Page 53 of You're The One
As we approach his place, he glances at the structure in the distance. Just when I think that’s it, he surprises me by turning back to me.
“I don’t think I like modern,” he states. “I think it just felt like me at the time. I didn’t want a homey home that onlylookedthat way. I want it to actuallyfeelhomey because it’s filled with love. Because someone made it that way.Wemade it that way. A family. Not because I paid someone from West Elm to fake it.”
Wow.
That’s not what I expected. Not just the sentiment—though that too—but the fact that he said anything at all. I didn’t think he’d go there. I wasn’t sure he had athereto go to.
This is the second time he’s proved me wrong. Possibly even more if I count the smaller moments.
“It’s not about finding the perfect couch,” he adds, eyes flicking away. “It’s about who you picked it out with. The late nights you spend on it. The memories that soak into the cushions like spilled coffee. That’s what really matters.”
He shifts, his feet sinking deeper into the sand. “I don’t know. It’s probably stupid.”
“It’s not.” I pull my flannel tighter around me. “It’s kind of how I feel about a lot of things. I just didn’t know how to say it until you did.”
“How so?” He slips his hands into his pockets.
I take a breath and turn toward the ocean, letting the steady rhythm of the waves settle me.
Am I really about to do this? Open up to the one person I’ve tried hardest to keep at a distance?
But then I think about him sitting on my bed the other night, sharing with me about his childhood. About his mom. And how just now, he offered another piece of himself.
“I’ve moved around a lot,” I start. “Different jobs. Different people. Different versions of who I thought I was supposed to be. When I stop moving… thoughts creep in that make me panic.”
He doesn’t interrupt, just listens, which makes it easier to keep going.
“My parents, Ryan… they all want me to find my place. And I do, too. More than anything. But kind of like your West Elm metaphor, I don’t want to force myself into a box that only looks right from the outside.
“I keep hoping I’ll stumble into my purpose. But I think you’re right—it’s something you build.”
I pause, debating whether to confess the next part. Then I just say it.
“I’ve been scared I’d never find that. The thing. The purpose. The person. The life that actually makes me happy. But what you said just now, it made me realize I’m not supposed to find it. I’m supposed tocreateit.”
He glances at me, the corner of his mouth lifting.
“Thanks to your ridiculous house analogy. You might be my new therapist, Dom.”
He lets out a low chuckle. “I’m not sure I’m up for that big of a job.”
I bump my shoulder into his, though I barely reach mid-bicep.
“But I could be your friend,” he offers, almost shyly.
“I guess you’re kinda growing on me,” I admit, and his grin somehow stretches wider.
This morning has turned out nothing like I imagined, and somehow, it’s exactly what I needed. For the first time in all the years I’ve known Dominic, I feel a flicker of hesitation at the thought of saying goodbye.
To distract myself from the strange tightness in my chest that comes with that realization, I say, “So, I’m safe from elimination tonight?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“We have a deal.”
He tilts his head, drawing out the suspense.
“Besides, who will you walk with tomorrow if I’m not here?” I regret assuming this is going to be a regular thing the second the words leave my mouth.
