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 Iwantedto 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’snothingwrong 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—Iamin 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’twantto do that anymore. I thought Michael had given up on us, but it wasmewho 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.
I raise a trembling hand to knock. Footsteps approach and my lungs constrict, trapping my breath. Butterflies thrash in my stomach, making me feel sick. The doorknob twists and the door swings open and my heart leaps into my throat.
Michael’s eyes meet mine. “Alex…” Concern wrinkles his brow. “Are you okay?”
What? Oh God, I must look an absolute mess. I’ve been crying since Natalie’s office and my eyes are probably puffy and red. My mascara will be in train-tracks down my face.
What the hell am I doing? This isnothow one is supposed to look when knocking on an estranged lover’s doorstep in order to win them back.
“Uh, um… I was just in the neighborhood.” I try to give him a smile, but it turns into more of a grimace.
He folds his arms across his chest, cocking his head to one side. I search his face for a hint of a smile, for some sign of happiness at my being here, but there isn’t one.
