The Romantics(13)

And maybe that’s where I went wrong. I was too confident. I got lazy.

The thing is, my work does not simply consist of getting people together. I also check in once every couple of years to see how it’s going. Talk to any couple who’s been together awhile, and they’ll tell you that love ebbs and flows, that there are ups and downs.

What they don’t know is that a lot of those ups have to do with me. Suddenly, they’ll be flooded with memories of the good times, as tingly and fluttery as if these moments had only just happened. Or they’ll be in the middle of an argument, and one of them will find the strength to be the bigger person, take the high road, and move beyond the fight.

My maintenance work is just that—maintenance. I can’t save a relationship that’s run its course. But when two people still have a lot of love for each other, I know just how to get them back on track.

Problem is, with Gael’s parents, I missed my check-in. Actually, I missed three check-ins. I’ve been over it hundreds of times, and I still can’t figure out quite how it happened.

Was it the slow but steady uptick in my work? (Thanks for nothing, Tinder.) Was it William and Kate’s royal wedding? (You don’t even want to know how many fires I have to put out when the whole entire world witnesses a romance and catches the love bug, many of them pursuing the wrong people as a result.) Was it simply a failure to update my mental calendar?

Nothing makes sense. I’ve dealt with encouraging love in difficult circumstances before (hello, cholera); it was not my first time tamping down an excess of emotion because two famous people got married; and my mental capabilities are far superior to iCal, trust me.

But whatever the reason, I messed up. Big time.

By the time I got my act together and did check in, it was too late. I could only watch as their marriage fell apart. Then I watched Gael (unsurprisingly) dive headfirst into a relationship with Anika in a desperate attempt to feel something other than sadness, to restore his own faith in love. And I watched her break his heart, as I knew she would.

Now I was watching Gael completely give up.

I couldn’t just watch anymore. I had to step in more directly.

His future depended on it.





this is what i meant about getting creative


Gael headed alone down East Main Street, and then continued along Franklin, trying to calm himself down and ignoring his mom’s repeated phone calls. When he got to Franklin’s main drag, he turned left into the alley that led to Rosemary Street. The flower lady was there, sitting in her usual spot: “Flowers, one dollar. Flowers, one dollar.”

She lifted her head to look at Gael and pushed a rose at him. “For you.”

Gael shook his head. “I don’t have any cash,” he said. “Sorry.”

“It’s free of charge.” She pushed the flower at him again, her knobby knuckles powerful and insistent.

“It’s okay,” Gael said.

But she insisted. “Have a flower,” she said again, shaking it in front of him like some kind of street evangelist.

He took it. “Thank you,” he said.

“Whoever she is, she isn’t worth it.” Her wrinkled face looked serious, her eyes wide open like she didn’t have a single doubt in the world that what she was saying was true. For a second, Gael wanted to ask her how she knew, how she could be so sure.

But then her gaze dropped from his, and she went back to arranging her flowers, calling out her typical refrain.

Gael continued down the alley, toward Rosemary Street, where he knew there would be far fewer people.

He walked down Rosemary, and after a few blocks, the acrid smell of spray paint tickled his nose. He turned. Against the brick wall of one of the dirtier dive bars were huge block letters, dripping as if freshly painted: This, too, shall pass.

He stopped, stared at the words, soaked them in for a second. Then he shook his head, kept walking. Inspirational shit works a lot better, he mused, when your whole life isn’t already ruined.

In case you’re wondering, I was not simply trying to perfect my tagging skills and give Banksy a run for his money. I was trying to reach Gael by any means possible: whether that meant urging old ladies to give away flowers or hand painting inspirational quotes. If I could only give him a tiny ray of hope, I could help him move past Anika and—eventually—on to Miss Right.

Of course, I hadn’t anticipated a fatal flaw in my plan.

A dreaded enemy of True Love since the dawn of freaking time.

Ladies and gentleman, may I present my nemesis . . .

The Rebound.





it (accidentally) happened one night


Gael was only a few minutes from his house, walking in the road to avoid a mess of spilled beer on the sidewalk, when a girl on a bike suddenly whirled toward him. The bike’s front wheel hit his leg, his knees buckled, and he toppled forward, his hands rising to shield himself.

For a moment, he lay sprawled out on the sidewalk, clothes covered in the beer he’d been trying to avoid, and then he felt a hand touch his shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

Gael slowly rolled onto his side. Behind him, a black-and-red bike sat on top of a plastic takeout bag tied tightly shut. His flower was miraculously unhurt, stuck through the spokes of the front wheel like some kind of annoying metaphor for resilience.