by Jen Morris
Geoff leaves me to lock up for the evening, and I’m relieved when it’s time to head home. It’s been good to be back at work, but my heart is feeling heavy after thinking about Michael. I wonder if he’s thinking about me, or if he’s just gone back to his old, grumpy self. He said I helped him to be more optimistic, to feel good. But when I think about the hurt we caused each other, I can’t see how that can be true.
I’m just locking up the store, ready to schlep myself home, when I see him. He’s standing across the street in a pool of light from a street lamp, his beanie on his head, his hands in his coat pockets.
My eyes lock onto his and my heart lurches. It’s only been a week, but I’d forgotten how handsome he is. I’d forgotten how tall he is, how broad his shoulders are, how masculine and sexy his beard is, how beautiful his espresso eyes are. It all comes rushing back in that moment as I step out of the bookstore and pull the door shut behind me with trembling hands.
“Hi,” he says uncertainly, approaching me.
“Hello.” I rip my gaze away from him and stuff my keys into my bag. I’m afraid that if I look at him, I’ll either burst into tears or start yelling. I’m not sure which would be worse.
“Do you have a moment to talk?”
I nod, trying to make sense of the cyclone of emotions inside me. I know I should be mad at him. I should be telling him I don’t want to see him, that he hurt me and let me down. But the main thing I’m feeling is misery. Somehow, I’m missing him more than ever now that he’s right in front of me.
“Alex, I’m sorry.” His voice breaks and I look up in surprise. “I promised to respect your writing—to support your decision—and I broke that promise. I dismissed your feelings about your parents and that was wrong. I shouldn’t have told you to just forget it. I know it’s not that easy.”
My throat constricts with emotion. After my conversation with Harriet I’ve come to see Michael was right about my parents, I just didn’t want to admit it to myself. But seeing the anguish on his face now, I feel the anger I’ve been keeping stored inside dissipate, like the mist from our breath in the freezing air.
“I should never have told you to give up the column. I was way out of line and I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you or make you feel like I wasn’t taking your writing seriously. Because I do take it seriously, and I do care about what matters to you.”
The sincerity in his eyes sends a tiny ripple of that familiar warm sensation through me; the one I felt when things were good with us, when he made me feel understood. But now it’s bittersweet, because everything is different.
“And you were right about me needing to stand up to Melanie,” Michael continues, his gaze sliding down to his hands. “I let her push me around for so long because I was afraid that Henry would get caught between us, but what you said was right. I don’t want him to see me as a coward.” His Adam’s apple dips as he swallows, and his jaw tightens. It’s then that I realize he’s holding back tears.
My heart squeezes and I know I have to say something or I’m going to burst. “I wasn’t trying to say you’re a bad father. I know Mel says that and she makes you feel awful but, truly, I think you’re a great dad. I didn’t mean to make you feel like you aren’t.”
His gaze meets mine. “I know. I was just angry. Not even at you—at Melanie, for making everything so difficult, all the time. And I shouldn’t have taken that out on you. But you are nothing like her,” he says fiercely. His eyes roam my face and his expression softens. “Because, despite what you think, I do know you.”
I give him a slow, sad nod, feeling the sting of tears behind my eyes. Seeing him now, hearing his words… I really want to believe him. I want to get back to that place where I felt so seen and so safe with him, where I believed everything would work out. But I don’t know how.
“Melanie told me she spoke to Justin,” Michael says. “I’m sorry if you lost the job because of me. I never intended for that to happen. I shouldn’t have pushed you to be with me.”
There’s a sharp pain in my heart. How could he say that? He never pushed me to be with him. I wanted all of it—all of him. I still do. I open my mouth to say as much but the words lodge in my throat. How do I say that after I told him I was choosing my writing instead? What could make up for that? And worse—what if, after everything, he doesn’t want me anymore?
I force myself to meet his gaze. “I didn’t lose the job.”
“You didn’t?”
“No.” I’m quiet for a moment, then I draw a wobbly breath. “Michael, you were right. The column… I was doing it for the wrong reasons, and you could obviously see that when I couldn’t. I told Justin I don’t want to write about being single and he’s given me something else. And, even though it was hard to hear, you were right about my parents, too. I need to let go of what they think.”
“Yeah, but…” He grimaces. “I should never have said it the way I did. I didn’t mean to hurt you like that.”
I give a little nod, searching his sad eyes. How could I have thought this man didn’t know me, didn’t support me? I’m desperate to find some words, to find a way to ask him if there’s any chance—
“Anyway,” he mumbles, staring down at the sidewalk, “I just… I had to come and apologize. I didn’t want to end things like that.”
End things.
The words ring in my ears, so final, and my heart drops into my stomach.
“My life is too complicated. It—” His voice catches and he stops, swallowing hard. “It wasn’t fair to ask you to get involved with all that.”
I wrench my gaze away, trying to ignore the pain ripping through me. Fuck, if I thought it hurt being away from him, I was wrong. Having him right here—and knowing he’s given up on me, on us—hurts so much I can’t breathe.
And now we’re just standing woodenly across from each other, separated by a thick wall of regret. He’s said his piece and I know I should go, but I can’t bring myself to walk away from him. So I say the only thing I can think of.
“I’m going to do something with my romance novel.”
Michael’s brow lifts. “Oh, wow. What are you thinking?”
“I don’t know.” I stuff my hands in my coat pockets. “I’ll try submitting it to some literary agents, see if anyone is interested.” I shiver, watching my breath come out in a cloud in front of me in the cold night air. I’d give anything to step forward into Michael’s arms right now, to snuggle into the warmth of him, to have his touch soothe and comfort me. But I know I can’t.
I clear my throat. “How’s Henry?”
“He’s good. Keeps asking about you.” A ghost of a smile passes over Michael’s mouth and my heart cracks right down the middle. I try to look away but I can’t; I just keep staring at Michael, silently begging him to say something to fix it all, something to give me the tiniest drop of hope. But he isn’t going to, because life isn’t a fairy tale and things don’t work out when you fuck them up this badly.
I can’t believe I was so stupid to ruin this. This whole time I thought he didn’t understand me, didn’t care about my writing, and now that I know I was wrong I just want to sob. Sharp, bitter misery slices through me, splintering my heart, and I tear my gaze from his as my vision blurs.
“I have to go,” I mutter. I can’t stand here for another second, pretending to have a normal conversation when my ribcage is crushing my lungs in despair.
He stiffens in front of me. “Alex—”
“Goodbye, Michael,” I say, my voice strangled with tears. I don’t let myself look at him again as I turn on my heel and trudge away. As soon as I’m around the corner, the dam bursts and the tears spill down my cheeks.
45
They say that things heal with time, but I don’t buy it. It’s been a week since Michael came to see me at the bookstore and I don’t feel better in the slightest.
The only thing that has helped is being contacted by Hatfield Literary Agency this morning. I was surprised when they called, beca
use I haven’t done a single thing with my manuscript, but Geoff has lots of contacts through the store. He’s been banging on about how great he thinks my novel is, and obviously believes in it a great deal if he’s gone out of his way to get it into the hands of an agent. If I’m lucky, they’re calling me in here as more than just a favor to Geoff.
And if I’m really lucky, this will distract me from thinking about Michael.
My stomach pinches with nerves as I glance around the lobby of the Midtown building where I’m meeting Natalie from Hatfield Agency. The marble floor gleams in the afternoon sunlight that streams in through the huge glass windows, making the expansive space too bright. It’s one of those winter days that looks beautiful, but is so cold and crisp you can’t be outside for long.
I pull my phone out, checking the time. I’m early, so I fire off a text to Emily.
Alex: Guess where I am right now? Meeting with a literary agent about my romance novel. Eek!
Emily: Oh hon, that’s amazing!
Alex: Yeah. I’m a bit nervous. Don’t know what to expect.
Emily: Don’t be nervous. Just be your lovely self and you’ll wow them! Your book is awesome and they’d be idiots not to love it.
Despite myself, I smile, feeling my nerves settle a little. I emailed a copy of my novel to Emily a few days ago and she’s been sending me inappropriate emojis to show me how much she’s enjoying it. Needless to say, there have been quite a few eggplants in my inbox.
I slip my phone away as a slim woman comes striding across the lobby towards me, her patent black heels clicking on the marble. She’s wearing dress pants and a cute polka-dot blouse, her auburn hair pulled up in a bun, and black square-rimmed glasses on her button nose. She reminds me a little of Harriet, and I immediately like her.
“Alex?”
I stand, extending a hand. “Yes. Hello.”
“Natalie. Thanks for coming in.” She takes my hand with a smile. “I’m excited to discuss your novel with you. Let’s go upstairs.” She heads for the elevators and I follow her inside. “How long have you been querying it?”
“Er—” I smooth my hands down my dress, trying not to sound as clueless as I feel. “Not long?”
“Well, I think you have something great here.”
A thrill runs through me but I give her a casual smile, wanting to play it cool. The elevator pings as we arrive at our floor and I follow Natalie to a glass-walled office. By the time I’m sitting opposite her desk, I’m effervescent with excitement. I can’t believe I’m here, meeting with a literary agent who likes my novel.
“So, I loved it.” Natalie picks up a pen and twirls it. “I love the story and the characters, especially this Matthew character. Boy is he dreamy!” She giggles, pretending to fan herself.
I quickly force a laugh, even though my throat tightens at the mention of Matthew—or as I know him, Michael.
“He sounds sexy, but also sweet. It’s good to get a balance of the two.”
There’s a familiar sting behind my eyes and I nod, looking down at my hands. Yes, it is. And it’s not easy to find.
“I love how we see Matthew and Annie grow and fall in love,” Natalie says, grinning. “And the ending is gorgeous.”
“I guess,” I mutter, swallowing against the sudden scratchiness in my voice. “But it doesn’t always work out like that, does it?”
“Well…” She chews the end of her pen in thought. “Not always, no. But happy endings can—and do—happen. There’s nothing wrong with expecting it to work out.”
There’s a pang my heart. “Yes, there is,” I mumble, and Natalie raises an eyebrow.
Shit.
“Uh, what I mean is…” I stammer, scrambling for something reasonable to say without bursting into tears. God, why am I on the verge of tears now? “You know, sometimes people grow apart, or they have differing values, or it’s just not meant to be.”
“Of course. But there are also plenty of instances where people do work things out, where love conquers all. Surely, if you’re writing a romance novel, you must believe that?”
I let out a deep, sad sigh. As Natalie gazes at me, I feel my defenses begin to crumble down, until I’m forced to confront that part of me I’ve been running from. Because the truth is I want to believe that—I certainly used to. I’ve dreamed for years of having my own happily ever after. It’s just that lately, I’ve begun to worry that won’t be part of my story.
“Well, I’ve always believed that,” Natalie says wistfully. “When love is true, there’s nothing it can’t overcome. That’s why I love these books. They teach us that it’s okay to believe in love, to want the fairy-tale ending. Because if you don’t believe in it, you’ll never get it.”
There’s nothing crazy about believing in love.
Michael’s words from our visit to Strand bookstore come back to me, and I remember the way I felt, standing in the poetry aisle, thinking about how cynical I’d gotten. I decided that I wanted to believe in love.
But I haven’t been, have I? I fought Michael every step of the way. And the minute things got real, I put my walls up and retreated, using my writing or my parents or whatever else I could find as an excuse. In fact, ever since my birthday, I’ve done everything I can to deny what I truly want, to keep love at bay.
And it found me anyway.
Realization rushes over me and I look down at my hands, blinking against tears. I finally found the one happily ever after I wanted more than anything and I destroyed it myself. All because I was scared—scared that maybe I didn’t deserve the thing I wanted so badly. Scared that Michael was too good to be true and I’d end up disappointed all over again.
“That’s not the only reason I love these books,” Natalie continues, bringing my attention back to her. “They also teach us that it’s okay for women to want the things they want, you know? When I was younger, I saw romance novels as a guilty pleasure. People used to tell me they gave women unreasonable expectations. But what’s so unreasonable about wanting to be loved, wanting to be happy? Nothing.” She chuckles. “And there’s nothing wrong with wanting great sex.”
I can’t help a rueful little smile to myself. I’ve felt ashamed for years for wanting the things I’ve read about in romance novels—a man I love, a career that fulfills me, sex that rocks my world. Everyone had always told me that was too much to ask for.
But Natalie’s right. I think of the shit I’ve settled for in the past—the job that left me feeling empty, the men who did nothing more than the bare minimum. Hell, I used to think it was unreasonable to hope for an orgasm during sex, until I met Michael. When I reflect on those things, I realize I was settling because I thought I didn’t deserve the things I really wanted.
And now I can see that I’m not just miserable because I miss Michael and I fucked everything up with him. I’m hurting because I let myself down, by continually denying what I want and who I am. I’m a romantic, and I want love—true, deep, passionate love. I can’t keep turning away from my optimistic, sensitive, dreamy side. Those are the parts of myself I’ve been trying to ignore—the parts, I think, Michael cherished the most. I was just too scared to believe him.
I meet Natalie’s gaze, trying to keep my voice steady. “But what if… what if Annie messed everything up?”
Natalie gives me a bemused look. “Well… if that happened she’d fix it, because she’s in love with him.”
Fuck.
Her words hit me hard in the chest and I feel as if I’ve been punched. She’s right—I am in love with him. I haven’t wanted to admit that to myself, but I can’t keep running from it. I’m so in love with him it hurts. I miss him so much, it feels like I’m split open and bleeding everywhere. I thought by now the pain might be dying down, but it’s not. Not even a little bit.
“Annie wouldn’t let Matthew walk away,” Natalie says. “If you’re in love with someone, you fight for them. These stories teach you to fight for the things you want—to fight for your happily ever after.
”
I let my watery eyes meet hers, and as she gazes at me gently, it almost feels like she isn’t talking about Matthew and Annie at all anymore.
Fight for your happily ever after.
Her words play on a loop in my head, imprinting themselves along the synapses in my brain. And I realize, slowly, that I never once fought for my happily ever after. I did the exact opposite.
God, how did I not see this? I fought for the other things I wanted—my writing, New York—but not for my dream of falling in love. I was too busy denying I even wanted it.
But I can’t do that anymore. I don’t want to do that anymore. I thought Michael had given up on us, but it was me who had given up. He came to see me and apologize—and I didn’t tell him how I feel. I didn’t tell him that I love him, that I don’t care if his life is complicated, that I don’t want things to be over. I didn’t tell him that, more than anything, I just want to be with him.
I didn’t fight for him at all.
“Natalie,” I say, rushing to my feet. “I have to go.”
46
Thirty minutes later, I find myself standing in front of my old apartment building, shaking from more than just the bitter cold. I was worried Natalie would think I was unprofessional, cutting our meeting short, but boy was I wrong. When I told her that I was going to declare my love to someone, she nearly burst with excitement. She assured me that she wanted to work with me, despite the fact that I was fleeing our meeting in a frenzy, then made me promise to tell her all the details as she hurried me out the door.
Now, I look up at Michael’s windows, glowing in the fading evening light. Snow is beginning to fall, but it’s nothing compared to the fire inside me, burning to tell Michael how I feel. I climb the front steps and with each footfall, determination drives me forward, faster, until I’m taking the stairs two at a time. I’m breathless by the time I’m at his door, but that’s not why my heart is beating so wildly.
