Maybe Later(35)

I look around. It’s not snowing, and there’s no snow on the ground, though there’s plenty of powder on the slopes.

“These authors have never been in Colorado,” I state.

“You’re missing the point. It’s the symbolism behind it, how the person you love is enough to make you forget everything around you.”

I hang my head, trying not to laugh. This woman analyzes books in minute detail. Who really thinks about the symbolism of holding hands during a fucking blizzard? Not once in my life have I ever thought about warm skin, holding hands, or cozying up by the fire.

Vivian, my ex-wife, would have rather cozied up next to a designer faux fur, and her entourage, than me. We lived in a fucking snow globe where it was always cold. I married her because we looked perfect on paper. She was one of those women who always looks poised and ready for the next photo op. After all these years, I’ve come to realize that neither one of us looked too much to each other for intimacy. At twenty-five, I never thought about the future, until it was too late, and I was already drowning in the hell she had dragged me into.

“Have you ever been in love?” Emmeline asks me.

“Like fallen in love so madly and deeply on a soulful level where even if you part, the love never fades completely?”

The emotion in her words, the yearning in each one of them, makes me want to give that kind of love to her. She doesn’t seem lonely, but there’s a part of her that’s looking for the most heartwrenching love.

“What ever happened to just keeping each other company?” I ask defensively. It’s as if she can hear my thoughts.

The last thing I want to talk to Emmeline about is my failed marriage. And the fact that Vivian and I didn’t ever experience anything remotely like what she just described.

“My problem,” she starts, “is that it takes me so long to open up that I’ve never had the chance to fall in love. By the time I finally start feeling something it’s too late—they leave.”

I wish I could tell her that one day it will happen to her. Promise her that I’ll be patient and wait for her to catch up, as long as she promises me the same. I recall the words Amy wrote not long ago on one of my emails. Learn to love the small things. Learn to notice the little things and how the ordinary is just as extraordinary. And then, one day you’ll fall in love with yourself and find real love.

“They didn’t deserve you,” I answer. “Be patient with yourself. The right person will wait until you’re ready.”

“We have to find ourselves first before we can give that kind of love,” I say, leaning forward and capturing her lips.





Chapter Seventeen





Emmeline


Saturday, April 30th, 10:31 a.m.



I swear this time I even googled date etiquette. What do you say on your first date? Best conversations to get to know him? Are you ready for it? Stay away from these subjects, or he’ll stay away from you. Each article was filled with clear guidelines. I just don’t understand why I couldn’t stick to them. Maybe I should’ve written some cue cards to remind myself of what subjects to stay away from.

Seriously, Emmeline? Who asks a guy if he’s ever fallen madly in love? The man is going to jump into his car and leave you stranded. You’re in Aspen, an Uber home would cost between five and nine hundred dollars.

But my heart skips when instead of panicking, he says they didn’t deserve me. I die and go to heaven when he leans closer to me, grabs me by the back of the head and brings his lips to mine.

He’s kissing me. Softly, tenderly.

His lips feel like stardust at first until he kisses the breath out of me. Every cell in my body vibrates as he licks my lips, encouraging me to open for him. We take our time to explore, taste, and be gentle with each other. It’s not just an ordinary kiss between two people hanging out on their second failed date. It doesn’t matter what we’ve said or done, this is the highlight of my day—maybe my entire year. I groan when he deepens it for a few moments before slowing it down.

My heart hammers loud and fast inside my chest. I feel dizzy and my legs wobbly. Thankfully, he’s holding me by the waist with his incredible arms.

“That was—” I say stupidly trying to find a word for what just happened, because kiss doesn’t begin to cover it.

“If you want me to apologize—”

“Oh please, don’t. I just … it was totally unexpected. But…” I touch my tingling, bruised lips trying to remember every second of what just happened and hoping to sear it into my memory.

“Let’s tackle our first adventure,” he suggests. I smile stupidly because he not only kisses like a devilish angel but he speaks my language.

“Adventure?” I ask, thinking about the mind-numbing kiss and wishing we had been somewhere else—somewhere more romantic.

“Trust me,” he says.

“It’s too early to use the word trust, isn’t it?”

He glances at me and smiles. “Of course, you’re right.”

As we continue walking, he says, “I just asked you to have a little faith in me for the next couple of minutes. You might enjoy where I’m taking you to.”

Why would he think that? Have I given him any indication that this trip was a good idea? Don’t get me wrong? I love to come to the Aspen festival every year. The bands that usually play are amazing. Driving while the leaves are changing is an experience I never miss.