A Cosmic Kind of Love(27)

“You really don’t like Darcy, do you?”

“No, I really don’t. You being cool with her . . . well . . . that’s just too well-adjusted.”

Chuckling, I shook my head. “I’m over her, I promise.” My thoughts were a little preoccupied by my cute-as-a-button event planner. “I resent the idea that I would overlook a good woman for someone more physically attractive.”

“Bah, attraction is all up here.” Aunt Richelle tapped her temple. “When I met Akio, we were just friends. I barely even noticed him like that. Then, within days of spending time with him, I realized I was growing more and more attracted to him. One day he didn’t give me butterflies, and the next day he smiled at me and, whoosh, butterflies galore.” She threw me a sad smile. “You fall in love with the person, Chris, not the face. Otherwise it isn’t love.”

She never talked about Akio.

Not sure what to say, I repeated, “You’re so fucking wise.”

Relief glittered in her eyes. “I am. I am goddamn Yoda.”

We laughed into our Thai food, but her words stayed with me, just like they always did.





ELEVEN





Hallie


    That’s what I love about science, Darce . . . there’s always a solution to be sought. Always hope that this thing you can’t figure out or fix can be figured out, can be fixed. It’s not like that with people or emotions. We both know that sometimes relationships can’t be mended. There’s too much damage. It can feel hopeless. The only thing to do, the only thing that keeps you sane, is to make peace with the fact that whatever it is, is unfixable. Find your hope in something else. Find the next problem to solve, the next solution. Move on. That’s so much harder than just being able to fix it. Losing hope. But it’s the only thing left for us to do.


—CAPTAIN CHRISTOPHER ORTIZ, VIDEO DIARY #6



My Sundays were precious to me. Very few of my events fell on a Sunday, whereas I usually had an event at least two Saturdays out of the month. I did not, therefore, want to spend one of my few days off doing something I didn’t choose. As terrible of a daughter as it made me, I didn’t want to go to my mom’s for lunch.

Especially when I was distracted.

A few days ago, Darcy had sent me an updated guest list for the engagement party, and Captain Christopher Ortiz had RSVPed. I did not think in a million years that her ex-boyfriend would show up, and now he was planning to attend. The object of my crush, the man whose privacy I had invaded, would be at the party. In the same room as me.

Every time I thought about it, my heart did this cliché little pitter-patter.

Of course, I’d have to tell him. The voice in my head that sounded like my boss argued vehemently against it, but it was too big of a secret. I had all this guilt, and I couldn’t deal with it. The fact of the matter was I had rewatched his videos multiple times. The obsession reminded me of my teen years when I’d watch music videos of Kings of Leon repeatedly. My favorite Followill had been Caleb, but my crush fluctuated between them all, to be fair.

That I was acting like fourteen-year-old me over a guy was embarrassing, but at least only I knew about it.

Anyway, long story short, I’d almost memorized Christopher’s videos; they weren’t intended for me, I’d invaded his privacy, my remorse was all-consuming, and the only way to feel better about it was to confess to him what I’d done (without mentioning the rewatching or crush part). Hopefully, he wouldn’t hate me for it.

Nervous flutters rioted in my belly as I strolled up my mom’s front walk. Just the mere idea of being within touching distance of Christopher excited me. Ugh, this infatuation was mortifying.

The front door opened before I could even touch the handle.

“Why do you look flushed?” Mom peered at me suspiciously.

“Because I power walked for exercise,” I lied impressively quickly as I slid past her and into my childhood house.

“Well, I suppose you can do that in those things.”

At her tone, I turned to see her glaring at my Converse.

Rolling my eyes, I dumped my purse on the coffee table and slumped down onto the couch. “Mom, I spend almost twenty-four-seven in high heels. My feet hurt all the time. I just want one day when I can wear comfortable shoes.”

“You’re too short for comfortable shoes. Iced tea?”

“Please.” I ignored her “too short” comment. Mom had been lecturing me on how to overcome my “disadvantages” since before we even knew for sure I was going to be a shortie. And since when was five feet four all that short for a woman? What was with our society’s obsession with height, anyway?

“I see your hair is still pink!” Mom called from the kitchen.

Knowing she hated to talk through a wall, I reluctantly followed her into the kitchen and slid onto a stool at the island. “It is.”

“Doesn’t your boss have an issue with it?” she asked for the one millionth time.

“My hair is stylish, Mom,” I replied calmly. Lia didn’t even blink at my hair color when I walked into the office with it four months ago.

“It’s not very professional.”

Neither is sticking your tongue down a man half your age’s throat and then uploading it to social media when you manage a local real estate company. “I thought you were going through a rebellious phase,” I teased. “Shouldn’t that mean you approve of pink hair?”