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

by Ellie Hall

  “The first to break the family mold.”

  I exhale through my nose. “I suppose so. I was staying with a guy who was a graphic designer. He made decent money creating eBook covers—both premade and custom. We got to talking one day, and he was telling me about self-publishing. I thought it was something for hacks and people that couldn’t quite pull off the polish of a novelist. I discovered neither was true. The idea stuck with me and I looked into it during my breaks at the restaurant.”

  Catherine flips through the pages to my bio, which doesn’t reveal much other than where I went to college, my interests in fluffy pillows, clean sheets, and pie. She snorts. “Coming from a well-known family, I can see why you might not want to broadcast your identity.”

  The photo in my biography is of two people with linked pinkies. She looks more closely and recognition brightens her face.

  “That’s your right hand,” I say.

  She gasps. “The infinity knot ring I used to wear. We were on the beach, joking around one afternoon before everything happened. We were doing trust falls and then seeing whose pinky was stronger, leaning back until one of us slipped into the sand. The photo is of our fingers, linked from behind—the same ones on the cover of the book.”

  “Claire snapped it.”

  “She knew how you felt?”

  I nod. “I’m sorry she didn’t tell you about Zach. I don’t know what we were thinking.”

  A sigh that sounds like relief escapes. “I recently asked myself what I would’ve done if I were in your situation or Claire’s. I’d like to say that I would tell her every horrible detail, but I’m not so sure. I mean, me now, I’d be tactful, of course. Back then? I forgive her. I forgive you.”

  “And yourself?”

  She nods.

  I scoot closer and pick up the book. “I had a friend edit it, my buddy made the cover, and then I hit publish. I went from cut off, to homeless, to couch surfing, to a bestselling author.”

  “How did the book get traction?”

  “I wrote the truth, what I know to be true. Have you ever heard the saying, ‘Write what you know’?”

  Catherine nods.

  “There’s a corollary: Write what you’d like to know. I wanted to measure what I thought love was against experience. I went to some of the most romantic cities in Europe, people watched, hung out in cafes, and talked to locals, lovers, and yes, the brokenhearted.” I pat my chest. “Though I know enough about that first hand.”

  “Are you going to keep writing?”

  “Life as the romantic Marine pays the bills and then some. My last book isn’t written yet. I’m still looking forward to a happy ending.”

  Catherine picks up my meaning and we kiss again.

  Gym Stud

  Catherine

  Waking up the next morning isn’t the usual struggle. Perhaps it’s the nearing of the end of a long-waged battle or maybe it’s the warm kiss of the sun, streaming through the window.

  More than likely it’s Kellan across the apartment, sleeping. I’m still floating, glowing, over the moon about reconciling with Kellan...and kissing him.

  After we said goodnight, my mind orbited around the conversation he and I had, picking out pieces, analyzing satellites, and taking new trajectories. I was hung up on the play of the light on his features, the various shades of his smile, his serious and deliberate expressions as we waged our battle, and the damp glittering in his eyes when things got heavy. Then the kiss that sealed it all, told me everything was okay and would be in the future too.

  Even now as I revisit, recap, and replay the night, his story and apology now inscribed on the map of my mind, leading me where? My heart beats out an answer.

  The past burned away leaving me with a simple truth.

  Kellan isn’t my nemesis.

  I don’t hate him.

  I love him.

  I love him with every ounce of my romance novel-chocolate chip cookie-dog adoring self.

  Do I want him to be my Valentine’s Day Date Double Dare date? Yes.

  Do I want to scrap Hazel’s whole silly thing? Yes.

  Will I follow through so I don’t disappoint my blog readers? We’ll see.

  Hazel and I chat on the phone during a yoga break at her retreat. I’ve given her a tough time about ambushing me with the houseguest and also the highlights of my time spent with said houseguest.

  All around, she’s pretty pleased with her matchmaking skills. “But, you’re scheduled with Omar at the gym tomorrow.”

  “It doesn’t count as a date if I’m paying him to give me a personal training lesson.”

  “I traded him a spot in my yoga class.”

  “Hazel,” I warn.

  The line gets fuzzy. She’s been up in Vermont or somewhere equally wooded.

  We say a choppy goodbye.

  Kellan has a teleconference with his editor so I sneak off to the gym with a plan. Here’s the thing, going to the gym on a Sunday afternoon is about as appealing as having lemon juice squirted in my eyes, which is exactly what it feels like when I get too sweaty.

  For an energy boost, I stop at a café to grab a coffee. A cellophane Valentine’s Day decoration hangs from the window reminding me of the dare. I distract myself with a display of mugs that say things like I love you a latte, Words cannot espresso how much you mean to me, and You’re the cream in my coffee. I imagine mornings spent with Kellan sipping out of those mugs.

  When I get to the gym, Omar immediately spots me, probably because I look like a dandelion in a field of tulips. That is to say, when I take my hat off, my hair is as frizzy as ever and without Hazel’s personal styling to prepare me for the personal trainer, my outfit isn’t as sleek and trendy as the rest of the women parading around.

  He strides over, buff and masculine. His shirt strains against muscles made of rock. My mind flashes to the scar and tattoo on Kellan’s chest. I dab my forehead. I’m nervous and already sweating because I have no idea how this is going to go.

  Omar shakes my hand, his bicep flexing.

  “Hazel said you were sick recently,” he says, concerned.

  “I had the flu, but I’m feeling much, much better.” Energized! Stimulated! Caffeinated! “Listen, I have to talk to you about something important.”

  Omar clears his throat as if used to people protesting what’s sure to be a tough workout. “I have a standard program I like to start new clients on, but I want to ask you a few questions before we begin.” He swipes the screen of his iPad and opens it to his client database.

  “That’s the thing. I appreciate you offering to give me a training session, but Hazel dared me to go on a date with you.”

  His eyes widen as though trying to make sense of the words dribbling from my mouth.

  Pull it together, Kittredge. I take a shallow breath and go on to tell him about the Valentine’s Day Date Double Dare, Kellan, and my feelings for him.

  “See, the thing is, I have a blog with readers. I don’t want to let them down or give Hazel the satisfaction of being right, at least not yet, so I was thinking we could fake date or something, but I don’t want to do a real date because of Kellan.” Sweat pours from my brow as if I’d completed my third circuit on the weight machines.

  Omar scrubs his hand down his face. He pulls me into an alcove.

  Panic rises within. Maybe he misunderstood me.

  He leans in and says, “I haven’t made an official announcement yet, but I’m leaving soon for seminary.”

  I swallow and his words come in and out of focus.

  “I don’t condone lying or faking a date. I misread Hazel. I thought she simply wanted to get you a training lesson. Nothing more.”

  “Oh. You’re going into seminary as in potentially becoming a priest?”

  He nods and a serene smile lifts to his eyes.

  “So that means no dating.”

  He nods.

  “Do you mind if I still write up a profile for my blog? Of course, I won’t use your real na
me. I also won’t make anything up. This way, I’ll have closure.”

  He weighs this. “Sure. Send me a link too, please. It’ll be important for me to remain aware of what wayward people are doing.” He winks. “Kidding. But I’d like to see.”

  We chat for a little while. Then not two minutes after my class is supposed to be over, Hazel calls.

  “So, what do you think?” she asks.

  “He’s very sweet, a great guy.”

  “Great lips, arms, abs...” she says, listing off his more noticeable attributes. “The total package.”

  “One word, Kellan.”

  “But Omar is a catch, right?” Her voice lifts in pitch as if she’s trying to convince herself of something. I can’t quite pinpoint it though.

  “Okay, two words. Future priest.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “Do not repeat this information, but he’s on the path to answer his higher calling.” I then go on to tell her my plan for the blog.

  I hear the smile in Hazel’s voice when she says, “Technically, you have one more date.” She wants me to confess I have feelings for Kellan. I stubbornly resist.

  Back home, I blog a recap of my foray into the world of personal training with an up close and personal description of Omar’s best assets.

  Date #3 The Gym Stud (name changed for privacy)

  Appearance: ripped, buff, beefcake. Read: biceps, abs, quads, pecs, lats, delts, calves, and glutes. The glutes are killer.

  Behavior: in-depth knowledge of, along with familiarity and comfort with the whole person—physical, mental, and spiritual. Invested in health and wellbeing. Concern and care about the client’s activities and goals.

  Connection: apparent tolerance of an overtired, over-caffeinated, out of shape office employee. Given the circumstances, he had a gentle yet firm demeanor.

  My readers reply instantly, inquiring about which gym I visit. I answer a few other questions about the status of the dare, including if I’ll be seeing the Gym Stud outside of regular training sessions. Maybe at church?

  About an hour later, the door opens and closes, curry takeout wafts in my direction, and Kellan appears with two tickets in hand.

  I kiss him on the cheek.

  “I got tickets for the basketball game Tuesday night. Celtics versus Knicks. Tell me you haven’t gone to the dark side.”

  I giggle. “Nope. Still loyal to the Green.”

  For the next couple of days, Kellan and I play house. We share meals, watch movies, and generally enjoy being cooped up inside together because of the lousy weather.

  We stay up late talking and even after that, I have a hard time sleeping. My thoughts hang on his words, the way he leans his elbows on his knees when he’s thinking, how he folds me into a hug, warming me through. The way he kisses.

  Lying in bed, I fan myself.

  In the low moonlight, the book on my bedside table, the one Kellan said was inspired by us, beckons. But I can’t crack it open.

  Part of me is a wee bit jealous of the fictional romances Kellan creates. He said it himself: write what you know. Two things about this bother me.

  1) I don’t want to know about what experiences may have informed his ability to write kissing scenes, even if they’re told through a fictional lens.

  2) If I were to write what I know, it would be this: I don’t know.

  After talking with Omar, seeing the depth of meaning in his eyes when he proclaimed his desired vocation, I don’t know what I want to do with my life. Shouldn’t I have a purpose?

  I carry these thoughts with me through the next day at work. But when Kellan and I arrive at Madison Square Garden for the basketball game, the excitement and memories of attending games with my grandparents push all other thoughts from my mind.

  The energy from the fans is contagious and I order a gargantuan tray of nachos. Salty chips smothered in cheese, beans, peppers, salsa, and sour cream. I might drool a little as the server passes them to me and we go to our seats.

  Between bites, I cheer the Celtics on.

  By the second period, the nachos are forgotten and I’m out of my seat, cheering wildly when the Celtics take the lead. A Knicks fan gives me a look of derision when I call out the ref for a lousy call.

  The guy goes on to man-splain the sport to me.

  I’m more than familiar with offense, defense, boxing out, posting up, and picking and rolling. I cut my teeth on the Boston Celtics’ sidelines. My grandfather was their manager for the better part of my life and as his favorite, and only grandchild, he paraded me around like the team mascot. He was disappointed I didn’t play basketball in high school, but I didn’t inherit much in the way of height or absorb any talent via proximity when I was growing up.

  During halftime, Kellan asks, “Want something to drink?”

  We go together and laugh hysterically at the Knicks fan thinking I was clueless. While I wait in the line for the washroom, I spot Kellan by the concessions stand cooing at a baby with its hands and feet waving from the carrier strapped to his mom’s chest. After getting our beverages, he balances them in one hand as he helps a woman in a wheelchair get ketchup for her hotdog.

  His muscles ripple in his tight-fitting V-neck sweater, hugging him in all the right places as he glances around for me. I try to flag him down, but a group of teenagers with orange and blue painted faces parade past.

  In the long line, I miss part of the third quarter, regretting the giant coffee earlier. Finally back in my seat, not risking more liquid, I save my water for later.

  The Celtics catch up, but the Knicks score again. The fans go bananas and the Jumbotrons shower digital confetti as real confetti drifts over the crowd.

  The energy ratchets up a few notches during a foul deemed in our favor. Then the room goes bonkers when a jump shot appears as if it’s going to be an in-and-out but somehow sinks through the net.

  I get to my feet, joining in the excitement and cheer. Kellan and I hold hands as our other fists pump the air. I’m taken back to high school and all the games we’d attend. The way we’d rally for our team. I can’t help but feel how our paths diverged and then came together resembles this game. Up and down. Back and forth.

  For the next minutes of play, the opposition scores several points, with the help of a questionable call from the referee. Everyone is on their feet, stamping and shouting in disagreement, but the game resumes and the spread narrows with the Celtics catching up.

  The last quarter is so intense it’s no wonder my grandfather had a heart attack before he retired. I white-knuckle Kellan’s arm as the final shot leaves the forward’s hands and sails through the air.

  The timer ticks down with mere seconds to go.

  The buzzer is going to sound at any moment.

  We hold our collective breath.

  Five, four, three, two—it’s as though the ball hangs, suspended in the air, and then whoosh! It slides through the net before the buzzer signals.

  It’s madness, mayhem, equal parts applause and booing from the losing team. Without thinking, I turn to hug Kellan, as one does during exciting moments like this, and he spins me in a circle.

  It’s like at this moment, we’ve triumphed too.

  There’s no time to think about that because our faces are on the Jumbotron, outlined in an orange and blue heart with an arrow and the throbbing words kiss, kiss, kiss.

  I’ve been to several pro games when I was younger—one memorable time when my grandfather scored courtside seats for the playoffs when I was in high school. I brought Zach, Claire, her boyfriend, Kellan and his girlfriend of the week. Of course, I had to watch them make out on the larger than life screen while everyone chanted kiss, kiss, kiss, and cheered. I wished it had been us then. It is us now. It zings me right in the chest with a flurry of bubbly hearts.

  I go up on tiptoes, close my eyes, and land my lips on his. I inhale his familiar scent topped with a fresh splash of aftershave.

  The crowd chants for us now. This is our winnin
g shot.

  Our mouths connect. His lips quirk. Mine quiver. We kiss with irrepressible smiles on our faces.

  Biggest Fan

  Kellan

  The weather report said to expect a storm to blow in. I feel the charge and the heaviness in the air. Something dangerous just beyond visibility. What if it blows up everything I finally have? Like when I was in the military, one false moment of confidence can end lives.

  Catherine is supposed to go on one more date as part of the Valentine’s Day Date Double Dare. I’d rather she not. It worked out well that Omar wasn’t interested. Well, for me. I want to know I have her one hundred percent. But is that shadow of a doubt in my mind because I’m not in it one-hundred percent?

  I’d like to think not.

  But there’s a little bit of doubt, a kind of queasiness. We tried to be together in the past. Granted, it was my fault we didn’t remain that way, but what if in a crazy twist of fate we’re separated again, or what if she prefers this other guy she’s supposed to go on a date with. What then?

  I’m usually confident, self-assured. Traveling the world, visiting new places, meeting new people, and testing out new situations.

  What’s different? Oh, right. I have something to lose. Someone.

  I chuckle to myself as I gaze out the window at the city, blanketed in gray clouds. I wouldn’t mind going into hibernation right now. Take Catherine with me. Give her a long smooch. Take a long snooze.

  Life without her would be the worst kind of blow. The low, steely clouds hovering over the tops of the surrounding buildings, and the quiet, yet ongoing conflict with my heart, doesn’t help.

  Catherine pads into the room and wraps her arms around me from behind. She fits me perfectly.

  “Hey, Catnip,” I say, drawing her toward the front so I can put my arms around her.