An Unexpected Love Story: A sweet, heartwarming & uplifting romantic comedy (Falling into Happily Ever After Rom Com)

by Ellie Hall

  We eat our burgers and drink our plastic cups of root beer in silence. After he pays, he leads me to the beach. The waves gently lap the shore at low tide, exposing the spines of rocks and drooping seaweed. He looks out to sea as if he sees ships along the horizon. Just as he did when I was a little girl he asks, “Do you see?”

  I shake my head. Like always, there is only a flat line, much like the form my life has taken.

  He continues to watch, his eyes long-used to spotting ripples and wrinkles on the smooth sheen of the ocean.

  He lifts his large, meaty arm and points toward a flash of light like a mirror in the sun.

  I focus, scanning the water, and I do see a bump on the slim line between sea and sky.

  He smiles at me and we continue walking.

  I ask him about the dog.

  “He’s a good boy. Obedient. Eager to please. He likes the water. That’s a good thing.” His clipped sentences remind me he’s not a big talker. He sips the remains of his soda and then says, “You have those qualities too, Catherine.”

  “Are you comparing me to your dog?” And here I thought men were dogs.

  “I am, but not for the reasons you think. A dog wants to love and be loved.”

  I nod.

  “You want to love and be loved.”

  “Yeah, but I’m not a dog.”

  “No, you’re a beautiful young woman, full of potential, full of heart. And love is what we all want and need.”

  My eyebrows lift in question.

  “Yes, even old guys like me who’ve spent more time on steel ships around boys and men, protecting our country’s freedom than with women, consider what it means to warm the heart.”

  We walk a few more paces, leaving squishy footprints in the sand. “When did you know you loved mom?”

  He leans in and a major smile flickers on his lips. “I loved her before I knew her.”

  “Like a soul mate?” I ask.

  “Something like that. It’s my job to use my mind to know many things: how to command a fleet of warships and every dedicated seaman and sponge alike on them; how to navigate enemy waters if our communications are down; how to stand proud and serve my country; how to be a good husband and father. Catherine, I’m meant to know many things, but not everything.” He’s quiet a beat. The water matches the cadence of his breath. “For some matters, it’s best to let the heart do the knowing. Your question was when did I know I was in love with your mother?”

  I nod.

  “I was on leave and we went out for dinner and then dancing. It was a glamourous night with all of the women dressed in gowns and us guys in our dress blues. We’d only been on several dates, but each time I was at sea, I’d think of her.” He inhales the salt air. “Her hand in mine. The way she filled the space when I didn’t know what to say. How comfortable she made me. How happy...” He exhales. “I’d fallen into conversation with a few of the guys and later found her seated, alone, her eyes glassy. My heart ached right then, seeing her upset. She didn’t want to talk about what made her cry.” He shrugs. “You know, women.”

  “I’ll pretend you didn’t say that.”

  “What? I’ve spent more of my life in the company of men. Females mystify me. But right then, I knew that if I didn’t do everything in my power to alleviate whatever was hurting her heart, my own would ache so deeply I didn’t think I’d be able to stand it.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I applied for an extension, got a few more days onshore. I borrowed a buddy’s ragtop convertible, we went cruising up and down the Cape, stopping at beaches, swimming. We got to know each other. I learned what made her laugh. I found out she loves oysters even though I can’t stomach the things. I discovered her right foot is ticklish, but not her left. I realized then in those simple moments spent together, that I loved her and was in love with her. I made it my mission, from then on to never, ever see her upset as I had at that party again. I made it my job to make her heart feel happy and full in every way I know how. Sure, I’ve come up short a few times, but it’s a big job to keep Susanna Kittredge happy. I also want to see our daughter happy. It takes a big man to fill that role. I happen to know there’s a fellow out there up for the job.” He winks at me.

  Doubtful. “What upset her so much at that party?” I ask.

  “That I was leaving. That even if we were married for fifty years, for the rest of our lives, one of us would always be leaving.” Dad’s voice cracks.

  Tears crash like waves from my eyes. I wrap my arms around him. He squeezes me close.

  “That’s life,” he says.

  “So what do you do? What do you do if one of you is always leaving?” My voice barely registers above a whisper.

  “You stay, for as long as you can. Be present as much as you can. You love with everything you’ve got while you can.”

  We stand there a little longer, our eyes fixed on the horizon. Seagulls wheel through the sky, crying out as my salty tears drip into the sea.

  When we walk back to the SUV, he asks, “The Connolly boy was by the house.”

  “Which one? There are five.”

  “You know which one.”

  I bite my lip and spend the next twenty minutes recapping the story and how I’d always had a crush on Kellan, which Dad knew.

  “I didn’t think you noticed things like that.”

  Dad chuckles. “I can see those ships before they’re a blip on the horizon. You think I couldn’t spot the boy who held my daughter’s heart?”

  “But you never said anything.”

  “No, matters of the heart, I leave to the heart.”

  I tell him about the night of the funeral, sparing the private details, and everything that happened since.

  “Loss makes us draw those we care about closer. I don’t blame you for wanting to be with him.”

  “But then he left. In the story you just told, you stayed with Mom. If he cared about me as much as you did for her, why did he leave?”

  “Ah, the one that gets even the mightiest of men and women alike. Fear. I’ll put his Marine-butt to the test if you want me to.” My dad smirks.

  “Have him walk the plank.”

  “I’m not a pirate.”

  “No, you’re my dad,” I say, giving him another hug.

  “And Kellan was just a boy, but he came back a man. A little later than perhaps you would have liked, but that time apart gave you perspective, a chance to grow, and put distance between the other stuff that happened with Claire and Zach—never did like him.”

  “But—” I try to protest.

  “You’re trying to figure out the heart. It can’t be done. With all of my expertise and training and knowledge, I suggest you leave it as a mystery. Listen to it, but don’t try to command it. Don’t try to understand its whys and wherefores. Let it do its thing, keep you alive, and lead you to love.”

  “That sounds like poetry.”

  He smiles privately like he’s written his own love letters to my mom. “Love is the simplest and most complicated thing about being human. Happy Valentine’s Day. Now, how about some ice cream?”

  I shiver. “Okay, but somewhere warm.”

  My father’s version of tough love—ripping the bandage, or covers as it were—off me, getting me out of bed and the ice cream we ate in front of the roaring fire is nothing to my mother’s assignment when I return to the house.

  She sends me to the basement, presumably to clear out a space for when I move back in.

  “You’ve had these boxes down here for ages. It’s time to clean them out. Make a pile of stuff you want to get rid of and things you want to keep. She hands me a large trash bag for the former and a small shopping bag for the latter.

  I pick through ancient relics: kindergarten drawings, projects made out of pasta and glue. I find old quizzes and essays—items she saved over the years. I imagine she picked through and held onto a few keepsakes. The rest, evidence of eighteen years of my life, waits for me to recycle.
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  One particular artifact sends me rocking back on my heels and into a chair. I hold a stack of yellowed paper, folded together and stapled. The cover is a drawing of a princess and her prince. The book is titled And They Lived Happily Ever After by HRH Catherine Kittredge and HRH Claire Connolly.

  I part the brittle pages and recall the stories Claire and I wrote when we were little, how we’d fall in love with a prince—she was a physicist, mostly because she liked saying the word. I was a Nobel Prize winner for doing a very brave deed and writing about it. I can’t remember her prince’s name, but I think he sat next to me and picked his nose in Mrs. Young’s class. But I never told her that. My prince was none other than her brother, Kellan. She insisted.

  My breath catches. She claimed he loved me but said, “Shh, it’s a secret because my big brother was afraid and shy and not very princely.” She said I could change that.

  I read the story, with both of our handwriting filling the pages and a few illustrations with hilariously disproportionate arms and legs, oversized heads, and an abundance of pink ruffled gowns.

  About halfway through the book it says, Kellan is Catherine’s one true love. Catherine is Kellan’s one true love and the only thing that will come between them is a great war!!! Claire was fond of exclamation points.

  I sit back on the cold basement floor, clutching the little book to my chest. Maybe my father is right. Love just is and always has been.

  I get to my feet and rush upstairs to an empty kitchen. My mother must be out walking the dog. I read the rest of the story, remembering Claire insisted there be a problem. She said the fairytales where the princess and prince just fall in love weren’t as exciting as when they had to overcome an obstacle. I thumb through the pages but we never got past a fire-breathing dragon, a hoard of treasure, and a war between two kingdoms that wanted it for themselves. We never worked out how to get the royal highnesses to their happily ever afters.

  I love him. I hate him. One is the truth. One is a lie I’ve been telling myself for years.

  I pull out my phone, ready to call Hazel when an envelope on the table in Kellan’s handwriting catches my eye. My dad mentioned he’d been by, but it didn’t register. I swallow and open it. Inside is a plane ticket to Rome and a note that says:

  Catherine,

  I want you to know that it was you who brought me back from the brink. Your dimpled smile was like a flash of lightning, a crack of thunder, an anchor in the chaos. I said no, but now I say yes. Yes to you, yes to possibility, yes to us.

  You are my sun, my moon, my heart, my breath. You’re the one who keeps me alive. You’re the last person I think of before I go to sleep and the first person I think about when I wake up. I’m never not thinking of you. I loved you fifteen years ago, ten years ago, five, and yesterday. And I will love you tomorrow. You have my heart, the whole thing, the rest of me too, if you want. I want.

  This isn’t my first love letter to you and it won’t be the last because more than anything, I want us to get our happily ever after. Please meet me. Let’s go to romantic Rome. Please give me a chance to show you how much I love you.

  XO,

  Kellan

  I laugh. I cry. It comes so hard I ugly sob and snort, not sure how I feel except overwhelmed with hope that the war is truly over.

  I hug my parents and get on the next train to New York City. As it travels south, I open a fresh document on my laptop and finish the story Claire and I started writing all those years ago.

  When I’m done, I go to my blog and instead of wasting my time on writing up the ABCs for Tristen, I write:

  The Bookstore Boyfriend turned out to be a toad and not the kind that turns into a prince. However, I did find my prince. Well, a paper one that I realized had been there all along. We’ll call him my OTP. One true pairing.

  We, modern women, don’t need a prince, a knight in shining armor, a Romeo, or a Mr. Darcy, not necessarily. But it’s okay to accept the truth of whom we might be, to desire examples of romantic tropes, to want to feel adored and desired.

  I’d be a liar if I said I don’t like a surprise bouquet. It would be a fib to deny a sweet compliment doesn’t make me blush. A complete and utter fabrication if I denied the little thrill of a twinkling, smoldering, handsome pair of eyes on me. You couldn’t trust me if I claimed not to want a real-life book boyfriend. You’d leave this blog if I said I don’t like chocolate or sweet nothings. I want and like and need all of the above. In a three-piece suit and aftershave during the week and a perfectly worn-in pair of jeans, a baby-soft T-shirt, bare feet, and tousled hair on the weekend.

  The girl I really am wants all of these things. I’ve hidden the truth in the darkest, most frightened parts of my heart—a part of me that wanted nothing more than to protect me from further pain. It’s caused me to renounce relationships, dating, and sometimes even made me think it was a good idea to leave the house wearing a heavy winter jacket with my pajamas underneath.

  Love is paradox. Love is contrast. Love is complicated.

  I don’t understand it, my OTP, or myself any better than the next couple, but it’s up to me to own who I am without apology.

  It’s up to us. We can be modern and empowered, yet want our feet rubbed by a prince at the end of the day. We can desire our independence and have a relationship with a modern Romeo. We can be fierce warriors in the home and workplace and put on lipstick and a dress with a daring slit up the side for our guy. Wanting and having both doesn’t diminish the work we and our sisters have done to promote, empower, and gain respect for women. The greatest thing we can do for ourselves and our sisters is to be honest about our desires, to lay claim to them, and be the truest version of who we are.

  Today, that means a girl going after her guy, taking a risk, and being completely honest and vulnerable.

  I had a theory that men are like dogs. Nope. We’re all just people. Messy, complicated, big-hearted, tremendous people.

  This whole thing got started with a discussion about OTPs at a housewarming party and it turned into a dare, but the thing I know about my one true pairing is that it started long before that party and I’m on my way to see how it goes. Wish me luck.

  I’ll be signing off for now, but you can be sure, whatever happens, whether he is my OTP or it doesn’t work out and I turn back to my paperback boyfriends, I’ll keep reading and believing in love. I hope you do, too.

  I press publish and lean back but before I get too comfortable, I dial Mr. Bratte’s mainline. The recorded voice of an assistant that probably had more sense than me requests that callers leave a message.

  “Hi, Mr. Rat, sorry for the short notice. Actually, not really, but you’ll have to find someone else to get your triple, venti, soy, not sweet, no foam, latte. I quit.” I won’t be getting a positive recommendation from the firm, but that’s ok.

  I hang up with a satisfied grin.

  Taking Flight

  Kellan

  After returning from speaking with Catherine’s parents, I get ready to leave the city. The streetlights, stoplights, and shop lights are bold, Technicolor, pulsing with life. Or maybe that’s just the flame of hope.

  The wind nips my nose. However, the cold air doesn’t reach my chest, causing me to bunch my shoulders up and hinge forward, bracing myself against the chill. I stand tall. I am on a mission. Dirt and slush stain the heaped remnants of Blizzard Bob, but none of it is as vibrant as how alive and purposeful I feel.

  I’m trying to do things right this time.

  I breeze into the apartment to get my belongings. Hazel, back from her trip, curls up on the couch under a blanket. A half-eaten sandwich is on the coffee table and she doesn’t look up from the book she’s reading when I enter.

  My keys rattle on the kitchen counter, and I set my bag down with a thud. “Hello?”

  “Kellan!”

  I expected her to yoga-chop me or whatever but am practically bowled over by her enthusiasm. Maybe she hasn’t spoken to Catherine.
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br />   “Are you okay? It’s Valentine’s Day.”

  I nod slowly.

  “I picked up this little love story.” She grins. “Boy meets girl, they fall in love,—now I know why Catherine enjoys reading them so much.” She lifts both eyebrows suggestively.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know how they go.”

  She shakes her head and puts her hands on her hips. “Yep. Especially this one.”

  “Did Cat tell you?”

  “My lips are sealed. Promise. I’ll take it to the grave as long as you let me call you the Romantic Marine.”

  I shift uncomfortably, wondering what else she may have mentioned. Our horrible fight, ugly words exchanged, and Catherine banishing me from her life in this very spot rushes back full steam, extinguishing my remaining hope.

  “I love how the characters make mistakes and take risks, but in the end, hearts heal and they live happily ever after.”

  “Three acts, internal and external conflict, dialog, the funny and insightful friend.” I flash her a grin. “True love carrying the characters to the end. Blam.”

  “Cat thought you wrote this to humiliate her. It’s dripping with love, affection, adoration. You weren’t trying to expose your story or have her relive it. You wrote her a four hundred page love letter. It’s Kellan and Catherine or Xavier and Olivia as the one true pairing. OTP, baby. Which do you like better? Cathlan or Kelline or CathKel?”

  I wrinkle my nose.

  “I give you and your book five stars. About the dare, all of those other guys were just training wheels to get Cat to see that you and she are meant to be.”

  I shake my head. “She doesn’t want anything to do with me. It’s over.”