Another stretch of calm fell between us as she rearranged a few letters. Her thoughts seemed far from the game, however.
“Is it a job that would make you happy?” I asked.
She frowned. “I don’t know. I think so. I mean . . . I’m concerned that it’s based out of Florida because I missed my sisters so much when I was away for college, but I guess I’ll have to deal with that.”
“What does make you happy?”
Why I asked, I had no idea, but a hint of color appeared in her cheeks, so I didn’t regret it. For a moment, I thought she’d change the subject, but then she laid down her letters. L-O-V-E. Her eyes slammed into mine like a wall of bricks.
“What makes me happy? Well, that’s easy. My wall of romance books at home in the Frolicking Moose.”
“You have a wall of books?”
“Last count was 956.”
“What?” I leaned back. “That’s incredible!”
“They’re all romance.”
I almost laughed, then realized she was serious. Instead, I managed to only lift my eyebrows. “Wait, what?”
“I have almost a thousand romance novels.” She grinned. “They make me so happy.”
“Romance makes you happy?”
“Deeply.”
Stunned, I could only blink for a moment. “Do tell.”
“Romance is a lifesaver.”
If I hadn’t been curious before, I was utterly transfixed now. Instead of considering my tiles, I just stared at her. Living with Mark for the last thirty years meant I’d heard a lot of crazy things, but not that.
Never that.
“Please,” I said, “explain.”
She grinned. “Gladly. That cheesy saying that love makes the world go round? I actually believe that. I think romance saves lives. It enhances. We crave it all the way to the marrow of our bones. Look at Hollywood. At the top music charts. Everyone talks, acts, and sings about love.”
“Well, it sells, right?”
“Yes! You prove my point.”
“That proves nothing except people want it and they pay for it.”
“Love and romance are built inside us.” She pressed a hand to her heart. “They’re instincts.”
I scoffed. “Love and romance are totally different.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Are they?”
My response faltered before I decided to sidestep that and focus on something else. Because I honestly didn’t know. Romance and I were not friends. Not since my ex-girlfriend Stacey pulled my heart out with her bare hands and stomped on it. Love?
Even worse.
“Have you ever been in love?” I asked.
The expression on her face dimmed. “No.”
“In a relationship?”
She shook her head.
Interesting that someone of her intelligence would buy into such a . . . naive scheme. Doubly interesting that she’d never been in a relationship. What kind of idiots at her college had let her go? Then again, if she’d never been heartbroken, maybe it was easy to hold on to the hope that storybook romance was real.
“Can you tell me why you think it saves lives?” I asked.
“In the same way that anything good saves lives. Maybe it inspires hope. Stops people from doing something stupid. Helps someone feel like they belong. Creates safety.” Her angled jaw highlighted the challenge in her stare. I wondered if she was upset by my questions. She seemed nothing but determined.
“Inspiring hope doesn’t save lives.”
“What if you’re on the verge of suicide but you find hope again through love?”
My mouth opened, then closed. She stared hard at me now. Did she want me to protest, or something? Because I would, once I found my voice again. This was the most ridiculous thing I’d ever heard.
“Romance also destroys,” I said.
She tilted her head. “In what way?”
“Romance is just as destructive as it is hopeful. What about hearts that get crushed? Relationships that don’t make it? Love that’s one-sided? Romance is the kind of thing people never recover from in the worst way.”
Lizbeth regarded me for a second. The question seemed to hover on the tip of her tongue. Who broke your heart, JJ? I imagined her asking.
But I wouldn’t tell.
Not yet, anyway. And she didn’t ask, which earned her a point of respect in my mind.
“But that’s not romance,” she replied. “That’s manipulation. True romance is two-sided.”
“Disagree.”
She smiled. “That’s fine. I’m not trying to convert you to a religion, JJ.”
Then why did I feel like a spotlight was shining on me and holy water awaited? I licked my lips. “I’ve never thought of love or romance the way you’ve talked about it,” I admitted to soften my next blow. “And I think it sounds totally . . .”
“Insane?” she supplied.
“Unrealistic.”
“You think because I haven’t been in a relationship before, nor been in love, that I couldn’t know what I’m talking about.”
My silence spoke for me. Her grin broadened, clearly unbothered.
“I’m not surprised you think so. It’s a little too traditional for most people these days. But it’s . . . I choose to believe in this. I choose to believe that love and romance are real. One day I could be proven wrong, but I don’t think so.”
“Do you go full traditional?” I asked. “Barefoot and pregnant? White picket fence? Babies on babies?”
“Yes. Do you?”
The thought of marriage and babies used to make my throat close. Inhibition of my freedom? No thanks. Lately, it didn’t seem so bad. Maybe it was age. Life experience. Maybe desperation. Her comment didn’t frighten me the way it would have five years ago.
But it sure didn’t feel comfortable now.
I shuffled the tiles around the bag. “Ah . . . not sure on that.”
She made a sound in her throat, then motioned to my tiles. “It’s your turn.”
I set down another pathetic word—S-C-A-R-E-D. My palms started to sweat. Stacey had worked a real number on me eight years ago. Since she’d crushed my heart, I hadn’t tried again. Sometimes I felt pathetic, like she’d won. She’d been a post-college love affair. My feelings for her had spiraled deep and fast. I’d thrown almost everything away to be with her, thinking it had been real.
My throat thickened in the few moments it took Lizbeth to consider her tiles and lay down another word. H-E-A-R-T.
With a mental whip, I forced myself back to focus. Lizbeth rearranged her new tiles. She
