Page 92 of Can't Help Falling

With that, I sign off. And while I feel a little like I’ve just poked a bear, I stand by my view and everything I said in my last episode.

This bitter person can look down his nose at my view. He may even think I’m being naïve. Maybe I am.

But so what? I believe in love and romance and sparks and butterflies.

But then there’s just the slightest question at the back of my mind: what if I’m wrong? What if Hopeful in Hoboken was onto something when she said she doesn’t want to miss out on something great waiting for something perfect?

Especially when “perfect” doesn’t exist.

Not that it matters in my case. I don’t even have “something great” at the moment. I only have my books. Oddly, I feel comforted by that thought.

I shut everything down and crawl into bed when a text from Owen comes in:

Owen

Hey, sorry to bug you

Have you heard from the insurance company?

Emmy

Yeah, the restoration company is coming in next week

I have to get over there and see what I can save

Owen

Need help?

I stare at those two words.

Even when Owen lived here before and we were good friends, we didn’t actually go out and do things together. Sometimes we’d end up at the same functions, and the most we ever said to each other was hello, and oftentimes, not even that.

Why, I’m not sure. It’s like our friendship back then was better as a secret.

More special that way, maybe.

In a flash my mind starts writing out a whole scenario where I walk into my charred craftsman and find Owen cooking dinner for me in the kitchen. Somehow, in this hazy fantasy, my house doesn’t smell like smoke anymore. The ash and soot are miraculously gone, and his apron reads “I Don’t Just Heat Things Up In The Kitchen.”

As I enter the room, he turns and smiles. He sets down the spatula and holds out his hand to me. I take it, and then he pulls me in his arms, our bodies pressed together—and the camera in my mind cuts to an old record player, the needle dropping, scratching out Moonlight Serenade by Glenn Miller as we slow dance, right there in the kitchen.

The kitchen timer goes off, and it sounds a lot like a phone buzzing.

Which it is.

My phone is buzzing in my hand, forcing me back to reality.

If we’re going to be friends again, I’m going to have to shift my entire way of thinking where he’s concerned.

I look down at the new text message.

Owen

You’ve probably got it handled

Emmy

No! I don’t! Sorry. Got sidetracked

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