Page 95 of Love is an Open Book
“He thinks he does, but it’s all just a product of circumstance.” I tell them about the trope tests. No point in holding back now that all hell’s broken loose.
When I finish, they share the kind of look that seems to be reserved for married couples. “So you’re saying his feelings aren’t real?” Sera asks. “Just the result of a bunch of romantic situations you put yourselves in?”
“Like sitting around in your home office, visiting a run-down escape room, and doing yard work?” Joe says.
“Superromantic,” Sera adds.
I let out a frustrated huff. “You weren’t there, okay? It wasn’t about where we were or what we were doing, it was about—”
“Who you were with?” He punctuates his words with a romance hero–worthy smirk. “Admit it. You could’ve done those things with a hundred other men and never once caught feelings.”
Sera jumps in to back him up. “You’ve gone on how many dates to fancy restaurants, and concerts... Didn’t one of your boyfriends rent out a wing of the art museum for your birthday?”
“It was his friend’s gallery, but yeah.”
“And in all of those romantic settings, did you ever once fall in love?” She knows the answer. “Where are those men? All I see is you, standing there, claiming you think you feel something for Gavin because of a few of the least romantic scenarios I’ve ever heard of.”
I open my mouth. Close it. Unable to argue that point, I try another tack. “Let’s say you’re right, and our feelings have nothing to do with the experiments. It doesn’t change the fact that friendship is a guarantee. Love is the gamble.”
“You’ve never lost a friend?” she asks. “What about Martha?”
“We can’t count Martha.” An old coworker of mine. “She was an outlier.”
“She was a toxic, jealous human. But she was also your friend for three years. And now she’s not.”
“But what about Stewart? We would still be friends if we hadn’t dated,” I say, remembering how terrible it felt to lose one of my first friends in the publishing world.
“No you wouldn’t, because he was a possessive, presumptuous weirdo,” she says. “All relationships are gambles. Are romantic relationships more risky since there’s a deeper level of emotion and entanglement involved? Maybe. Or maybe for people who are deeply compatible, interested in a lifetime of love, they’re just as likely to last forever as a friendship.”
With a glance at his wife, Joe says, “True love, real love, won’t turn your life upside down. It will make your life make sense.”
Isn’t that what I was thinking about Gavin’s potential move? That if we were together, things would fall into place?
But I have evidence to the contrary. “I’ve tried dating friends. One of them is now my brother-in-law.”
“Ted wasn’t the guy for you,” Sera says. “But his and your sister’s marriage is going strong all these years later. Think of it this way.” She settles her hands on her small belly, fingers laced. “You can’t be the main character in every story. Just your own.”
I think back to the night I met Gavin, moments after Ted told me he was in love with my sister. It was the end of our brief romance. But for Ted and Kim, that night was the moment he started to fight for his happy-ever-after—finally getting up the courage to tell me he was in love with her.
Maybe I shouldn’t be looking at that night as the end of my story with Ted, but the start of mine and Gavin’s. Not a sad ending, but a meet-cute. The beginning of our love story. What if that breakup wasn’t a lesson in how to guard my heart, but how to open it up to the right person?
Thirty-One
Gavin
The long-overdue drive out to the tree farm gives me too much time to think. I replay the argument with Mia at Joe and Sera’s. Is this how it’s going to be between us? Bitter and tense?
I promised I wouldn’t do this to us, but what was always enough feels like crumbs after what we shared. I can’t put my feelings back in the box, and what’s awful is I don’t even want to. Loving her hurts, but it also feels like freedom after denying my feelings for so long. Like I can finally think clearly because I’m not wasting energy lying to myself.
The front yard is full of people, but my nephews spot me before anyone else does and I treat them each to a spin on the tire swing, grateful for the chance to get my bearings. The hostas circling the base of the tree look healthy, their variegated leaves full and glossy, a fresh coat of mulch around them.
I’m surprised Dad found the time. Then again, maybe it was Scott. My brother walks up, two plates in hand. “See you’ve found the boys,” he says. “Who were supposed to be eating.” He fixes them with a look.
“No one else is yet,” Paxton says.
“That’s because all that’s done are hot dogs.” He holds up the full plates. “Which you love.”
“You’d better listen to your dad.” I take hold of the tire to slow it. “I’ll push you on the swing afterward.”
