Page 105 of Booked for the Holidays
“Yes,” I answer automatically. “I could.”
“Even with a kid? That’s a big role to take on. It’s not just one person in the relationship, it’s two.”
“Mac’s great. I know very little about being a parent, obviously, but I could see myself with them many years down the road. Definitely.”
“You’re in love with him,” Chandler says. She dips her paintbrush into the swirl of brown and swipes a coat on the finished piece Lucas lugged over an hour ago.
“What? I am not.”
“You are,” she answers. She doesn’t sound mad. She sounds excited, almost. “You’ll see.”
I consider her words. I haven’t been in love inyears. I haven’t actively searched for it, either. It’s been so long, I think I’ve forgotten what it’s like. It should be grand gestures, right? Loud, emphatic declarations or obvious signs of attraction. Not handing over pastries or throwing chocolate chips at each other.
Except…
Every time I look at him, I want to smile. Idosmile. Even when he’s irritated. Even when he’s tired. Even when he’s asleep and I wake up before him, studying him in the early morning light. I’ve been smiling for weeks.
Every time I look at him, I want to find an excuse to keep talking. I want to ask him a question or two, or three, and wait for his answer.
Every time he touches me, it’s like the first time all over again. Fireworks in the night sky. An earthquake, the ground shaking beneath me. Pleasure and bliss, delight and awe. Every spot he touches is magic.
“That would be crazy though, right? Isn’t it a bit fast? A bit too aggressive? Feelings like this… they don’t exist in real life, do they?”
“Trust me, Bridge. Love doesn’t care who the person is. It doesn’t care how long you’ve known them. It doesn’t care if they treat you like a queen or barely know your name. When it wants to find a way, it will. There’s no playbook, unfortunately, telling us what’s right or wrong. No cheat code or answer sheet to figuring this shit out. It’s something you feel inside of you. Love is a blessing, but it’s also a goddamn curse.”
My hand hovers in the air as I process her words. A drop of paint falls off the tip of the brush I’m holding, landing on the floor. I watch it splatter across the hardwood.
Black paint.
Just like the drop on Theo’s boot.
Theo.
It’s like his name is lit up in flashing lights.
I always thoughtthe fairy tale ending when you foundthe onewould be pretty and follow a straight line.
It doesn’t, though. It isn’t always perfect. It has roadblocks and mistakes. A prickly man who is afraid to let anyone in and the woman who never give up on him.
It’s two people falling in love slowly, lazily, haltingly with the messy, imperfect, flawed parts of another soul waiting patiently for its ideal companion.
It’s finding the other half to your whole. The one who will light up your world brighter than the Florida summer sun.
Fairy tales take time.
Minutes for the lucky ones, an instant connection forged at first sight.
Weeks for the middle of the road folks, engaging in diligent research and an array of samples to draw a thorough conclusion.
For others, it takes years.
Years of stone walls around your heart, protecting yourself and your loved ones fiercely.
Years of being next-door neighbors.
Years of blueberry muffins and extra dashes of cinnamon.
Years of Polaroid pictures with a mall Santa and laughing while ice skating.
