Her dark brows knit and her forehead wrinkles. “You look ruffled, Miss Fairchild.”
“I was almost crushed by a truck. About my paper?—”
“A truck? Did you say a truck?”
“Yes. It was a Ford, I believe. Not that it matters. I’m sure any truck could have done the job.” I clear my throat—my nerves are getting to me.
“Do you need a doctor?”
“Oh, no.” I shake my head. “Just a few cuts, bumps, and bruises. A car salesman fixed me right up. I’m fine. I just—” I swallow. “Professor, did you get my notes?”
Ellington huffs out a breath. “Your bullets with time stamps and notes on dead wives haunting their husbands? Yes, I got them. Are you sure you don’t need medical attention?”
“I’m sure,” I say as my knee bites with a sting. “I’m also sure there’s more to that haunting account. There has to be a whole backstory I haven’t heard yet. I’m not done asking questions about that one.”
She nods, and yet it feels like more of a head shake. “Frances?—”
“Just Fran.”
“If you want an A in this class, your research must be legitimate.”
I step toward her desk, and for three seconds, I consider sitting—but my behind tremors with an ache at the same moment, reminding me that sitting is a terrible idea. “My researchislegitimate. I believe in my theory.”
“You believe in fictional stories? There is a reason they call it fiction, Miss Fairchild.”
“Yes, the story is fictional, but the tactics and situations of the story can bring love and joy into our lives. If we lived every day?—”
“People do live. People don’t sing karaoke because of a romance film. They do it because they’re drunk and stupid.”
“But what if they did it to connect to another person? That’s why I did it.”
Ellington sighs. “So. You will continue with this research topic?”
“Yes.”
“Then, you have been warned, and I wish you good luck, Miss Fairchild.”
Rosalie sitson our living room couch while I lay myhead in her lap, a hot water bottle beneath my bum and a bandage on my left knee.
“Do you think you’d be like this if you’d grown up with parents who loved each other?” she asks, trailing her fingers through my hair fanned over her crossed legs.
“I really don’t know, Rose. Doubtful. I believed one thing because of my parents and then was introduced to a completely different truth.”
“That’s because there are multiple truths out there,” she says. “Not just one.”
“I know that.” Now. That’s the whole reason for my romance film obsession.
The Hunters. I’d never known marriage to be anything but misery and fights until I met them. They’d been married twenty years when I first walked into their home.Twenty—and yet, there was still flirting, affection, gifts, and grace in their home. They were so kind to each other. Until I spent a week in their home, I believed happiness like that in marriage to be a Hollywood lie. A fairytale. A fib the media told people to steal their money while sedating them into a couple of hours of lighthearted bliss after a dreadful day at work. What I did not realize until meeting the Hunters was that love like I’d seen on the screen existed in real life.
“So, he helps you up off the ground,” Rosalie says. “Then what happened?”
“I might have told him that my butt hurt—a lot.”
Rosalie’s eyes widen. “Well, that’s not exactly a romcom moment.”
“No. But I was in shock and pain. So much pain, Rose. I wasn’t prepared to play along with any scene.”
“You mean you were feeling real, actual feelings, and you stated those feelings? Huh. Isn’t that crazy?”
