The Bodyguard

by Katherine Center

The Unhoneymooners

I literally just read that book

And then—even though there was nobody around to see—he pulled me into a hug.

“You want a lesson on how to get dumped?” Glenn demanded of Taylor. “That,” he said, pointing right at me, “is how you get dumped! She’s the gold standard! This guy ripped her heart out on the night after her mother’s funeral, but she was back at work the next day like a goddamned superhero.”

Now this, Connie was pissed about. She stood up and reached across the table to bat at Jack’s shoulder. “You let our Hannah sleep on that cold, hard floor? I raised you better than that! Be a gentleman!” My heart fluttered a little at the words “our Hannah.”

“I was fine,” I said. “I’m tough.” “You shouldn’t have to be,” Connie said, and for some reason the tenderness in her voice made my eyes sting.

“The part”—Jack shouted—“where I wasn’t driving!” The room fell quiet. Jack blinked at the floor, like he couldn’t believe he’d actually said it. Hank took a step back and shook his head, like he was trying to clear it out. “Honey, you…” Connie said, looking up at Jack utterly bewildered. “I wasn’t driving the car that night,” Jack said again, quieter. “Drew was driving.”

And just as I was thinking I should probably back away quietly and let this little family have a moment to themselves … Connie reached out for my hand and pulled me into the group hug, too.

Hanging from Jack’s neck, right there—colorful and defiant and unmistakable—was my beaded safety pin.

Jack went on. “Remember all those mornings I told you I was hitting golf balls?” “Yeah.” “I wasn’t hitting golf balls.” “You were looking for the safety pin?” Jack nodded. “With my dad’s metal detector. The one my mom told him was a total waste of money.”

“I think just because you can’t keep something doesn’t mean it wasn’t worth it. Nothing lasts forever. What matters is what we take with us. I’ve spent a lot of my life trying to escape. I’ve spent too much time on the run from hard things. But now I wonder if escape is overrated. I think, now, I’m going to try thinking about what I can carry forward. What I can hold onto. Not just only always what I have to leave behind.”

And then Doc lifted his jar of moonshine and said, “To everything we’ve lost. And to what we hold onto.”

Then, in what should have been the kill shot, she said, “Last call! We’re doing this! Who in this crowd picks her over me?” And that’s when Jack raised his hand. “I do,” he said. Then he added, “In a heartbeat.” I was frozen too tight to feel any relief. Then he turned and met my eyes, his expression soft. “I absolutely do.” And as soon as he’d broken the surface tension, another hand went up: Hank’s. “So do I.” And then, in a beautiful cascade, everybody else joined in—stepping forward and raising their hands: Amadi, then Glenn, then Kelly, then—after an elbow to the ribs from her—Doghouse. A chorus of “I do,” “So do I,” “Me, too,” and “Team Hannah” rose up. Even Doc and Connie jumped in, waving their arms to make sure their votes counted.

“When you’re not around, even for a little while, I feel like I have to go find you. I just feel this pull to be near you. I want to know what you’re thinking, and what you’re up to, and how you feel. I want to take you places and show you things. I want to memorize you—to learn you like a song. And that nightgown, and the way you get so cranky when I leave my stuff all over the place, and the way you tie your hair back in that crazy bun. You make me laugh every single day—and nobody makes me laugh. I feel like I’ve been lost all my life until now—and somehow with you I’m just … found.”

So I decided something right then: Every chance you take is a choice. A choice to decide who you are.

Except for one thing. The thing I wanted most wasn’t London anymore. The thing I wanted most was Jack.

“You can’t control the world—or other people. You can’t make them love you, either. They will or they won’t, and that’s the truth. But what you can do is decide who you want to be in the face of it all. Do you want to be a person who helps—or hurts? Do you want to be a person who burns with anger—or shines with compassion? Do you want to be hopeful or hopeless? Give up or keep going? Live or die?”

He said, in a voice that sounded genuinely weary, “I just hate myself so much for not being loved.”

“You can’t make people love you. But you can give the love you long for out to the world. You can be the love you wish you had. That’s the way to be okay. Because giving love to other people is a way of giving it to yourself.”

Because love isn’t like fame. It’s not something other people bestow on you. It’s not something that comes from outside. Love is something you do. Love is something you generate. And loving other people really does turn out, in the end, to be a genuine way of loving yourself.

I mean, Robby has to spend the rest of his life being Robby. That’s losing by definition.

The people we love help teach us who we are. The best versions of who we are, if we’re lucky.