Page 159 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
Because we were raised by a mother who cried behind closed doors and a father who vanished into the arms of someone younger.
We were taught to be skeptical of love—to wait for the other shoe to drop, then check the closet for the next pair.
“What did he say?” Aspen asks, her voice gentler now.
I sit up on the couch, pulling one of the large outdoor pillows to my chest as if it might prevent my heart from crumbling. “He said he’s not asking for forever. He just wants me to try. And that he wants me anyway. Like as-is. No warranties.”
She whistles. “Damn.”
“Right?”
“And you panicked.”
“Like a squirrel on espresso,” I admit. “I said I needed air and ran.”
Aspen doesn’t judge. She simply breathes with me on the line, as if she understands the silence is sacred right now.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I say after a beat. “Not like this. Not when it’s real. Not when I could actually break something that matters.”
Aspen hums. “You always say you’re afraid of being left.”
“Because I am.”
“But maybe,” she says carefully, “you’re more afraid of being loved.”
I blink.
“Liv,” she says, softer now, “he sees you. That’s terrifying. And intimate. And rare. And I get it.”
“Do you?” I ask. “Because you’re in love with a man who resembles a villain from a noir film and builds you greenhouses for fun. Still, I don’t see you two walking off into the sunset or getting married.”
There’s a pause.
“It’s because I haven’t had time to plan the wedding I want.”
I freeze. “Wait, what?”
“I’m not avoiding commitment,” she says. “I just want my dream wedding, and I haven’t had the capacity to pull it off yet.”
“But I thought . . .” I trail off. “I thought you were, you know, like me.”
“I’m not afraid of commitment, Liv. I’m afraid of settling for a ceremony that isn't what I want. Maybe I’ve witnessed too many weddings in my lifetime that make me desire this huge extravaganza, but . . . I’ll do it soon. You . . . You’re afraid of being abandoned, of being loved.” Aspen’s voice softens. “And those are different monsters.”
I go quiet.
“You love him, don’t you?” she asks.
I swallow. “I don’t know.”
“Do you want him to hold your hand when you’re scared?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want him to be the person you call when everything goes to shit?”
“Yes.”
“Do you imagine waking up next to him for reasons other than sex?”
