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

by Ellie Hall

  “Oma, how are you feeling?” The words are stilted.

  Despite hearing the rumors that the nurses and staff at the hospital call me the handsome doctor, I’m not known for my bedside manner. I like to get straight to the point.

  It’s like she remembers to breathe. “Fine,” she answers.

  I scoop up a loose ball of crimson yarn and place it by her side. After turning down the TV, droning in the background, I take a seat. Several times, I’ve tried to initiate a conversation of apology. But the I’m sorry for being difficult, rude, for not understanding her ways, repeatedly catches in my throat. Not because it isn’t true, but because I’m afraid she won’t reply in kind.

  “We’re going to town to watch the fireworks tonight. Do you want to come?”

  Oma’s excursions are infrequent, at least when I’m around, except for trips to the grocery store. When I was younger, she’d occasionally get together with other women from Latvia. They’d play cards, eat radishes like jellybeans, and laugh like they’d never left home, but I haven’t seen them since.

  “Have you eaten anything?” she asks.

  I exercise restraint as she criticizes me for giving up on cooking after making the pīrāgī, but shake my head because instead of food, the magic of two lips meeting has consumed me.

  It’s like another decade passes before she replies.

  “Lāči,” she says.

  Black bread. Tears stain my memories as they return with the toasted scent of espresso beans, shredded carrot, and caraway baking to form a rich, crusty loaf.

  All those years ago, I sat in my room, waiting for my mother to call me for dinner. I studied the horizon, craning my neck around the peaks of roofs and corners of buildings dust-coated in the twilight. I could see the Baltic where the invisible line separating earth and sky and sea went from straight, as though drawn by a steady hand, to squiggly closer to the sea. I waited and waited, my stomach rumbling with hunger, but my mother didn’t call me downstairs. The door didn’t open and close, warding off the stiff winter wind.

  I was alone.

  I waited there until tears made the whole world look wavy and blurry. Finally, Oma appeared, taking me by the hand, leading me, on foot, back to her house. Inside, the fire blazed, the assertive smell of black bread forced me to leave the darkness outside. Oma fixed me a plate with a warm slice of lāči topped with a thick slice of cheese. She told me it would be okay.

  It wasn’t.

  “You must learn patience. Be patient with the process. Then again, I’m still learning myself even at this age,” Oma says.

  If I were to see my reflection, my eyes would be pleading, my face a blank canvas. What is she talking about? “Explain, Oma. Please.”

  “When you were a baby, I called you my little owl, maz puce, because of your wide eyes and the way you’d look around so keenly, as though taking everything in. Some of us are talkers, some of us listeners, some of us watchers.” She winks like she falls into the latter category.

  “Little owl?” I ask, not knowing she ever had an affectionate name for me never mind an affectionate bone in her body.

  “My little owl is in love.” Oma erupts in laughter, her face, all peaks and valleys, bright and young as the merry sound I’ve rarely heard from her issues forth as though I’m the most hilarious comedian she’s ever heard.

  I study her carefully, wondering if something is lost in translation. But her eyes twinkle and the laughter is still on her lips and then my mouth parts and her grin widens. I realize laughter is universal, a global language and then we’re both laughing, something we’ve never really done together.

  Lottie comes into the living room with a plate of cupcakes. “These didn’t quite make the cut and are the rejects. But they’re still delicious.” Then her foot catches on the carpet under the coffee table and she pitches forward.

  I get to my feet and catch her, using my bad arm. Thankfully, it doesn’t hurt at all. But we both watch helplessly as the cupcakes sail into the air. One lands on the couch. Another on the floor. The third right in Oma’s hand.

  All three of us laugh, filling the house with a sound rarely heard. Magnolia trots in and sits by Lottie’s feet, looking up as if to say This is new. Are we doing this now? Can I have a cupcake? I scratch her behind the ears.

  After cleaning up, we head out to watch the fireworks. The sun fades to the west, casting the ocean in purple shadow. A curtain of clouds hovers overhead. I breathe the salt air, balancing on the edge of telling Lottie about my mother, the black bread, and everything that came before and after.

  Cars line the road as we near the waterfront. Grilled peppers and onions, hotdogs, the scent of barbecues, and sunshine hang in the air.

  “This is a great way to cap off our spring break,” Lottie says, lacing her arm through mine.

  We shuffle past laughter and the snap-pop of firecrackers.

  She spots Zoe on a blanket, her head resting in Jared’s lap.

  “Apparently, they’ve been a couple on and off. Lately, it’s been more on, which, if you ask me, has thrown Zoe off, or so it seems. She forgot to add salt to her last batch of cookies, messed up an order for one of the churches in town—chocolate chip, only instead she used raisins—along with vanishing into the kitchen for long periods with Jared when I’ve stop by the Roasted Rudder.”

  “He’s bad news.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Before I can answer, Zoe pops up and waves at us.

  Lottie waves back as I pull her in the other direction, pretending I didn’t notice.

  We find a spot, slightly away from the crowd. I lean against a fence and Lottie plants herself in front of me, leaning against my chest as we look up, up, up.

  Rockets of light fill the sky, their mirror image sparkling off the water below, enveloping me in a treasure chest of brilliance. They boom and crackle so loud my thoughts vanish. When the smoke from the fireworks ghosts away, chatter and laughter fill the quiet. My thoughts return, landing on Oma and our arrival here on the fourth of July so many years ago.

  As much as this is my home, I spent the first years of my life another world away, a place where freedom was a relatively new notion, where my mother sleeps eternally, and my heart wanders, looking for a place to rest.

  Lottie tips her head back, looking at me upside down. She’s perfect even from this angle.

  “It’s good to be home,” I say.

  “So you like it here after all.”

  “I like it with you.”

  We walk along the beach as groups of hockey fans celebrate, reminding me of Independence day. Bottle rockets head skyward, people tailgate and grill, and a few guys with water guns dowse anyone who comes too close.

  I shield Lottie when a stream comes her way.

  “Thank you. It’d be my luck to get squirted in the crotch, making it look like I wet my pants,” she says.

  We pause for a moment. Together, we’re reversing her bad luck and writing our own story. I lose track of what I was thinking about being back here, playing hockey, and the future as I dissolve into the way her lips light me up on the inside, exploding like the fireworks in the sky.

  Someone catcalls and hoots. A few of the benchwarmers from the team call us over.

  Lottie’s cheeks flame and she tightens the hood around my sweatshirt that she’s wearing again.

  Then a shout and Zoe’s voice sob-shouts into the night.

  I go from casual to on alert and march, with the other guys from the team, toward the sound.

  Zoe stands next to a beat-up pickup truck with her hair sticking out at odd angles and her skin tinged yellow in the light flooding from overhead. She wipes her eyes when she sees us.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “Nothing. Never mind. It’s no big deal.”

  “Zoe.” Lottie’s voice is low and knowing as Jared slams his truck door.

  “He was kissing someone else. It doesn’t matter,” she whispers.

  “Do I
have business here?” I ask, stomping over to the truck window.

  “No. Come on. Let’s go,” Zoe says.

  “I’ve been looking for an excuse to punch that guy.”

  Zoe grips my shirt, pulling me to the sidewalk. “Let’s just get out of here.”

  Lottie catches up to us.

  Zoe bows her head, not meeting my eyes, but says, “Russell, would you mind bringing me home? I’d like to talk to you privately.” She clears her throat.

  Lottie says, “I’ll just head home.”

  “No, we’ll go together.” My tone is firm, final.

  Zoe eyes Lottie and her expression pinches.

  “I’m not going to let that guy hurt you or disrespect you, but this isn’t high school, Zoe. I’m not playing games. Lottie and I are together. End of story.” Only, it’s the beginning. I hope.

  I catch my reflection in the window of a car. My posture is rigid, my brow low and imposing. If I were Jared, I’d have peeled away too.

  “Never mind.” Zoe’s back curves as she hugs herself.

  Lottie says, “Zoe, whatever it is, it’s okay. We can talk...or I can go.”

  She looks up at me with wide eyes as if to ask if she should leave.

  I give a slight shake of my head and take her hand.

  “Easy for you to say, Lottie. You’re so pretty and perfect. You have everything in your life figured out and aren’t stuck in this stupid town.”

  Lottie steps back and shakes her head. “I’m not pretty or perfect and don’t have anything figured out.”

  A growl rises in my throat. “Come on, Zoe. We’ll bring you home.”

  She gets in the back of the Maserati with a little stumble. The silence is thick as I drive slowly through the streets, knowing the hockey fans in Seaswell well enough that there was drinking along with the celebrating.

  “At my last job, which I quit, my coworkers called me Unlucky Lottie.” She goes on to list at least ten unlucky things that happened to her in the last five months. “My life is far from perfect.”

  Zoe exhales. “More than anything, I feel stuck here. I just want to get away. When Jared and I first started dating, we made all these plans. We were going to go to Boston or New York, find an apartment, I’d take classes, work at a café, he’d do, well, he hadn’t figured it out yet. But it’s like if I break it off with him, I’m giving up on that dream.”

  “You do realize—” I start.

  “Yes, of course, I realize I can go without him, but I’m also giving up the person I was when I made that plan. I’d be going there as a different version of myself. I guess, I don’t exactly know who that is.” Zoe’s voice fades as I think about coming and going.

  I left here for similar reasons, and realize how much I’ve changed since leaving. I left some of the best parts of myself behind...and a few ugly ones as well.

  “I guess we all have stories we tell ourselves,” Lottie says. “But it’s up to us to decide which ones are true.” She clears her throat. “I was the maid of honor at a wedding and accidentally called the bride by his ex’s name. In my defense, she and I had been best friends in grade school. Then there was the time I accidentally tinkled a little in public. Rather that than a bladder infection.”

  Before long, we’re all laughing at Lottie’s stories of so-called woe. That’s the thing about my not-fake girlfriend. She’s so generous. She could’ve told Zoe to get lost. Instead, she’s leaning into the challenge. I’m wondering if I can be so generous with the one thing I have to give, my heart.

  After dropping Zoe off at her house, I drive back to Starboard. When I turn off the car, we remain in our seats.

  “It was big of you to go to Zoe’s defense. To still be there for her after all this time.” She gets out of the car and goes into the house.

  I remain in the driver’s seat, wondering why I didn’t go after Lottie because what I heard in her comment was a question. She was asking if I still have feelings for Zoe. No, definitely not. Not even a little bit, but I know exactly how my ex feels about being stuck. I’m the one who got lucky and left. Who met Lottie. Who fell in love. Real, true love. But I’m scared about just how big these feelings are. And what might happen if I tell her.

  15

  Dog House

  Lottie

  I collapse into bed, the scent of sea spray and the smoke of fireworks on Rusty’s sweatshirt, inviting me to the recent memory of his lips. But there’s an uncertain question there too. He rushed to Zoe’s defense. Would he go to mine? In the past, I needed someone in my corner and found myself alone. The scar is a constant reminder, despite what Zoe said about me being pretty.

  I’m a practiced coper. Just smile and pretend that everything is okay. Show my best side to the world. Meanwhile, worries and uncertainties creep around in my head, casting doubt. I can’t help fear that Rusty and Zoe still hold a candle for each other. I only hope it’s just my insecurities talking.

  I drift to sleep, my insides icy, slippery as my thoughts slide into the past.

  Tangled in the sheets and sticky with sweat from a dream, I wake up. The clock on my phone says that it’s four a.m. The moon paints a checkered pattern on the wood floor. Magnolia sits in her crate, alert. Her dark eyes gleam. I sit up and we both turn toward the door.

  A squeak lifts the hair on the back of my neck.

  The ninth step.

  I silently open the crate, signaling Magnolia remains quiet but ready. The door opens and the room brightens slightly from the dim hall.

  Rusty’s large frame fills the doorway. He’s disheveled, but his eyes are clear, a contrast to the shadows rimming them. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “So you decided to wake up me and my attack dog?”

  “Your attack dog?” he whispers.

  “Oma refuses to let Magnolia in her room and...” I trail off.

  Rule number nine-hundred-something of the Home-Hund company, do not let the dog sleep in your room. But it isn’t lost on me that the dog-grandma bonding situation isn’t working out.

  “At least she’s in her crate. What are you doing up?” I ask.

  Rusty snorts. “I was trying to be quiet. Going downstairs. Hungry.”

  There he goes speaking in short, clipped sentences again like when we first met. “And now I’m grumpy.”

  “Missing your beauty rest, Cupcake?”

  This time, I snort.

  His gaze lands on me, hard. “What? You are beautiful. I’ve told you that. Zoe said it.”

  “She said I was pretty. Anyway, it’s well past the hour for a midnight snack. If you wait a little while, it’ll be time for breakfast.”

  “Good point. Do you want to watch the sunrise?” he asks.

  “Well, I’m already awake.” I soften, tug his sweatshirt over my head, and clip on Magnolia’s collar.

  I couldn’t claim to be a dog lover or call her my fur baby, but my initial fears dissipate the more Magnolia proves her loyalty...to me. Not Oma. A big problem.

  Rusty guides us toward the ocean. We huddle together under a blanket he grabbed from the sofa as the moonlight dances on the incoming waves.

  Despite what he’s said about his bedside manner, his presence is calm and soothing. A rock if there ever was one, but a rock that’s been sitting in the sun all day. Even though he’s spent a lot of time playing ice hockey, he warms me through.

  “Anything on your mind?” I ask. “Do you feel good about tomorrow’s game?”

  His shoulder lifts, disturbing the blanket. His arm wraps around me like he needs an anchor, a rock.

  “My father used to play hockey. He was a real bruiser. Had a few too many concussions and drank to keep the headaches and regret of a lost career away. When my mother found out she was pregnant, he didn’t stick around. I never met my father.”

  “I’m sorry, Rusty.”

  “They hadn’t married either. Interestingly, my mother named me after him. Russell. But she kept her last name—Koenig. She wasn’t Latvian.”

 
At this early hour, it takes me a long moment to understand. “Does that mean Oma was his mother?” I always just assumed Valda was his mother’s mother.

  He nods. “My mother passed away. Reluctantly, Oma took me in, I guess. I never met family on either side other than her. Nonetheless, she pushed me into hockey. Maybe a secret part of her hoped he would someday return—or I’d make the pros and he’d walk proudly back into our lives.”

  I want to hold this man in my arms, stave away the pain he must carry. “I can’t imagine how hard that must be.”

  A sad smile tugs his lips toward a frown. “I’ve never told anyone about him. It was like if I told the story, the words would turn into a solid mass, like a book.”

  “But it’s not fiction.”

  “The thing is, I don’t know much more than that.”

  “Only the things you’ve told yourself. Assumed. Rusty, have you been telling yourself a story, kind of like how I did with the scar. I’ve let it affect my self-worth and the way I see myself. This mark on my face has led my life. Kept me from things, people, experiences...” I pause, thinking about how best to say the next bit as the waves flow velvety on the sand, tempering the quiet. “We’re not our pasts. We’re who we are right now. Everything that happens now informs the future, but we get to decide who that is. I guess I don’t want you to get caught up in a lie if you’ve been telling yourself one.”

  “Thank you for listening,” his voice is like a volume dial turned low, leaving room for the salt and pepper dawn.

  I feel like we’re singing a quiet, but meaningful love song at dawn, filled with promise, of hope, not for broken hearts, but for ourselves, friendship, and each other.

  “Sometimes when I watch the sunrise, it’s like a song, singing me awake, reminding me what’s important. If there were lyrics to it, they’d be this: we’re only as limited as we think we are. The sunrise or sunset, the night or cloudy skies can’t hem us in.”

  Rusty tilts his head to face me. “You’re a part of my story I never expected. The best part. If we had a love song what would it be called?”