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

by Ellie Hall

  “I’m into intended puns. Shakespeare was too.”

  Zoe dissolves into what appears to be a much-needed fit of laughter. When she catches her breath, she says, “There’s nothing that’s funny about this, but Lottie, you’re a breath of fresh air. So, I was thinking about Cookie & Cupcake.”

  All I can think about is how Rusty used to call her Cookie instead of focus on her suggestion that we truly go into business together.

  “There’s a space for rent on Main Street. It would be perfect. Just think, you and me and our new company.”

  “I didn’t plan to stay long.”

  “But something about Seaswell just gets its claws into you.” She snaps her fingers like lobster pincers.

  “I was thinking of it more like putting down roots, but—” But Rusty is leaving and my life is in Manhattan. “You wanted to get away. To move. What changed?”

  “This is home. I realized that Russell wanted to escape after Sanderson died and he doesn’t seem particularly happy with his life. I might be wrong, but he seemed happier to come back.”

  I was foolishly hoping that I had something to do with it.

  Zoe nudges me with her shoulder. “And it’s obvious he’s in love.” She sighs. “He never looked at me the way he does you. It’s like, each time his eyes land on you, when they leave, it’s a promise they’ll return.”

  My gaze jerks to hers with surprise.

  She lets out a breath. “I’m happy for you guys. I know I can be a lot sometimes, but I appreciate you being friends with me rather than being weird or jealous about us dating in high school. I’ve always been one of the boys, but it’s nice to have a girlfriend. I’m lucky to have met you, Lottie. And you and Russell are very lucky to have each other.”

  My mouth opens and closes twice before I speak. “People keep talking about luck, Rusty too, but I feel like whatever little bits I’ve gained these last few weeks are about to run out.”

  She rolls her eyes like I’m hopeless. “The other reason I know it’s true love between you two is because he lets you call him Rusty.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Eliot Sanderson called him that—best friends can get away with silly nicknames.”

  My blank face must tell her I don’t know who she’s talking about. “Oh. I guess he’ll tell you when he’s ready.” A long beat passes as she sweeps up a straw wrapper. “Well, think about Cookie & Cupcake. I’d love to go into business with you. If you wanted, you could work seasonally. It’s dead here in the winter, although things liven up at the rink. Looks like we’ll be able to get the roof repaired.”

  “Thanks, Zoe. I’ll think about it.” To be honest, I feel adrift, not sure where to go or what to do...or why Rusty hasn’t mentioned Eliot Sanderson.

  The Ice Wizard sharpens a set of hockey skates and turns off the machine as I pass on my way out. “Rough night for the Storm. But good for business. Thanks again for your help saving this place. Rusty’s generosity wasn’t unnoticed either. Although, I think the five-k he donated was mostly a way to smooth things over with the coach.”

  His donation is news to me. Then again, it’s not exactly my business what he does with his money. I volunteered my time and baking skills to help save the rink.

  “Lottie, you’re welcome to skate anytime. No charge.”

  “How’d you know I skate?”

  The Ice Wizard shrugs. “I didn’t. I meant during public skate. Consider it on the house.”

  I have the urge to tell him how much I miss the surge of anticipation as I tugged the laces tight on my skates, the thrill of the first glide and then the comfort of the next, the swish, swish, swish as I warmed up. I rub my hands up and down my arms.

  On the rink, a young girl in pink fleece slides gracefully through her program. I wiggle my toes, longing to be in her place. “That used to be me,” I say when a whiskered figure, the Ice Wizard, appears at my side.

  Together, we watch as she performs backward crossovers before spinning and landing softly on the inner edge of her extended left leg and with her arms lifted in an arabesque. Broken down into its parts, the movement is rudimentary, but when combined, it’s clarity and unity, slicing along the ice and dancing on a razor’s edge.

  “You must’ve been good, what with studying the angles and landings.” He winks.

  “She’s really good.”

  “Been coming here since she was about yay-tall.” He holds his hand up to the partition wall and glass, demonstrating. “You should get out there.”

  “I don’t skate anymore.”

  He sighs. “Me neither, not much anyway. Running this place keeps me busy enough.”

  I turn to face him. “You used to skate? As in not hockey.”

  He nods. “Sure did. I played hockey too, recreationally, but I was a figure skater. Ivan Witczak. Men’s singles 1978. Came in fourth. There’s no medal after bronze, so I came back here, quietly supporting other skaters pursuing their dreams.” He shrugs. “I still get out there now and then. Care to join me? I bet I can find a pair of skates that’ll fit you. I have an entire room full of them.” He laughs good-naturedly and looks at my feet, sizing them up.

  Magnolia sighs and lowers onto her belly while I tug on a pair of socks and scuffed fawn-colored women’s skates. The fit is almost perfect. Getting to my feet, I wobble, but when the blades connect with the ice, I’m steady.

  Ivan, the Ice Wizard, follows me onto the rink. We do a warm up lap and then another. Despite his shock of white hair and me being out of practice, we gain speed, looping the rink again and again. The momentum blows the wisps of hair from my face, warms the blood in my veins, and scratches through the surface of the glass case I placed around my heart, the parts of myself I closed off, afraid I’d fall, fail.

  We sail toward the middle, and with a nod, the Ice Wizard effortlessly performs a lutz. “Still got it,” he calls across the ice before gliding back to me. “You?” It isn’t a challenge, rather an invitation.

  I smile, then pump my legs, moving backward, gaining speed before I reach outward with my right arm and foot, my muscles recalling the exact angles, and then using my toepick to push off and lift into the air, vaulting and turning, and then landing smoothly, just like the girl in the pink fleece.

  The Ice Wizard whoops, clapping his hands together. We do the same with the Salchow and axel, before the buzzer rings indicating public skate is over.

  He says, “I suppose I ought to get back to work. I hope to see you out here again sometime.”

  “I’d like that.” I do a single cooldown lap, catching my breath before returning to the non-frozen ground.

  Rusty stands by the penalty box, his arms crossed in front of his chest. “At the risk of stating the obvious, you’re good. Exceptional. Quite the hidden talent you have there, Cupcake.”

  I take a seat in the warm room, loosening the laces, and catch my breath. Along with the laces, something comes loose inside. The truth, frozen in time, in ice, begs to melt. “I kept it hidden on purpose. When I’m on the ice, it’s impossible for people not to see me. My scar. That I was the victim of an attack.”

  Rusty’s expression withers. Where I expect him to slide next to me on the bench, he keeps his distance.

  “It was a freak thing. Me, wrong place wrong time. Story of my life. He’d robbed a convenience store. I was walking by with one of the dogs. Huck wasn’t tested. Not fully trained. I wasn’t supposed to have him off our property. He took off at the sound of the sirens as the police made chase. The man had a knife and grabbed me off the sidewalk. Huck returned, biting the guy’s ankle. The knife slipped. Sliced. It happened so fast.” I wrap my arms around my chest, rarely having retold this story. “There was so much blood.”

  Rusty squeezes me in a half-hug even though I want to liquefy into his arms as tears pierce my eyes.

  “Everything hurt too much, but no matter how quiet and small I made myself, the feelings got bigger.”

  “You shouldn’t have given up skati
ng. You were stunning out there. You looked the most like yourself that I’ve ever seen you.” But the words sound wooden and the hug feels stiff. I have the strange feeling that his heart longs for something he hasn’t yet identified. The possibility that it isn’t me dries up the tears because this is exactly what I should’ve expected.

  “Let’s take a walk. I wanted to talk to you about something,” he says.

  What he said reminded me that even though words disappear into the air as soon as they’re spoken, they leave a lasting impression and that I’m about to hear some that I don’t want to.

  22

  On the Rocks

  Rusty

  We’re nearly at the waterfront. Despite the warmth earlier, the wind chops the water into frothy peaks. Storm clouds roll overhead like crinkled pages in a book. Seagulls caw, searching ardently for nibbles while hassling the remaining beachgoers.

  Lottie is as pretty as ever and each step in the sand shifts something inside, unearthing questions, doubts. No, this is what I have to do.

  We sit on the beach and a sudden sense of melancholy washes over me at Oma being alone, generally unnoticed, just another stooped elderly woman, a backdrop, a relic living in Seaswell. The sands shift again as a sneaky, wriggly feeling works its way into my stomach. Oma, for all her shortcomings, is my anchor.

  I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to do this, but I have to. It’s for Lottie’s own good. In reality, I’m the unlucky one and don’t want it to rub off on her.

  Before I can speak, Lottie says, “What should I know about Eliot Sanderson?”

  A desperate wash of anxiety slides through me. I shake my head.

  “He used to call you Rusty, right?”

  I gaze at the waves until the words roll in on the tide. “He stopped hanging out at the beach. I used to give him crap for chasing the seagulls. He always said he just wanted to see them fly. I never understood why he’d want to leave. Then he died, and I wanted nothing more than to fly away from here.”

  “Rusty, Russell, I am so sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “He was depressed. Didn’t see a way out. He was so young.”

  “Too young,” Lottie whispers.

  I press my lips together, but the next part forces its way out. “My mother died of cancer. Sudden too. It was terminal. There was nothing the doctor could have done. Same thing. Gone. Poof.”

  While Lottie listens, I explain a bit about the ovarian cancer my mother had and how it turned out I was a miracle baby. I scoff. Hearing my voice say the words and tell the story has a surreal quality. It’s almost like I’m floating. Lottie’s arm wraps around the curve of my back as though trying to anchor me, but more than ever, I want to take flight.

  “Little known fact, when Eliot was younger he was really into birds. You know, the way some boys are into dinosaurs or trucks. He had the Ornithology Atlas memorized.” A sad but fond smile breaches at the memory. “He was tough. Played hockey too. We were best friends starting my first day at the rink. I thought I knew everything about him. Except for how he felt deep down. I guess he didn’t want anyone to see him as different than the jokester, the guy always up for a laugh.”

  Lottie’s hand brushes her scar like she knows the feeling.

  Thunder cracks in the distance. She jumps.

  “I found him, tried to help him. It was too late. I’ll admit, after he died, I was angry. Confused. Opened my fat mouth at the wrong time. Got in a fight. Benched. When my attitude didn’t improve, I was asked to take a hiatus from the team. I left without saying goodbye. What did it matter? After that, I vowed to help people and to keep my trap closed. Focus on saving lives instead of seeing them die. When we first met, you asked me about my deepest desire. That.” For a minute, it was Lottie. But I’ve been foolish.

  She doesn’t say a word. No sweet nothing.

  We walk away from the gathering storm and along the dunes, with thin wooden fences half-buried in the sand. The beach grass blows in the wind.

  We trudge past the marsh, taking the shortcut back to the house. Magnolia leads the way with her ears pinned. The cordgrass and reeds waft the stink-bomb smell of mud and rotten-eggs.

  All of a sudden, I pause. Blink my eyes a few times. Lottie doesn’t brake in time and hurtles into my back.

  “Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.” Her troubled expression matches the gray palette of the sky.

  I extend an arm and whisper, “Look, there, between that tall reed that looks like an upside-down J and the giraffe-like one. There’s a glossy ibis. That was Eliot’s favorite bird.”

  I squint my eyes, scanning the matchstick grass for movement. A fat drop falls from the sky and then a few seconds later, another, warning shots for us to take shelter.

  All at once, the great bird with its long, glossy bill rises from the reeds and flaps toward the cover of the bordering woodlands. It’s time for me to do the same.

  We hurry toward Starboard as more drops fall like paint splatters onto the street.

  Lottie shrieks and cheers as the rain pelts down, drenching us. “A rainy end to spring break. Fitting.”

  Once we’re on the back porch, I let Magnolia in, but grasp Lottie’s hand, instructing her to wait.

  “I’m leaving today.”

  “I know and you’re not coming back.” She looks toward the rain. Sadness clouds her face.

  She spared me the difficulty of saying exactly that. She’s so brave. Better than me. Better than I deserve.

  “Will I see you when I’m back in Manhattan?” she asks as if she knows the answer. The approaching farewell.

  With a slight shake of my head, I don’t have the guts to say it out loud. “Lottie, life is full of storms. Mean people who call you unlucky, careless people who give you a hard time for being out of cookies, and guys like me. You deserve better. I’m sorry.”

  Her pale blue eyes flit from the spring rain to meet mine. “No one ever promised that I wouldn’t get wet.” She lifts onto her toes and kisses me on the cheek. “I guess this is goodbye.” Her voice doesn’t crack a whisper. She goes inside as the ice around my heart shatters, leaving me chilled, splintered, and in utter and complete pain.

  But this is what I have to do for her. To keep her safe from me—the guy who always has to say goodbye. I go inside and hear the squeak of the ninth step. She must be upstairs.

  The kitchen, reliably warm with the scent of savory spices and cooling bread, greets me as I trundle in, damp and windblown.

  In Latvian, I explain to Oma that we were caught in the storm and that I’m leaving soon.

  “Have something to eat,” she says as if instead of telling her that I’m going back to Manhattan, I said I was going to stay the night.

  Oma dishes up cabbage rolls filled with beef, rice, and carrot, a scoop of potato salad, and bread with cheese.

  She sits down beside me. “You have a nice girlfriend.”

  I stop mid-bite. She must know what just happened. I forgot that this frosty woman I’ve called Oma my whole life is also Valda: daughter, sister, friend, and wife. She was in love once, maybe she still is. She’s composed of her own hopes and dreams and struggles and sadness, making it easier to see them in others. She’s also observant. A watcher.

  “Oma, I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Just like you didn’t want to talk about your mother or Eliot.”

  “Exactly.” I get up from the table.

  She rises as well, never backing down. As stubborn as me. An ox, a mule.

  “Even if you refuse to speak the words, the stories you tell yourself will always follow you. Letter by letter, they will devour you unless you set them free.”

  Not if I can outrun them. I grab my keys, step back into the rain, and drive away. I’d already packed. It’s easier not to say goodbye.

  Despite my sports car, the drive south to Manhattan is relatively slow because of the rain, but I’m reckless as I weave through the traffic, trying to get away from my hometown, from my grandmother
who knows me too well, and from losing Lottie.

  When the taillights don’t let up, I’m forced to come to a standstill.

  My thoughts catch up, dowsing me like the rain on the windshield.

  Being with Lottie is comfort. Curiosity. A promise. One I’m afraid I can’t keep.

  The risk to love her fully, to be with her comes into focus as I replay the last hours.

  She knew I’d leave...just like my mother did. Just like Eliot. But she deserves better than a hockey thug, than my damaged and scared heart.

  When the lights and bustle of New York City come into view, something in me recedes and retreats, dragging my heart with it if only for protection.

  The truth is I did to her exactly what hurt me all those years ago. I left her with another wound. This one invisible, unlike her scar. I pound the steering wheel, hating myself for it, but like my mother and Eliot, I can’t go back.

  The rest of the month has the velocity of a Least Tern—another one of Sanderson’s favorite birds. I have his stupid birding book on my shelf and consider tossing it down the garbage chute.

  The ER has me busier than ever, but a deep funk follows me around, trails me, becomes a companion. I think often of that day in the marshland, watching the bird fly away. The idea of freedom has wriggled itself into restlessness.

  I overhear the nurses whispering, calling me Doctor Downer.

  Does freedom mean that I get to do what I want, when I want without thinking about the people I leave behind? Or is it more about leaning into the difficult parts of life and relationships and forming a union?

  In the last thirty days, I’ve had five patients who ingested coins, four with broken limbs, three complaining of low back pain, two who fell off ladders, and one who needed stitches on her chin. And exactly zero contact with Lottie and Oma.

  For the first time in a long time, I feel the opposite of free. My grandmother was right, the stories I’ve told myself and the words I’ve left unspoken are eating me alive.