An Unexpected Love Story: A sweet, heartwarming & uplifting romantic comedy (Falling into Happily Ever After Rom Com)

by Ellie Hall

  “The omission hurt worse. I trusted you. You and I were nearly as close as Claire and I were.”

  “I want you to know that I cared about you then. I care about you now. I didn’t mean for everything to fall apart.”

  “Then why did you leave?”

  Pressure builds between us.

  Catherine gets to her feet and moves toward the door.

  “Why are you about to leave?” I ask, reaching for her hand.

  “Because this is getting too intense.” Her jaw quivers.

  A deep crease forms between my eyes. “Then let’s unintensify it.”

  “I know we have a history. I know I should have told you about Zach. And I know that I wanted everything that happened between us after that.”

  “You know what I know? You threw it away. You threw me away, Kellan.”

  “Catherine, please hear me when I say this. I care about you. A lot. I’d like to get to know you again. At least, I’d like to be friends, if you can forgive me.”

  “The problem is I can’t forgive myself.” Where I expect her face to be pointed with rage, she looks queasy and says, “I’m, uh, not feeling well.”

  She stumbles backward, knocking into the laundry basket.

  I catch her forearm. Her skin is hot. “You’re burning up.”

  “Sorry,” she says, fumbling to right it.

  “Let’s get you back upstairs. I’ll finish the laundry.”

  “Yeah.” She moves unsteadily toward the door. I wrap my arm around her. She leans against me. “I can do it,” she says, but grimaces as if a wave of nausea washes over her.

  Cat doesn’t let go of me.

  Once upstairs, she rushes toward the bathroom and slams the door. She gets sick. I wait outside. No way am I leaving her again.

  After a few minutes, the door creaks open, and a cat, of the feline variety, emerges. Cat, the human, leans over the toilet, resting her head on the edge. She fell asleep. Still burning up, I clean her up and carry her into her bedroom and settle her under the blankets.

  I check on her a few more times, pressing a cool cloth against her head. Looking around her room, she has a huge assortment of romance novels, including several familiar titles. Interesting.

  Her eyes flutter open and our gazes meet. I squeeze her hand.

  “You can go.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  She doesn’t answer, but a faint smile lifts onto her lips.

  I finish the laundry, but not the pizza in case she got food poisoning. I clean up the kitchen from her cookie baking and while wiping the counter, I accidentally nudge her laptop. The screen brightens to life.

  I can’t help but read the page because at the top are the words The Boyfriend Blog then The Valentine’s Day Date Double Dare.

  The latest post is titled Going with my Gut. Strange, considering she’s sick.

  Date #2 The Man-Bun-Barista (name changed for privacy)

  Appearance: Dark hair, lidded eyes with the occasional bulge—probably the results of a caffeine deficit or surplus—, tattoos, slim, a bit wiry on second glance. Looks like he might be growing a beard? Definite hipster vibe—slightly greasy or maybe in need of a shower?

  Behavior: amazing cook, chef, and baker. Extremely talkative. Overly so. Hardly let me get a word in, which was fine because my mouth was full of food. Delicious food!

  Connection: has a dog named Dude Taco. Invited his sister to stay for dinner. Didn’t make it out of the kitchen. Didn’t kiss. Didn’t do anything other than eat. Not complaining.

  In summation: MBB has a shaky three stars. If he were a restaurant, it would be a Michelin five-star rating for sure, but he’s merely a man with incredible kitchen skills and a seemingly inexhaustible ability to talk. I’m not into the silent type, but he swings to the other extreme talking incessantly while the music pumps and the dog runs wild.

  Another turn off was the multitude of texts he received, somehow managing not to break speech and answer them at the same time. And he’s jittery. Not nervous, I don’t think, but constantly in motion like a toddler on chocolate and coffee. Maybe he infuses himself up with a mega-dose of caffeine while at work. Oh, and have I mentioned he goes to the bathroom every twenty minutes? I timed it. Weird.

  Overall, we won’t be dining together again.

  Relief and something else fills me. Protectiveness? Did this man-bun-barista give Catherine food poisoning? Is that why she’s sick? From the blog post, he didn’t seem malicious, but you can never be too sure.

  After a day in bed, Catherine begins to make a recovery.

  I’m seated next to her with my laptop open, getting some work done. When her fever was at its height, she said my name a few times. Now, she does but with a stronger, clearer voice.

  “Hey, sleepy,” I say when she stirs.

  “You stayed.”

  I feel warm inside. Not fever warm, but like I’m one step closer to helping her heal from the virus or food poisoning, but also the wound that I caused all those years ago. Even though I’m a man of many words, sometimes actions speak louder.

  I leave her to shower and freshen up. On wobbly legs, she enters the kitchen then pales.

  In case she gets lightheaded, I rush over and take her in my arms. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. I just realized I didn’t call in sick. Bratte is going to kill me. I wouldn’t have said no to that while I was sick, but ugh. I don’t want to get fired.”

  “I let him know you were under the weather.”

  Still in my arms, she cranes her head to look up at me. Our gazes meet. Her eyes hold softness. Gratitude.

  “Thank you for taking such good care of me.”

  “Of course.”

  “You’re an okay human.”

  “I’m a unicorn, Catherine. It’s time you get that right,” I say with laughter in my voice.

  The flat line of her lips turns into a smile. Her dimple pops. “I was thinking a stallion, but fine.”

  Inside, I light up and all feels right in the world.

  Catherine’s stomach rumbles.

  “Are you hungry?” I ask.

  “On the saltines to cookies scale, I think I’m back to neutral. But all we have are old take-out containers and condiments.”

  I smirk. “I went shopping.”

  She pauses in front of the fridge and turns in front of an enormous bouquet of white tulips.

  I let the symbolism speak for itself. Forgiveness. I hope she can forgive me.

  “You know that I’m a disaster in the kitchen, but I have all the fixings for a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup, but let’s start with toast.” I put a cup of ginger ale in her hand. “And a toast to you feeling better.”

  Her dimple doesn’t diminish. “Yeah, I’ll drink to that.”

  Our glasses clink and I imagine someday doing this again but on a more momentous occasion.

  Lost & Found

  Catherine

  The warm shower, the first I’d had in a couple of days, was soothing and made me feel less like a flaming dumpster rolling down a hill with one wobbly wheel. I know, I know. Gross.

  But that sums up the confusing emotions of Kellan’s appearance at the apartment, getting sick, and him taking care of me.

  I feel lighter. Clearer. Maybe because I purged some of the anger I felt at Kellan. Some of it. Okay, fine a lot of it. Most of it. There might only be a sliver left. Fine. None. What a relief. For years, my hatred for him was something I could viscerally feel. My body would tense. My cheeks heat. It’s been flushed out of me. Gone.

  I don’t think it’s because I’m still recovering or in shock.

  As a kid, Kellan was deathly afraid of vomit. Like, the thought of it would make him vomit, and that in turn freaked him out so much that when a member of the Connolly household was ill, he’d turn up on my doorstep.

  Also, he’s not a fan of cats, but Mew is in his lap while he finishes up something for work. They made fast friends.

  What made Kellan
stay? What made him care? He kept a full glass of water or ginger ale by my side, sanitized the bathroom more than once, and made sure I was still breathing when I wasn’t moaning in agony.

  Then there were the dreams.

  It was like a flashback of the night he left me waiting. The night he fled. Broke my trust.

  Then, my grandmother, Mimi, appeared. She had a cat’s tail and whiskers, and wore an apron but also had a container of her famous cookies so I knew it was her. About the cat part, cut me some slack. It was a dream.

  Anyway, Mimi said, “Remember I used to always tell you to follow your heart?”

  I nodded, warmed over by her presence.

  Then she said, “How’s not following it been working out for you?”

  Stunned by the tough love, I didn’t answer. Then I plucked a cookie from her container and said, “My heart reliably leads me to chocolate.”

  She laughed then the dream dissolved.

  But I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. Especially with Kellan here. The truth is my heart leads to him. Always has. Always will?

  As I sip the ginger ale to test the waters, a truth rises to the surface like the bubbles in the glass. Maybe life hasn’t been working out so well for me because I haven’t been following my heart or listening to or trusting it. Maybe if I can trust myself, I can trust him.

  I flip on my laptop. No doubt, my work inbox is full. But my mouse drifts to the Boyfriend Book Blog.

  I write up a post to tell my readers (I still can’t believe anyone reads my blog) that I’m alive in case they worried I was laying in a puddle of misery for the last few days, which I more or less was. I title it, The Last Supper.

  The reply comments come quick.

  Glad to have you back!

  Happy you’re feeling better.

  We missed you!

  ShellsXOX comments: If eating that meal the Man-Bun-Barista made was wrong, I don’t want to be right.

  I write back, You can have him.

  ShellsXOX replies: Really?

  Then I tell her where he works. Then I caution her about food poisoning. But assure her that I don’t think that was my problem. I think my body needed to let go of some of the bitter poison that had kept me locked in turmoil, hatred, and feeling like a victim because I haven’t been able to forgive the past—both our roles in it.

  From the other room, Kellan makes a call. I don’t listen, but the sound of his voice brings me relief. The knots in my chest loosen. I’ve spent too long living in regret at not having the chance to tell the truth—my feelings for him have never disappeared. Never dissipated. I hid them inside of anger and hatred, but they were there, burning to get out.

  “Are you feeling better?” he asks.

  “Yes. In more ways than one.” I sit on the edge of the couch. “It’s time I accept your apology. My anger was born out of necessity to protect myself. You hurt me. But we were both young. Foolish. I mean, what were we even thinking?”

  “It kills me to think that I played a part in any of the tears you’ve ever shed. I’m reluctant to think I was that important, but there’s no denying that I hurt you. It’s followed me around the world and made me think about what I’d done. How I’d hurt the person I cared most about.”

  Our eyes meet. His are vibrant blue but soft too. As a Marine, I know he’s seen a lot of tragedy, yet somehow he’s still made room for me. Even after all this time.

  “Thank you for taking care of me. Even though I know throw up isn’t your favorite.”

  His nose wrinkles. “Being in the service helped me get over a lot of things and fast. It focused my priorities. What’s important. But I’ll never forget that time everyone got mono—all my brothers, Claire—the whole house was contaminated. You came over with a vat of soup, several loaves of bread, and the entire block of cheese from the deli. The only thing I could stomach was tomato soup and grilled cheese. Remember, you’ve taken care of me too.”

  He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something else and then hesitates. I know what it is. The words we wrote that night. The ones we were going to profess to each other. Instead, he fled.

  As if back in the dream with Mimi, it’s like I hear her voice. That was then. This is now. Listen to your heart if it tells you to give him a second chance.

  “That’s all I want.”

  “Huh?” he asks.

  I fumble to cover my tracks. “Oh, a grilled cheese. That’s all I want.”

  “I got the ingredients.”

  “And some fresh air. There’s a place called The Grilled Cheese Factory over on Houston Street. They make gourmet grilled cheese sandwiches. They have about thirty on the menu.”

  “I thought you liked yours plain on white bread with American cheese.”

  “I know. They have that too. It’s on the kids’ menu. But they also have bacon grilled cheese which I know you like, at least not when you’re feeling sick.”

  Amusement flutters across Kellan’s lips.

  We sit at a vacant table forming a horseshoe around the perimeter of the Grilled Cheese Factory. Kellan sits beneath paper cut-outs of pink and red Xs and Os. Valentine’s decorations cover the door, walls, soda machine, even the cash registers. It looks like Cupid puked in here. Never mind. Scratch that thought. I do not want to think about puking or Valentine’s Day. It doesn’t help that Hazel texted on our way over here, telling me she arranged a date with Omar, the gym stud.

  My heart thumps out a quiet beat, but there’s no mistaking what it’s telling me. Maybe I should go out with Gym Stud, anyway. Just to be sure. Complete the dare. Ignore the way being here with Kellan makes me feel.

  Content.

  Happy.

  Joyful.

  Ugh. I just shook off the flu, but I think the Valentine’s décor carries some kind of contagion.

  If I’m not mistaken, my reflection in the window, while we wait for our order, reveals me giving Kellan heart eyes. You know, the kind from the emoji. The kind that say, I’m head over heels for you. The ones that show my heart is healing, and it belongs to him.

  Oh. Gag.

  Don’t worry, I’m not sick again. But I never saw this coming.

  In return, again he gives me a look. Correction, the look.

  Yes, even after seeing me at my worst—being sick has nothing on my ferocious bed head.

  Yes, even after I told him I hate him.

  Yes, even after everything that happened.

  I was wrong. He does care. He’s told me. He’s shown me.

  I better listen to my dream-grandmother and my heart.

  A server brings us serious-we’re-not-messing-around grilled cheese sandwiches. Mine, on plain white bread with American cheese, is the biggest, cheesiest, meltiest, and most delicious thing I’ve ever seen. A thin layer of extra cheese coats the top. It’s crispy and buttery and perfect.

  I take a big bite. “I’m in love.”

  Kellan’s eyes widen and his hand, lifted toward his mouth to take a bite of his sandwich, goes still.

  To cover my tracks, I’m about to say, With this sandwich. But I stop myself. It’s good but not that good. Instead, I leave the comment in the air between us. Hidden behind another monster bite, I smirk.

  Because it’s true. It’s the truest thing I know and I can no longer lie to myself.

  Kellan swallows and sets down his sandwich. “Me too.”

  Time halts, hangs, lingers.

  “I don’t mind these Valentine’s Day decorations after all.”

  Kellan’s eyes light with knowing. “Me neither. I admit that I love them.” He bites his lip and ropes me with his gaze.

  My heart answers with warmth.

  He then admits that he read my recent blog post, confessing that the page was open on my laptop. It’s public so no big deal.

  He also admits that he hates the idea of me dating other guys.

  “Well, Hazel has me hooked up with Omar tomorrow, provided I feel better.”

  Kellan taps his ja
w and surveys me. “Hmm. You are looking a little flushed. It might be best for you to stay in.”

  “What would I do?”

  “The question is what would we do. Let’s see. Bake cookies, watch a movie...”

  “I have to fulfill the dare.”

  “Do you?”

  No.

  When Kellan and I are done eating, we stroll back to the apartment. For once, I enjoy the crisp winter air. Also, it is cooling me off because Kellan wasn’t wrong about me being flushed. But it’s entirely his fault and has nothing to do with my health.

  The shushing of slush under taxi’s tires punctuates our conversation about life in the city. I steal a glance at Kellan, illuminated in columns of streetlights and then disappearing into darkness. His pinky links with mine then his palm presses firm as he takes my hand. “I’m not letting go this time.”

  “Me neither.”

  When we get back to the apartment, Mew greets him with gusto. I merely get a few blinks. “Traitor,” I whisper. “I thought I was your favorite.”

  Kellan and I settle in with cookies, milk, and a movie, but have yet to press play. We have a backlog of conversation to catch up on. We both agree that there’s so much that we’ve missed.

  “So, can we call this starting over?” Kellan asks.

  “I’ve known you almost my whole life. I’ve seen you with mono. You’ve seen me fall flat on my face during the production of Grease my sophomore year. We’ve seen each other heartbroken, grieving… I think we’re a little past starting over.”

  “Then let’s start right now.” He leans back in the chair and cradles his head in his hands. “Why do you work at the PR firm? Is that what you really want to be doing?”

  “You mean why do I fetch Mr. Rat a triple, venti, soy, not sweet, no foam, latte then spend a better part of my day meeting his inane demands? Like why do I endure water cooler banter and a glass ceiling—walls and mirrors, everything a reflection of the fact that long hours, solid commitment, and every ounce of creativity isn’t going to get me anywhere in that office?”

  “Yeah. Is that what you really want to be doing?”

  “No, but—” I shrug and begin telling him about my love for dogs then cut myself off. Even though Kellan encourages me, I haven’t quite figured out the details of that dream. It’s too new. Too fresh. “My turn. What I’m dying to know is what brought you to Albright, Bratte, and Carlotta? Where did you go after you left that brought you here?”