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Chapter 7
DELIA
"How come you write romance novels, if you don't believe in romance?"
His tone of voice is gently inquisitive, not bent on proving me wrong about my own life. It doesn't raise the hackles that the same question might raise from a different person.
I look into those blue eyes. They're open. Honest. Caring. He really wants to know.
Actually, now I want to know. "I don't understand it," I say, feeling unsettled.
"Maybe it's a way to make the world how you wish it would be," he suggests. "Or maybe...I don't know. I'm not a psychologist."
"I'm not either." I sigh. "I should probably think about this more. It seems important."
He nods. Strokes my shoulder, then my cheek. "I'd really like to hear your answer when you find one."
"Why?"
He takes a deep breath. "Because. Because I believe in romance, and I don't want to believe that I'm falling in love with someone who won't love me back."
He's falling in love with me.
There is a sweet pain in my chest. "Oh, Beck. I can love. I have a lot of love in me. I just...I don't know that traditional romance is really compatible with the kind of love that sticks, you know? The kind that takes care of you when you're sick and look like shit. The kind that puts up with weird toothpaste-squeezing habits and pays the bills and plans the birthday parties. The kind that stays when it's hard."
He laughs softly, but I see his eyes go shiny with tears. "I know what that looks like. My parents have that kind of love. They stuck through my dad's long hours with the plumbing business--and let me tell you, that might be the least sexy job in the world."
I laugh, too, but I let him keep talking. I want this to be true.
"They stuck through raising three noisy boys. They stuck through buying a house and juggling Mom's working hours with Dad's. Better and worse. Richer and poorer. Sickness and health. My grandmother's death. Everything."
Tears come to my eyes, too.
"But you have to understand...they're still crazy about each other. They take these little mini-vacations a couple of times a year, they go somewhere for a few days and come back all shiny and holding hands. Happy. Just last week I walked into the kitchen and found Dad's hand on Mom's butt, and she was giggling."
He looks up at me very seriously. "That's what I want. I just want you to know it's possible."
The tears slide down my face. I sniffle and wipe them away.
I want to believe in romance.
"I think I want to believe in romance," I say slowly. "I think maybe I just don't trust it."
"Well," he says gently, "from what you said last night, your parents' marriage went a long way to messing up your trust in romance."
I nod.
"I'm not your dad. You're not your mom."
"It was never her fault," I say instantly, ready to defend her.
"Didn't say it was. I'm just saying that we are not them."
From somewhere on the floor--in his crumpled pants--his phone starts playing an annoyingly happy little melody.
"That's my alarm," he says. "Time to get up. I'll have to go get some fresh clothes when I swap out my personal vehicle for my work truck."
I offer to make coffee while he takes a shower. Actually, I offer to wash his back in the shower, but he crosses his index fingers at me and makes a horrified face. "I'd never leave if you were in the shower with me, woman! You are too damn sexy."
