Page 116 of Hunt for the Roses
For the first time since I’ve been with Dane, my mind didn’t wander to think about Kyle or what emotional repercussions there are. Instead, my mind was thinking of Dane.
Just Dane.
“He came to visit your father earlier. Even dressed up for the occasion,” my mom says with a smile.
I turn to look at my mom. “Dane was here?”
My mom nods her head. “Yes. He wanted to congratulate your father.”
I let out the faintest exhale as I hold my mom’s eyes, touched by this new information. It was a small gesture from Dane, but the meaning of it is grand. The parts of my heart that beat for Dane beat more prominently now, fighting against being suppressed by my past.
“You’ll figure it out,” my mom says as she rubs my back, and then she excuses herself to take more pictures with my dad on the terrace.
I prop my chin back in my hand and look around again. I look at the entrance door, telling myself I’m just looking here because it’s in view, but I know the truth. I’m wishing that any minute I’m going to see Dane walk through that door. But the seconds turn into minutes, and with each passing minute, the only person who I want to walk in, never comes.
The guitarist is starting the introduction to a song, and when I listen intently for the first few seconds, I realize it’s the acoustic version of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’.” Memories slide into my mind like a montage. Dane and I holding hands on the Ferris wheel, him coming over to my house for dinner and being his obnoxious self, our first workout together on the boardwalk, our stroll out on the pier at sunset, Fourth of July, our night at Duke’s, Dane teaching me salsa at Shippers, our passionate arguments outside our homes, the angst between us until we submitted to our feelings in his hallway, our dance under the rose garden, the first night we made love, then our lovemaking every time after.
Each moment with Dane was physically different, but what I felt in my heart was a common denominator.
Happiness.
Love.
Freedom.
A single tear slides down my cheek as the montage of the most wonderful summer continues to scroll on repeat through my mind. I wipe the tear and force myself to stay strong for the remaining hour of the opening. Eventually, my mom comes back to the table, and we fall back into easy conversation as the guest count dies down.
Once my parents and I are the only ones left, we’re standing in the middle of the restaurant. “It was a successful evening, Dad. I’ve never been prouder of you,” I say as I hug my father.
“None of this would be possible without you, your mom, and your brother,” my dad says before giving me a kiss on my cheek.
“I’m going to start taking down the decorations inside. Then I’ll work my way outside,” my mom interrupts.
I place my hand on my mom’s upper arm. “No, Mom, I got it.”
“Thanks, that’s a huge help. Otherwise, your father and I might never leave here,” my mom says as she walks to the bar area to start taking down the balloons and banners we have.
When I walk out onto the patio of my dad’s restaurant, the evening sky is illuminated with yellows and oranges as the sun is about to set. It’s not too hot on this August night as the wind tickles my skin, and whispers through my hair. Then I walk up to the wooden railing and rest my forearms on the ledge to close my eyes, smiling at the feel of the wind on my face and the evening glow illuminating it.
Never stop fighting.
I remember Dane’s words to me when we were walking along the beach. I’ve fought a continuous uphill battle this past year, never really knowing when or where the end of the battle is. But maybe there is no end, and life is meant to be fought for. If life was just a single, paved pathway to easily walk through, how can we cherish or value the good that comes our way?
It’s the battles we endure that make the victory that much sweeter, and it’s the battle wounds that show how much the victory means to us. They show what we’re willing to give up, and how far we’ll go to reach the top of the hill.
Are Dane and I meant to be fought for?
We weren’t brought together through easy circumstances, but we were certainly brought together by our hearts and what we feel for each other inside.
If we aren’t living for our hearts, then what are we even living for?
Aren’t our hearts worth being fought for?
When the canvas for a love story has blemishes before it’s even painted, it’s not so simple to cover up.
That’s how it’s felt for Dane and me. We felt defeated from the beginning because of the flawed canvas that was given to us. But maybe that just means more technique has to be used to make sure the imperfections don’t take away from the incredible artwork. Instead of seeing how we could work harder to fade the blemishes into the background, Dane and I saw them as the focal point of our painting. I’ve never taken up painting as a hobby or cared for it that much, but I’m suddenly wishing a paintbrush was the only thing in my hand right now.
I push off the railing to walk to the post in the corner to start undoing the string of the “Grand Opening” banner, and then I move to the tables to collect the centerpieces to bring them inside to place back in boxes.
