Page 68 of Lovesick
The conversation turned to her thoughts on working with Mark. My only regret was that I couldn’t hold her hand from across the table.
“Has it been weird for you to have me there all the time?” she asked.
“Not at all,” I said.
There was a lot I left out. That it felt nice to have someone else around. That I didn’t mind having a grateful person to pamper a little bit, because Mark was like a black hole. We’d been together our whole lives and had fallen into our patterns, like rivets in rock. Water flowed easiest downhill. I couldn’t stop watching out for him, simply because it’s what I had always done.
But it felt nice to see a far more beautiful face at home.
The waitress set a plate of black bean enchiladas in front of Lizbeth and handed the butternut ravioli with a sage and brown butter sauce to me. As soon as the waitress disappeared, we swapped half of our portions.
“Thanks.” Her eyes twinkled. “I’ve never shared on a date before.”
“A travesty.”
“Can we swap something else?” she asked as she sliced into a piece of ravioli with the edge of her fork.
“Depends.”
“If I tell you what I think is romantic, will you tell me what happened with Stacey?”
Hearing Stacey’s name from Lizbeth’s lips sent a shudder through me. Did I want to revisit that day? Definitely not. But did I want to know what Lizbeth found romantic—since she obviously didn’t like rich guys who overflowed with all the stereotypical trappings of romance?
Definitely yes.
Full of thoughts I didn’t quite understand, I turned back to my ravioli. She gave me a little space to think. To weigh out whether I wanted to dredge this back up. I hadn’t spoken about Stacey in eight years.
But I had a feeling it would be worth it.
Finally, I looked at her and nodded. “Exchange accepted.”
Lizbeth grinned. “I’ll go first,” she said. “With a caveat. I don’t know if any of this is real.”
My eyes almost bugged out of my head. She didn’t know if romance was real?
Before I could clarify, she continued, “I mean, if Ireallyfind these things romantic. There have been a few times lately that should have been wildly romantic, but they weren’t. At least ... maybe they were in hindsight, but ...”
She trailed off for a second, shook her head, and started again. “These are the things I find romantic when I read books or watch movies,” she said. “Sometimes when I have a hard time sleeping, I get on YouTube and watch compilations of the most romantic scenes in movies. And the moments I love the most are almost always the little things.”
“Like what?”
“Like ... a hand on the small of the back. A look across the room. Maybe someone doing or saying something small to show they’re paying attention.”
Interesting.
“So it’s not always about the grand gestures?” I asked. Which would be nice because that took some pressure off.
She shrugged. “Those are good, too, but without the little stuff, it doesn’t mean as much. Or it’s not quite as exciting. Snuggling on the couch always seemed more romantic than anything else, frankly. I wouldn’t honestly know.”
“A real travesty,” I said softly.
She smiled. “My friend Leslie says the most romantic thing in her world is when someone else makes dinner.”
The impossible intricacy of romance never ceased to amaze me. While there seemed to be standards in movies and books, real-life romance appeared to be far more ... subdued. Making dinner was romantic? Cleaning a cabin was romantic?
How could I ever figure it out?
“What situations were supposed to be romantic but weren’t?” I asked, hazarding my true burning question.
