The Last Romantics

by Tara Conklin

“The love of your life is always the one you have betrayed the most. The love that defines you is the one upon whom you once turned your back.”

How many hours had she spent tolerating the ridiculous behavior of disappointed men?

Longing and regret, illness, broken bones, broken hearts, achievements, money won and lost, palm readings and visions. We tell these stories until we believe them, we believe in ourselves, and that is the most powerful thing of all.

Everyone makes different choices, Caroline had said to me recently as comfort and apology. Everyone’s life is complex.

dozen possible futures lay before me, each of them fraught, none of them easy. An upheaval, a release. Joy and sadness, regrets of every size and flavor. Only one of these futures was certain, only one future contained the lives we had already built. It seemed a dangerous thing to risk tearing those down.

care, a watchfulness, a willingness to accept the burden of another’s fear.

was wrong to tell you that this is a story about the failures of love. No, it is about real love, true love. Imperfect, wretched, weak love. No fairy tales, no poetry. It is about the negotiations we undertake with ourselves in the name of love. Every day we struggle to decide what to give away and what to keep, but every day we make that calculation and we live with the results. This then is the true lesson: there is nothing romantic about love. Only the most naïve believe it will save them. Only the hardiest of us will survive it.

And yet. And yet! We believe in love because we want to believe in it. Because really what else is there, amid all our glorious follies and urges and weaknesses and stumbles? The magic, the hope, the gorgeous idea of it. Because when the lights go out and we sit waiting in the dark, what do our fingers seek? Who do we reach for?