Nothing Like Love

by Abigail Strom

  “I still can’t believe you got on a plane. I’m so proud of you. And we’re on for Labor Day weekend, right? I decided I’m too damn old to sleep on your couch, so I splurged on a hotel reservation. It’s only a few blocks away from your place. Is that all right?”

  “Sure.”

  “Great. So is anything up? Or are you just calling to say hi?”

  She hesitated so long that after a minute her dad asked, “Honey? Are you still there?”

  “I’m still here.” She hesitated one more moment, and then she asked the question she’d sworn she’d never ask him. “Dad, there’s something I need to know. Why did you have an affair?”

  “An affair? What are you talking about?”

  He didn’t sound guilty—he sounded bewildered. Was it possible he’d forgotten?

  “I saw you with her, Dad. When Mom was sick. A blonde woman in green cat’s-eye glasses? You met her more than once. She had this brown suede coat and a purple scarf, and—”

  “Oh, my God.”

  Simone closed her eyes. “Yeah.”

  “No. No. Simone, have you been thinking all these years that . . . oh, sweetheart. That woman wasn’t my mistress. She was my therapist.”

  It was her turn to be bewildered. “Your therapist? But . . . you never told us you had a therapist.”

  “I know. I needed help, but I didn’t want to tell you or your mother. You guys had enough to deal with without worrying that I was going off my rocker. So I kept it quiet.” There was a pause. “You thought I was having an affair? Wow. Was it really that easy to think the worst of me?”

  “Oh, Dad.” Suddenly she started to cry. “Oh, Dad.”

  “How could you have believed something like that? And if you did, why didn’t you talk to me about it?”

  Why had she jumped so quickly to that conclusion? From the moment she saw her dad with that woman she’d been sure he was having an affair . . . and she thought she knew why. It hurt so much to watch her mother dying that there were times she thought about running away. Even though she never had, she’d hated herself for those moments of weakness. Having an affair, she’d thought, was how her father ran away.

  “Because I forgave you. I understood why you did it. Or I thought I did.”

  “I loved your mother with every fiber of my being. I would have died before I’d do anything to hurt her. How could you not know that?”

  Until that moment, Simone hadn’t known how much of her life had been built on her belief that even the very best of men—even a man as loving and loyal as her father—would eventually betray the person he loved.

  All this time she’d been wrong. All this time she’d believed a lie. But she couldn’t blame that mistake for the way she’d responded to it. Someone else . . . someone like Zach . . . wouldn’t have reacted the way she had even if he’d believed the same lie.

  Someone like Zach wouldn’t have been so ready to close his heart to love.

  For a minute she couldn’t speak. All she could do was sob.

  “It’s all right, honey. Don’t cry. We’ll talk more about this in person, okay? But something else occurs to me. My therapist was gorgeous. What did you think she was doing with a short, balding English professor? Your mother was the only woman in the world who ever thought I was sexy.”

  “Oh, Dad. Talking about Mom isn’t the way to make me stop crying.” She wiped her nose with her sleeve. “I love you so much.”

  “I love you, too. I’ll see you in a few weeks.”

  She put her phone back in her purse and buried her head in her hands.

  This wasn’t the way it was supposed to work. The way it was supposed to work was that you thought the best of someone and then they broke your heart.

  Zach had been right about her. She did think the worst of people. Because Simone Oliver wasn’t going to wait around for some guy to break her heart. She’d break it herself first and use the broken pieces to keep the world at bay.

  She thought about her dad, and Noah, and Zach. How could she have been so blind? The world was full of love and devotion, and she’d missed it. She was so busy trying to be realistic about people that she’d missed the magic in people.

  The magic of true love.

  Was it too late for her and Zach? She’d rejected his marriage proposal and run away from him. Could he ever forgive her?

  Maybe not. But she had to try.

  And then, when she jumped to her feet and started for the exit, there he was.

  For a moment she thought she’d hallucinated him. But would she have hallucinated him here? The proposal yesterday was the fantasy—the beautiful garden, the romantic picnic, the perfect ring.

  This was the opposite of perfect. This was an airport—fluorescent lights and security guards and hundreds of metal death traps visible through the windows.

  And here was Zach, looking at her like he’d already forgiven her . . . even though she didn’t deserve it.

  When he spoke, his voice was natural, matter-of-fact—but his words etched themselves on her heart.

  “My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;

  Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;

  If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;

  If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.

  I love to hear her speak, yet well I know

  That music has a far more pleasing sound;

  I grant I never saw a goddess go;

  My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:

  And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare

  As any she belied with false compare.”

  And just like that, she was crying again.

  “I’ve always loved that sonnet,” she said, knuckling the tears from her eyes.

  Zach smiled at her. “I’ve always hated it. I thought the man who wrote it couldn’t really love the woman he wrote it for.” He took a breath. “But I’ve learned a lot about love since I met you, and I think I understand those words a little better now.”

  He crossed the space between them and took her hands in his. “You were right about Isabelle. She was my fantasy woman. But you . . .” He shook his head. “What I feel for you is nothing like what I felt for her. You’re not my fantasy, Simone—you’re my reality. The reality I want for the rest of my life. You’re the woman I want wiping my ass when I can’t do it myself anymore. And I want to wipe yours.”

  She started to laugh while she was still crying. The combination made her hiccup, and then Zach was laughing, too.

  “God, I love you,” he said, and she wrapped her arms around him and closed her eyes.

  “I love you, too, Zach. I love you. I love you. I love you.”

  He led them over to the hard plastic seats and pulled her down beside him.

  “I can’t believe we’re doing this here,” she said, looking around at the airport terminal. “Yesterday you created this perfect, beautiful moment—and I ruined it.”

  “I shouldn’t have tried to create a perfect moment,” he said. “That’s not us.” He looked around, too. “This is much better. Being in an airport reminds me of the first orgasm I ever gave you. It was on a plane, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  She started to laugh again. “Oh, Zach. I can’t believe you came here. I was just about to go back to the castle and look for you.”

  He looked into her eyes. “What do you say we promise that no matter what happens, we’ll always look for each other afterwards?”

  She nodded. “It’s a deal.” She paused. “Okay, so . . . yesterday you offered me a ring. Is that off the table now?”

  “The ring or the proposal?”

  “Both. Either.”

  “I know the proposal scared you. I don’t want to scare you.”

  “But, see, I want to be scared. Because of you, I’ve done all
the things that scared me—and it’s worked out pretty well so far. I don’t want to stop.”

  She slid off the chair and knelt down in front of him. “Zach Hammond, I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Will you marry me?”

  He stared at her. “Simone,” he said, and his voice shook a little.

  “What?”

  “Just when I think I can’t possibly love you any more, I do.” He grabbed her hands. “And I will. Marry you, that is.”

  He pulled her up from her knees and into his lap, and then he kissed her.

  They fit together so perfectly there was an ache in her chest. Every cell in her body seemed to cry out for Zach, and as she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her mouth to his, she knew she was home.

  After a long, blissful minute, Simone pulled away and sat in her own seat again.

  “This romance stuff is great and all, but there are some practical matters we’ll have to figure out. I live in New York and you live in London. Any ideas?”

  “Actually, yes.” He paused. “Instead of you coming to live with me or me coming to live with you, what would you say to both of us going somewhere new?”

  “And where would that be?”

  “Here.” He took a breath. “The theater we performed in is for sale. We could start our own company, Simone. The work I’m doing in London is starting to feel too safe. Too predictable. I have a feeling that something you and I create together won’t ever be predictable.” He grinned at her. “So what do you say?”

  The two of them starting a theater company in Ireland?

  “It sounds like a dream. But if anyone can make it a reality, we can.”

  The speaker overhead announced that her plane was boarding.

  “I forgot that I was going back to New York. Unless . . . do you want me to stay?”

  He shook his head. “I bought myself a ticket for this flight. I’m going with you.”

  She stared at him. “You are?”

  “Sure. I want to meet your father and see your friends’ faces when you tell them you’re getting married. And most importantly, I want to have sex in your flat. Finally.”

  She grinned at him. “You know, I think I can guarantee you a very good time in my apartment.”

  “Flat.”

  “Apartment.”

  “Oh, well,” he said, taking her hand and leading her toward the gate. “We have the rest of our lives to fight about it.”

  “I know,” she said, joy spreading through her like sunlight. “I can hardly wait.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My deepest gratitude to the entire team at Montlake, especially Maria Gomez. Thanks also to Mikel Strom, Tara Gorvine, and Melissa Chalmers for their help and encouragement, to Deb Taber for her painstaking copyedits, and to Charlotte Herscher for her insight.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo © 2014 Target Portrait Studio

  Abigail Strom started writing stories at the age of seven and has never been able to stop. On her way to becoming a full-time writer, she earned a BA in English from Cornell University as well as an MFA in dance from the University of Hawaii and held a wide variety of jobs, from dance teacher and choreographer to human resource manager. Now she works in her pajamas and lives in New England with her family, who are incredibly supportive of the hours she spends hunched over her computer.