“You mean all of those reasons you didn’t like him in the first place? The he’s good looking, he’s successful, he challenges you . . . you mean all of those reasons?”
I hate it when she makes things sound so simple when in reality they feel like you’re trying to put a thousand piece jigsaw puzzle together while being blindfolded.
“I mean the ‘he doesn’t believe in love’ reason.”
She tsks through the line. “That’s nonsense. Everybody believes in love even when they say they don’t. Everyone wants the fairytale even though they hide it.”
“Do you still, Mom? Really? After what Dad did, do you?”
“Oh sweetheart”—her voice floods with emotion—“of course I do. Love is . . . love is the one thing in life that doesn’t need to be taught. It just is. You can’t help it when you feel it. You can fight it—God knows I have in the past—but fighting it doesn’t do you any good. You’re still going to feel it even when the fight has run out.” I sit down on the grass and play with the wild daisies woven in it. “I take it that means you haven’t told him?”
“That’s a big, fat no.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not that simple.”
“Yes, it is. You have no problem speaking up any other time, so why does the cat have your tongue now?”
“Because this is almost over. I mean, we’re going to return to our everyday lives where we’re not forced to live with each other and play love interests every second we’re in public—”
“But from what you’ve texted me, it seems like you’re playing love interests even when you’re not in front of people.”
“True,” I muse and think back to the night at the arcade last week. The fun. The flirting. The conversation over the pinball machine. My promise to myself to just enjoy this all . . . and yet here I am still thinking about it.
“You’re living together. You’re sleeping together—”
“Mom!”
“Mija,” she says and I can picture the expression on her face when she does. “Please don’t insult my intelligence and pretend that you aren’t.” She pauses to let me protest but it’s just better if I keep my mouth shut. “You’ve been on some kind of accelerated dating course in a sense. It’s natural for feelings to emerge. I don’t see what the big deal is because if they’ve evolved for you, how do you know they haven’t for him?”
“Because I know him,” I murmur as my mind contradicts my words and pulls up every little thing he’s done away from the public eye that says the contrary.
“Tell him.”
“I hate opening myself up to hurt. Making myself vulnerable.”
“Don’t we all?” she asks. “Look, you’ve always been tough. You’ve always stood your ground and spoke up for yourself, but you’re like that because of me. Because you watched how I let your father push me around. That’s not how it always is, Low. It’s okay to be vulnerable sometimes.”
“Mom.” The single word relays so many things. That I’m scared she’s right. That I’m afraid she’s wrong. That I’m so confused and fear I’m making so much more of this than there really is.
“I’m not saying don’t be strong. Men love strong women. But what I’m trying to tell you is don’t be afraid to be weak.”
“Because that’s not confusing,” I say through a laugh and try to combat the tears suddenly welling from falling over.
“A good man will know how to handle a woman in her moment of weakness, mija. He’ll listen to her and try to understand. Then when the moment is passed, he’ll pretend like he never saw that broken moment so he can let her retain her dignity even when she feels like she lost it. That’s the kind of man you’re looking for. The kind of man I secretly have a feeling this Zane Phillips is.”
“The prince you’ve conjured him up to be.”
“No, the man you unknowingly keep telling me he is.”
“Perhaps,” I murmur, loving her words of wisdom but failing to see how it applies to me telling Zane that every time he kisses me, touches me, gives me that shy smile across the room at an event—that I feel every single one of them in my bones.
“Admitting you have feelings for someone doesn’t make you weak, mija. It makes you strong.”
THE KNOCK ON THE DOOR startles me but I honestly am so out of it, I don’t know if I said come in or not.
I think I did.
“Harlow?” Concern. Worry. “Zoey said you weren’t feeling well.” Footsteps on the hardwood floor. “You don’t look good at all.” A cold hand on my forehead. “You’re burning up.”
“I’m fine. Just . . . just tired.”
“Baby, you’re not fine.” Hands taking my heels off. “Zoey!” Fingertips brushing my hair off my face. A kiss pressed to my forehead.
“Yes, Zane?” Zoey’s voice. Hushed voices.
“Zane?” I call to him.
“I’m right here.” His fingers linking with mine. “Just sit tight, Zoey’s going to get us a room so I can take you up there.”
“No sex,” I murmur and his laugh fills the room.
“No. No sex. But a big bed where you can sleep and get some medicine to break this fever.” A squeeze of our hands. “What else hurts?”
“Head. Chills. Dizzy. Hot.” It feels like each word is a labor to say it.
“Okay. Shh.”