She trailed off for a second, shook her head, and started again. “These are the things I find romantic when I read books or watch movies,” she said. “Sometimes when I have a hard time sleeping, I get on YouTube and watch compilations of the most romantic scenes in movies. And the moments I love the most are almost always the little things.”
“Like what?”
“Like . . . a hand on the small of the back. A look across the room. Maybe someone doing or saying something small to show they’re paying attention.”
Interesting.
“So it’s not always about the grand gestures?” I asked. Which would be nice because that took some pressure off.
She shrugged. “Those are good, too, but without the little stuff, it doesn’t mean as much. Or it’s not quite as exciting. Snuggling on the couch always seemed more romantic than anything else, frankly. I wouldn’t honestly know.”
“A real travesty,” I said softly.
She smiled. “My friend Leslie says the most romantic thing in her world is when someone else makes dinner.”
The impossible intricacy of romance never ceased to amaze me. While there seemed to be standards in movies and books, real-life romance appeared to be far more . . . subdued. Making dinner was romantic? Cleaning a cabin was romantic?
How could I ever figure it out?
“What situations were supposed to be romantic but weren’t?” I asked, hazarding my true burning question.
She hesitated, and it was then that I realized those situations might have involved me. And a car plunging off a cliff. And the fact that her entire world had burned down and she still wouldn’t talk about it.
Were those romantic?
Lizbeth stared hard at me. She didn’t fill the silence or change the subject like Mark would have. Instead, she said, “Well, you saved my life, and then we were stuck in a wintry cabin together for days.”
“Let me guess.” I leaned forward. “There are books about that situation?”
She grinned and nodded. Unable to help myself, I glanced at her lips, then back at her eyes. Man, did I want to kiss her.
“Did you want that to be romantic?” I asked quietly.
She nodded.
“And it wasn’t?”
She hesitated again. So there must have been some romance, but when? What? What had I done then so I could do more of it now?
“There was,” she said with a little smile. It seemed like an attempt to play this off as something small when, in reality, it was big. “I mean . . . the whole almost-dying thing was only terrifying.”
“Of course.”
She let out a long breath and then chuckled. “I feel like I’m making this totally awkward. I didn’t mean to imply that you did something wrong, just that . . . maybe you’re partially right about romance.”
“What?” I cried, acting scandalized.
“Only partially!”
“Of course. Because what man is ever fully right compared to a woman?”
Her laugh lightened the air, but her voice remained sober.
“I haven’t actually fallen in love or been in a relationship, so I may have idealized romance too much. Now that I’m experiencing it in different ways, I can’t help but wonder why. What does it mean?”
“Something worth exploring?”
She pressed her lips together and nodded. Something lurked beneath her expression.
Although the last thing I wanted to do was talk about Stacey, I took the moment to save her. “Now I think it’s my turn.”
Visibly relieved, she nodded and turned back to her food. I braced myself for the inevitable rush of feels, but none came. Instead of pain, I felt something like resignation, maybe distance.
“Stacey and I dated my senior year of college.” I played with my fork to have something to do. It had been years since I’d sussed out the details. “She was bright, enigmatic, and popular. I was quiet, focused on my studies. We were total opposites.”
Like us, I thought.
“How did you meet her?”
“Through Mark, the way I meet most people. Stacey and I were friends for a while. Our relationship moved slowly at first, but then seemed to happen all at once. One minute I was admiring her work ethic—she wanted to be a veterinarian—and then I was head-over-heels for her. I thought it was the same way for her.”
Lizbeth’s eyebrows rose. “You thought?”
I laughed, but it was bitter. “Oh, yeah. Stacey was all about the romance. Flowers. Chocolates. Bracelets. The grand gestures.”
Was Lizbeth paling a bit?
“What happened?” she asked.
“We kept dating. I thought we were drawing closer together, but I can see now that I was enraptured and she was in love with attention. After a while, Stacey was my whole world. I couldn’t live or breathe without her. Metaphorically speaking, of course.”
Lizbeth chortled, but her face remained empathetic.
“After graduation, shortly before she was going to move on to vet school, I planned the perfect date. Picnic on the beach. Candles. Romantic music in the background. An isolated location—just the two of us beneath the stars.”
“Oh no,” she murmured.
“Stacey loved it. At least she seemed to. Then I started talking about what I really wanted—commitment. Marriage. I’d go with her to her next place and support her as she pursued her dreams.”
Lizbeth swallowed, her food long since abandoned.
“She said no?”
“Worse. She said, ‘Where is this coming from, JJ? I thought we were just friends.’”
Lizbeth’s mouth dropped. “No!”
“Yes.”
“She friend-zoned you in the worst way.”
The pain tugged at me again, but it wasn’t so bad this time. Instead, it hovered in the background, a reminder of how romance really ends.
“What did you do?” she asked.
“Not sure.” My brow wrinkled. “There’s a sense of shock that makes everything foggy. I think we argued. I remember rehashing everything that had happened between us in my mind. I had no idea how she could think we weren’t . . . something. Later, I realized she was just a manipulative person who hated commitment. She never finished her vet degree and has disappeared into the world somewhere.” I waved a hand. “Regardless, it was a good thing I didn’t marry her, but it hurt like hell
