Chapter Thirty-Seven
About six months later, that autumn, a bookstore in Brooklyn known for its author events and signings was set to host me for a reading of Love Is Dead, Let’s Have Brunch, now newly retitled Love’s Not Dead, It’s Just Brunching.
I would be lying if I said I wasn’t a little nervous.
I’d invited everyone: Mom and Dad, Keith, Shira, Allegra and Cannon, Izzy, Matty, and of course, Marin, Stella, and Jada.
And every single one of them came, ready to celebrate my accomplishments and support me like family should.
The room buzzed with that cozy pre-event electricity, bookish types claiming seats, wine being poured in plastic cups, the smell of old parchment, and the hum of excitement all wrapping around me like an embrace. I stood near the podium, trying to remember how to breathe normally.
Mom and Dad walked toward me side by side, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Keith followed behind, chatting with Shira and Allegra.
And for a moment I just stood there, taking it all in, this version of life where people were genuinely there for me.
Where everyone set aside their hurt, their history, and whatever might’ve kept them apart to simply show up.
“Are you ready for this?” Mom asked, pulling me into a quick hug. “It’s a full house. You’ve got real fans, El.”
“I’m so proud of you,” Dad added, placing a hand on my shoulder. He was beaming. “Even if I don’t totally understand the brunch part.”
I let out a laugh and shook my head. “It’s meant to be funny, cheeky, Dad.”
He winked. “Well, you’re the writer. What do I know?”
The stage was set with an embarrassingly large photo of me, boldly emblazoned with my name. Below it, the tagline read Host of the Hit SiriusXM Radio Show Love Is a Four-Letter Word. It felt surreal and incredible, taking in all the reminders of how far I’d come to get here.
Once the Sirius deal was inked, I’d finally faced the mountain of editorial notes I’d mostly skimmed over (a.k.a. run from) in Belize. Predictably enough, the feedback echoed the same refrain: more balance, dial back the bitterness.
The notes and red lines were clear. It was one thing to be opinionated, but apparently, I was coming across like a grumpy sitcom character.
The tone? “Too heavy-handed.” The message?
“Too dark.” What they were looking for was more nuanced optimism to cut through the cynicism.
Something for today’s already overwhelmed and exhausted audience.
Something a bit brighter than I’d originally envisioned.
It was time for a book makeover, a brutal one at that.
So I locked myself in my apartment, tore the chapters down to the studs, and rebuilt it one hopeful sentence at a time, made easier by the fact I had finally taken the step to see a therapist, to address the wounds I’d long ignored, and because Leo was firmly back in my life.
He’d been more than a little surprised to hear from me when I’d called him after Belize.
I’d expected him to still be angry after I stood him up in Paris all those months ago, but instead, he expressed how often he’d wanted to call, in all those months, how many times I’d crossed his mind.
It surprised me how quickly we slipped back into an easy rhythm.
Our time apart hadn’t changed the way we fit together—it had only made me realize how much I’d missed it.
How much I missed him.
Since inviting him back into my life, we talked nearly every day despite his nonstop travel and my chaotic schedule.
No matter the hour, we carved out quick moments to connect.
The earliest hours of dawn. The wee hours of night.
Nothing was off-limits, and the need to hear his voice felt like a magnetic pull drawing us together from opposite sides of the globe, but as strong as they’d ever been.
At first, pretending those weeks the spell had given us never happened felt like some kind of lie.
That gray period that didn’t exist for him.
And since he didn’t have those memories, I had to remind myself to fill in the gaps, to hold the space for what had been lost. But eventually, we found our footing again, settling back onto fertile ground ready to be planted with new memories and fresh beginnings.
Weeks passed, pages turned, and life began to feel whole again.
Like any good story, healing demanded both time and the courage to share it.
Now, standing in the cozy Brooklyn bookstore filled with the scent of cedar and leather-bound classics, I faced a packed room.
Clutching a marked-up copy of my book, I inhaled, gathering my courage, and leaned in to the mic.
“Hi, everyone, I’m Elliot West. Thank you so much for coming out to see me tonight.
” I cleared my throat and shifted the pages in my hands.
“If you’ve been to any of my past readings or listened to my show, you’ve probably heard me talk about my Ten Commandments of Love and Dating—rules that, let’s just say, came from a place of serious self-protection.
And honestly, I don’t regret them. That version of me needed those guardrails.
But the truth I’ve come to realize is that while love in whatever form—romantic, familial, or otherwise—isn’t any guarantee of happiness .
. . neither is pretending you don’t need it. ”
I opened to where I wanted to start and smiled.
“So allow me to introduce: Elliot West’s Ten (Revised, Slightly Wiser, and a Bit Less Jaded) Love Commandments.
Number One: Thou shalt not abandon thyself in the pursuit of someone else.
Love should expand you, not erase you. Number Two: Thou may put thyself first—but leave space beside you.
Independence isn’t isolation. Let someone sit close to your fire and relish in its warmth, not extinguish it.
Number Three: Thou shalt remember: Vulnerability is not weakness.
Let them see your heart. If they flinch, they’re not your person.
Number Four: Thou shalt not confuse peace with boredom.
Healthy love can be electric and steady. Choose the kind that lets you exhale.”
Marin was nodding along, while Izzy and Shira raised their plastic cups of punch in a gesture of cheers.
I continued, “Number Five: Thou shalt honor red flags—and also green ones. Look for the good, but don’t ignore what your gut says isn’t right.
Number Six: Thou shalt not ghost thy own needs.
Speak up. Be clear. Don’t shrink to make love fit where it doesn’t. ”
Catching Matty’s eye, it struck me that he wasn’t here to reclaim something we’d lost, like he perhaps had been in Belize. Instead, he was here because he believed in me and wanted me to win, even if he wasn’t the one standing beside me anymore.
And that, I realized, was its own kind of love.
I went on, “Number Seven: Thou shalt stay open-minded and open-hearted, even when scared. Armor keeps pain out, but also joy. Love is a risk. Wear sunscreen, not chain mail.” Finding Mom in the crowd hand in hand with Keith, her face brimming with both contentment and pride, I gave her a little wink.
“Number Eight: Thou shalt give second chances sparingly—and never to the same person twice. Growth is welcome. Repetition is not. Number Nine: Thou shalt know the difference between butterflies and warning signs. One makes you feel alive. The other makes you lose sleep. Learn the difference.”
As the crowd murmured in response, warm and receptive, I heard the faint chime of the bell above the bookstore door.
The sound was soft, but it cut through the noise like a secret only I could hear.
Framed in the doorway, a little windblown, a little late, but still the most grounding presence in the room.
Leo.
Leo.
I wasn’t sure how he knew or how he’d gotten here, yet this time I knew it wasn’t a spell, but an altogether different kind of magic instead.
A wide smile broke out on my face, and I was hardly able to contain it. “And lastly, Number Ten: Thou shalt believe in love. Not the perfect version, but the one who puts in effort to make it work. The kind where two flawed people show up, try hard, laugh often, and hold hands anyway.”
His attention was locked on me, and it was almost like everyone else in the room completely disappeared. I felt the words rise up in my throat, the conclusion to my talk already crafting itself.
He came. Despite the long flights and his packed schedule, despite the distance and every reason not to, he came. Just to be here. Just to see me. And it wasn’t flowers or grand gestures or even a perfect timing kind of thing.
It was effort. It was intention. It was proof that when he said he cared, he meant it. And that, more than anything, told me I hadn’t been wrong to believe in what we’d rekindled.
“Because sometimes,” I said, glancing back to the crowd with tears in my eyes, “the best kind of love isn’t the one you plan for—it’s the one that finds you anyway.”
Applause broke out and I barely registered it. I was already stepping down from the small stage, weaving through the crowd, my heart thudding like a drum as I closed the distance between us.
Leo smiled, just a fraction, as I reached him. “You were amazing. I’m sorry I’m late,” he said softly, voice rough at the edges.
I didn’t answer. I just threw my arms around his neck and kissed him. The girl who once ran from love now ran toward it. And just like that, I let myself write a different ending to my own story. One that was imperfect. Unsure. Messy.
Because this time, the ending was just the beginning.