Gael pushed his chair back and jumped up before anyone could stop him. He tried to avoid the eyes of his parents and Sammy and his little sister, but it was impossible not to see the shock and confusion on their faces. He attempted to make a break for it, but the waiters had surrounded him, their chanting morphing from the birthday song into “Make a wish! Make a wish!”
Gael glared down at the celebratory sushi roll in front of him. “Fine, sure. I’ll make a wish.” The waiters cut off their refrain, the restaurant suddenly unnaturally silent—other diners had finally caught on that something more interesting was happening than the average birthday party. But Gael was far past caring about making a scene. He squeezed his eyes shut, and with a big exhale, blew out the lone candle. He made a big show of opening his eyes and looking around the table expectantly.
“Nope,” Gale pronounced. “You’re all still here. Guess it didn’t come true.”
Then he pushed through the waiters and stormed out of the restaurant.
(I told you Romantics were dramatic.)
love and the art of relationship maintenance
At this point in the narrative, I might as well come clean about my not-so-little mistake. In order for you to understand the gravity of the situation, I must delve ever so briefly into the past.
In the midnineties, I encouraged the romance of two young intellectual types in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. It was a good relationship, one in which I had utmost faith. These two were freaking perfect for each other.
I probably don’t have to tell you this, but they were Gael’s parents. One of my favorite success stories, to be honest.
And maybe that’s where I went wrong. I was too confident. I got lazy.
The thing is, my work does not simply consist of getting people together. I also check in once every couple of years to see how it’s going. Talk to any couple who’s been together awhile, and they’ll tell you that love ebbs and flows, that there are ups and downs.
What they don’t know is that a lot of those ups have to do with me. Suddenly, they’ll be flooded with memories of the good times, as tingly and fluttery as if these moments had only just happened. Or they’ll be in the middle of an argument, and one of them will find the strength to be the bigger person, take the high road, and move beyond the fight.
My maintenance work is just that—maintenance. I can’t save a relationship that’s run its course. But when two people still have a lot of love for each other, I know just how to get them back on track.
Problem is, with Gael’s parents, I missed my check-in. Actually, I missed three check-ins. I’ve been over it hundreds of times, and I still can’t figure out quite how it happened.
Was it the slow but steady uptick in my work? (Thanks for nothing, Tinder.) Was it William and Kate’s royal wedding? (You don’t even want to know how many fires I have to put out when the whole entire world witnesses a romance and catches the love bug, many of them pursuing the wrong people as a result.) Was it simply a failure to update my mental calendar?
Nothing makes sense. I’ve dealt with encouraging love in difficult circumstances before (hello, cholera); it was not my first time tamping down an excess of emotion because two famous people got married; and my mental capabilities are far superior to iCal, trust me.
But whatever the reason, I messed up. Big time.
By the time I got my act together and did check in, it was too late. I could only watch as their marriage fell apart. Then I watched Gael (unsurprisingly) dive headfirst into a relationship with Anika in a desperate attempt to feel something other than sadness, to restore his own faith in love. And I watched her break his heart, as I knew she would.
Now I was watching Gael completely give up.
I couldn’t just watch anymore. I had to step in more directly.
His future depended on it.
this is what i meant about getting creative
Gael headed alone down East Main Street, and then continued along Franklin, trying to calm himself down and ignoring his mom’s repeated phone calls. When he got to Franklin’s main drag, he turned left into the alley that led to Rosemary Street. The flower lady was there, sitting in her usual spot: “Flowers, one dollar. Flowers, one dollar.”
She lifted her head to look at Gael and pushed a rose at him. “For you.”
Gael shook his head. “I don’t have any cash,” he said. “Sorry.”
“It’s free of charge.” She pushed the flower at him again, her knobby knuckles powerful and insistent.
“It’s okay,” Gael said.
But she insisted. “Have a flower,” she said again, shaking it in front of him like some kind of street evangelist.
He took it. “Thank you,” he said.
“Whoever she is, she isn’t worth it.” Her wrinkled face looked serious, her eyes wide open like she didn’t have a single doubt in the world that what she was saying was true. For a second, Gael wanted to ask her how she knew, how she could be so sure.
But then her gaze dropped from his, and she went back to arranging her flowers, calling out her typical refrain.