts; he doesn’t know how much all of my words have been about so much more than pushing him away. It’s about self-preservation.

“Ever since you were little,” she continues, unfazed. “You know, most people are like apples. They have this protective skin, but it’s not too thick. It’s even kind of enjoyable. We pick them mostly because they’re easy. We can get to the good stuff without too much work. But that’s not you. You’ve got this hard shell around you. It protects you from getting hurt, but it also makes it almost impossible for anyone to break through it. In fact, I feel like once you found those friends of yours in college, you stopped letting anyone else try.”

The anger is right there, ready to be wielded. But it’s dwarfed by so much else now. Happiness, pride, contentment… but most of all, love. A fierce and devastating love that I stoke and stir until it’s white-hot. All-consuming. And I let it overwhelm me as I smile. “You’re such an asshole.”