“Love at first sight exists in real life,” I fire back. “It’s rare, but it’s real.” And then I go off on my own rant aboutMarried At First Sightand the success stories and also the celebrities I’ve read about who saw their partner across the room andjust knew.
“Maybe it’s like that for some people,” Rory says. “I’m just saying that it’s not the only way. And it’s not always what lasts.” Falling silent again, he looks awkward and regretful. I get the feeling he’s not exactly prone to outbursts about love and emotions, and he doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself. “Sorry, I’m makingthis all about me,” he mutters. “I was supposed to come over and cheer you up, and all I’ve done is throw myself a pity party.”
“Well, good thing I much prefer dissecting other people’s problems than my own,” I say.
We share a look that feels like an unlocking. The softness of his golden-flecked eyes seems to extend outward, cushioning the austere angles of my flat and adding a splash of sunlight to the baren walls.
“The right person won’t compare you to the movies,” I add. “They’ll just want you to be you.” My not-so-hidden message is that Emily is not the right person for him.
“Yeah,” he says, looking glum. “I guess so.”
“I know so,” I say. “Now come on—I need help with this gelato before it melts. Scooch closer—I don’t bite.”
He straightens up at that and moves over closer toward me. Our shoulders still aren’t touching or anything, and I keep my blanket all to myself, but we sit side by side, scooping gelato from the same pint, with separate spoons.
“Forget the beer,” Rory says. “This is my kind of pint.”
“Same.” It feels good to be sober tonight. I’m more in control of myself, less likely to spiral into the depths of despair or do anything I’d regret in the morning.
Like kissing Rory.
It’s not that I’m tempted to do that; it’s just that I think I might be if I were drunk. But that’s not saying much, as I’m apparently tempted to get frisky with anyone when I’ve been drinking. Even Harold. I shudder as I think about it.
“You okay?” Rory asks.
“Yeah,” I say, and I mostly mean it. “All good.”
A bit of gelato drips onto Rory’s sweater. “Dang it,” he says, looking stressed, though it’s only a tiny mark.
He’s someone who doesn’t like things out of place. Like how he sits on the exact same seat on the bus every morning and meticulously washed every dish after Thanksgiving. I feel a rush of compassion for how hard it would be to have to have everything be so neat and orderly.
I offer to let him use the washing machine, but he says he’ll just handwash it. Taking off his sweater, he wrings it out under the sink, then hangs it on the clothes rack in the corner of my flat. In just his thin undershirt, his lean arms show through. He’s not as big or muscular as I’d imagined Alexander, but his wiry physique is more approachable, the kind of build that holds up over time.
When he sits back down, I toss half the blanket his way so he won’t be cold. And then, following the prod of my intuition, I lean my head on his shoulder, repurposing it into a pillow. His shoulder is bony and shouldn’t be comfortable, but it is. Incredibly so.
Rory doesn’t pull away or nudge me off, so I stay there, liking the view of the TV from this angle. Everything looks a little bit brighter, a little less sharp. The light makes me sleepy. My eyelids droop, and I have to keep them from closing altogether. “Thanks for being here,” I mumble into Rory’s T-shirt.
“Of course,” he says. “What’re friends for?”
Right,I think to myself.Friends.The word should reassure me, but it irritates me instead—how it circles my brain, swooping down into my body and nipping at my heart, asking for more.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
By the time I wake up the next morning, rain tapping against the slate roof like a staccato metronome, I’m back to being convinced that Rory and I could only ever be just friends.
Sure, maybe I ever so briefly wondered what it would be like to be with him when we were sitting on the couch. And okay,fine, maybe I reread our old texts after he left. And yes, alright, there’s a non-zero chance that I went to bed wondering what it would be like to fall asleep curled up in his arms. But people have crazy thoughts all the time, which have little to no correlation with their actual desires. Sometimes the mind just goes rogue and entertains things for the shock factor. Or because you’re drained and exhausted and not thinking clearly, which I definitely was after the whole promotion debacle.
Yes, Rory is someone I feel comfortable with. But comfortable is not what I want in my love life. Comfortable is basically a synonym for complacent and an antonym for romance.
I imagine a conversation with my future husband.
What’s your favorite thing about our relationship, darling?he asks. (His voice is still British.)
Oh you know,I reply.That we’re comfortable.
Even imagining that dialogue leaves me in a panic. Like I’ve failed to find that soul-quaking love.
The whole scenario that I might “like-like” Rory is absurd. And even if, hypothetically speaking, Ididhave feelings for him, it would be a moot point because he’s still in love with Emily, and all signs point to their getting back together over Christmas.
