Chapter Two
Lily
A fter you.” The credits roll as Graham stands and motions for me to leave the row first.
But my knees are about to give out. I feel like I’ve just run a marathon I didn’t train for. Sure, I’ve watched this movie hundreds of times and can quote it in my sleep, but no one prepared me for watching it next to Graham. I wasn’t ready for the sight of his forearms as he reached for the drink cup between us. They peeked at me from under his sleeves after he rolled them up during Elizabeth and Darcy’s first dance. Those are forearms worth remembering.
Watching the movie next to him brought up memories of sitting on the couch with my mom. I would wait for her to focus on me long enough to tell her how much I always hoped I’d have my own romance story to tell. The dream that, one day, I’d find my own version of Darcy.
And, oh, how I’ve tried to make room for love. But it’s been a bust every time. It started with the punks in high school who liked to joke that I was too weird to be anyone’s girl, and the story continued down to the last guy who told me that he was only dating me to see how far I would let him get. I’m a mystery. I’m a conundrum. I’m a fighter. And no man yet has seemed to know what to do with me.
We walk out of the auditorium side by side, and my mind races with questions on how this could turn out any differently. I throw away my popcorn bucket before we reach the fresh air outside. For a moment, my eyes rudely struggle to adjust to the natural light. I stare up at Graham, who waits patiently.
“Okay, well, I’m just gonna wait for my ride.” I motion toward an ambiguous destination to try to throw him off my scent. At this point in the movie of my life, when I’m out on a date with the trolls that seem to populate the apps, I’m usually just hoping to make it across the bridge before they try to touch me. This time, I’m wondering what divine event happened in my life that I get to be near him without trying. And I feel a pull to stay. It’s terrifying and exhilarating.
He nods, studying my face. He seems oblivious to the fact that we’re standing outside the theater and about to be pelted with leftover gummy candy from the group of kids and their tired moms who no doubt just got out of some animated film. They’re eyeing us like they are the Lost Boys, and Graham is Peter.
“Why did you walk over to sit with me in the middle of the movie theater?” I blurt the words into the air while motioning for us to start walking in a direction that is very much not where any sane driver would pick someone up. My mission is to find chocolate, but I guess I can handle company along the way if he follows.
He falls into step beside me. When I steal an expectant glance at him, he scrunches his nose a little before making a twirling motion with his finger near the top of his head.
“It was your ponytail. Your hair.”
“My hair?” I grab the end of my ponytail to try to hide as much of it as possible, suddenly unsure of what to do with this information. “What about it? It’s up. That’s common.”
“The light from the screen on it. Even when it was dim inside, it was . . .” He looks uncomfortable. “Glowing.”
I let out a laugh and pause my stride. “Glowing? Did you actually just say that to me?”
“Would you rather I said something like ‘it was incandescent’?”
Honestly, by the drop in my stomach at hearing him say the words, I may have preferred that. “I’m not from here,” I blurt out.
His eyebrows lift and then furrow. “That’s a shame. I’m not from here, either, if that helps. I mean, I do live here, but I also own a home in Boston.”
My sharp inhale is audible. There’s no arrogance in his statement, just fact. The knowledge that he owns a place a train ride away from my apartment in Birch Borough is too enticing to dismiss.
“I’m from New England too.”
His eyes warm. “I knew I liked you.”
At this, I grin. “You’re wicked smaht for doing so.” I don’t have a Boston accent at all. When I first moved to the land known for acts of revolt against England as a five-year-old, I tried to adopt one and failed. But I force it this time to replace “smart” with something that reminds us both of a place that isn’t this Hollywood life.
I continue without pause. “I haven’t been to many places in the world yet, but I’d say that if you’re ever heartbroken, Birch Borough is the place to go.”
I know I’m right. And even if I never see Graham again, it feels like a universal truth he needs to know. I’m convinced my town is the antidote to everything wrong with the world. It’s the only place I’ve ever felt the closest to belonging, even if it hasn’t been in all the ways I have hoped.
“Good to know.” His eyes sparkle. “I realize we just met . . .”
Again, he’s searching for a name, but I resume walking. Giving him my name feels so personal. It feels like a commitment. Like, somehow, if he has it, he’ll never let it go. And if there’s one thing I’m sure about, as much as I’ve dreamed of it, I’m terrified to let a man love me. Truth be told, I’m worried the parts that are uniquely me will die and disappear if I allow a man fully into my life. Will I adapt to make myself more palatable? Or will the thought that not all of me is lovable prove to be true? To get to the bottom of my fear, I’d have to sit with it, and I’m not sure I’d win that battle.
Graham shifts his weight, keeping stride with me, his posture delightfully proper with a hint of nervousness in his tone.
“But . . .” he continues with a smile I imagine is rare greeting me, “when I’m back East, maybe we could go to a Red Sox game sometime?”
I’ve loved Red Sox games since I was a little girl, but I haven’t been to one in years. The memory takes me back to simpler times when my family was in one place. I hadn’t yet felt the strain of being overlooked by them, and my way of viewing the world felt like a superpower. “Why would you say that?”
He shifts his shoulder slightly in a way that tells me that he’s not only got good plans but that he’ll also follow through with them. “Seems like a place for fun and dreams.”
I laugh lightly. “Honestly, who are you? You know the works of Austen . . .” I hold off in case the only thing he’s read of her work includes Pemberley, but he gives a boyish smile.
“And others.”
“And how do you feel about strong women?” I counter quickly, my hand flying to my hip, unable to hold back from spouting out the thoughts springing into my mind. I’m good at that. A little too good. And, for some reason, the idea of him already retreating from me based on my personality makes me regret the tub of popcorn (just a little).
“Are there women who aren’t strong? If so, I haven’t met one,” he replies solemnly.
My mouth falls open.
Graham continues, “Now, if you’re talking about having a feisty quality, I like a woman with some fire. Call me an arsonist, but I like seeing how much I can light a spark in her until something between us starts to burn.”
His ears tinge a little pink at the same time heat flushes my face. His response shows he intended it to be PG, but now that they’re in the air, we also know the words could mean so much more in other circumstances.
I huff, but it’s more out of annoyance than frustration. I’m beginning to think there’s no way this man could ever be real. I never hold back from honest commentary, so I try to give him all I can to see if he can handle my greatest weapon: my mouth. “Honestly? I don’t know whether to love you or take up boxing . . .”
“I hope it’s the first one.” His response is immediate. No hesitancy.
A blush creeps up my cheeks, irritating me further. It also ignites something in me that’s new—perhaps how a butterfly might feel to suddenly find it is not what it once was. Graham laughs, and the sound warms me even more, the sincerity of it disarming me.
“But there’s something I need to know if you’ll be kind enough to tell me.”
The way he’s looking at me, I already feel some of my defenses slipping. “Yes?” I ask, holding my breath.
The palm trees towering over us sway in the wind, seemingly unaware of gravity, rooted resiliently to the earth as they stretch toward the sky. The jarring sounds of LA traffic punctuate our conversation while unaffected locals eat an early dinner on the patios of the cafés lining the street. Tourists with large cameras meander down the sidewalk, taking dozens of pictures of the sidewalks and signs they must think are famous landmarks. Meanwhile, they just missed the A-list celebrity disguised in a baseball cap who just walked by.
I find it all amusing. It’s amazing what we can be distracted by while missing what’s right in front of us.
Graham stops on the sidewalk with a hum, his eyes assessing my face as if I’m a puzzle and he’s looking for clues. “What’s your dream?”
“What? Why would you ask me that? People don’t just go around asking people about their dreams. We’re not living in a musical.”
Graham shakes his head. “Agree to disagree. I can’t sing, but I do love music.”
“Of course you do,” I say under my breath.
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
Emotion clogs my throat, but I know nothing will clear it out. If this is what it means to truly be seen by someone, I don’t know how to feel about it. “You’re a stranger.”
“I hardly think anyone who enjoys that movie together could be considered a stranger.” He gestures back toward the theater, which is fading in the distance behind us. “Fine, I’ll tell you mine. My dream is to be a good man.”
“You aren’t already?”
He shrugs in my peripheral vision, the warmth of him simultaneously calming and yet so brutally exposing all the things I’ve talked myself out of.
“I hope so. But I’m not sure I would know. Didn’t have much of an example except what not to be.”
His honesty startles me. And something in me wants to tell him. To let out the words that have been clawing at my mind. The thing I’ve wanted so badly for so long that I almost forgot it was there. Who knew Austen movies could bring out confessions of my own? Still, something about the softness in his eyes gives me courage. Besides, it’s not like I’ll ever see him again.
“Fine. The thing that I want . . . I mean, my dream . . .”
He nods for me to continue, though the surprise on his face strikes me as even more endearing. He’s not taking it for granted that I’m answering his question .
As I try to collect my thoughts, I think of my parents, who love me but decided to move overseas to help others. I think of how they’ve always put their work in medicine and helping people at the forefront of their minds and their lives. Somehow, they believed I was strong enough to handle life on my own. If not for my small town, I would believe that love looks like doctors’ offices and eating dinner by myself. They tried on weekends to make up for it, but still. People seem to assume that because I’m strong-willed, I’m not soft. But I’ve been inwardly begging for someone to try to understand who I am. I protect others but don’t always know how to protect myself. I need banter to feel like I’m heard. I need wit woven with kindness to feel like I’m seen. The veiled urgency of it makes me want to weep, and I’m nearly desperate to feel understood.
“I want to be someone’s first choice.” The words burn in my throat but feel strangely liberating. It’s one truth from a sea of hidden secrets that cling to the bottom of my soul like barnacles on a boat.
He smiles, a hint of empathy at the corners of his mouth. “I think that’s a worthy dream to have.”
I nod. My breath hitches. If he hears, he doesn’t make me feel bad about it.
“Side note: Why would you take up boxing?” His head tips in an adorable way. It’s a charming hint of a man letting himself play.
“As an alternative to loving you, of course.”
Graham’s eyes glimmer with what can only be described as pure delight.
“Okay, Mystery Woman,” he says with a grin. I don’t hate it. “Aside from the potential awkwardness of meeting on Valentine’s Day, the truth is I don’t have a valentine, and I’m in the mood for coffee. Would you happen to be in the mood for some too?”
I most definitely am, but I act like I’m thinking about it. He already has possession of a secret I’ve never told anyone. At this point, surely coffee won’t harm this version of “LA Lily.” She feels like a version of myself I’ve never met before. I have a sense of wanting to verbally spar with him, and it’s like seeing tiny buds on once-barren trees. It’s exhilarating and feels a bit like nothing could go wrong. What a rare hope. I want to capture it in a mason jar and see if it glows.
“As long as we get chocolate first,” I demand. And then, fueled by boldness and a desperate need for him not to turn out like my parents or like all the men who haven’t been honest with their intentions, I issue a challenge. “Oh, and George? Don’t ever lie to me.”
He stops, hands shoved in his pockets and an intensity radiating from his features. “I told you I never lie.”
As we continue to walk, insecurity starts to creep in. It’s a shadow of that ugly beast I’ve been trying to beat. If there’s any sense in this man, he’ll realize that no man has lasted beside me for long. It’s only a matter of time before he splits like a chocolate candy shell when I’ve poured it into the mold, and it’s too thin. Still, I have this unprecedented urge to give him the pieces of myself I’ve pulled behind a curtain ever since I learned how to sew one across the confines of my heart.
“You should know I’m a lot.” I break our comfortable silence. “I rarely hold my tongue, and I take getting used to. If you decide that I’m too much at any point, please be gentle. Got it? ”
He pauses on the sidewalk again. When I turn to see his face, I almost immediately wish I hadn’t. Instantly, I realize that this smile he’s giving me—a full one that crinkles the sides of his eyes and reveals the dimples placed close to his neatly trimmed beard—will stay with me for years to come.
“Well, good thing I’m a gentleman.” It’s the kindness of his tone that sticks to me like honey and loosens my tongue.
“I’m Lily,” I say without overthinking. After a smile like the one he just gave me and the honesty between us, it feels only right to give him something he can hold onto now too.
“Lily,” he repeats, his voice laced with—if I had to guess—a bit of something like wonder.
He leans toward me. Just when I’ve convinced myself to breathe normally despite the nearness of him, he holds out his arm for me to take. I may have joked about musicals, but the moment does feel a bit as if a song could break out like a darling Old Hollywood film—one of those that my best friend back home has made me watch dozens of times over the years. Maybe it’s the proximity to Hollywood that has me finally understanding what all the fuss is about. There is a lightness in the not-frigid air that fills my senses, the sound of fresh birdsongs in the wind, and the sensation that I need the courage to believe my heart when it urges me to do whatever it takes to fight for this brand-new feeling.
∞∞∞
Over the next month, I feel like I’m flying. The sweetness Graham adds to my life feels addicting. We hardly spend a day without each other. And for a while, my fears are quieted. There are moments of intensity, a tug of war between two people, ignited by attraction but grounded by care. He tells me he loves me. I tell him I know.
We adventure together all around the city. I keep him a secret, even from my best friend. I regret it, even though I think the more we can shield what we have, the longer we’ll last.
Everything else feels perfect. After long days of being covered in chocolate and thrilled with the progress I’m making, we collapse into each other with the best hugs of my life and hold on tight. We watch Pride & Prejudice a few more times, including the one from the 90s. I commit to memory the feeling of his fingers in my hair and his hands around my waist. I become undone by the aftermath of his kisses, knowing my lips have never been so thoroughly adored, and by the intensity with which he cares for me and keeps me close. He does everything he can to make me believe he finds me beautiful. That I am beautiful. How? He tells me. He shows me in both mundane and tangible ways how much he values me. How much he chooses me.
We talk about our plans. We make plans. I tell him I can’t wait to discover all the ways I can drive him wild and learn all the pieces of the story that have made him who he is.
My time in LA starts to run out. Knowing that I must leave Graham soon, even if only temporarily, makes me feel so lost that I don’t know which parts of me are breaking or mending. In a new take on the fears that continuously plague me, I begin to doubt my ability to love him as much as he loves me. I wonder when he’ll realize he has had enough of me.
Even though I told him not to lie to me, I feel the lie I tell myself gripping my mind as the weeks progress. It’s the lie that says I have to push him away before he does it for the both of us. I will myself to make him the exception to my dysfunctional views on love and my own self-worth.
On the night before my return flight home, when my defenses are shattered, and my entire soul is on high alert, we grab takeout and sit on the front end of his car. We watch the ocean together, the sound of the waves breaking around us. I drop a mini chocolate bar to the ground, and as he hops down to grab it, I see a ring box peeking out of the pocket of his suit jacket.
And then I break Graham’s heart.