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Forty-Two

The next morning, we spend hours setting up the backyard with a small crew the Whitakers have hired. The space is bright and magical and ready for the evening’s festivities. We’ve all come inside to take turns showering and getting ready for the party.

Cal’s given me his room to get ready. I’m pretty sure he’s sharing with Asher. Bless him. I am having a small existential crisis, and I’d rather he not witness it.

There’s a tap on Callum’s bedroom door. I’m showered, but not dressed—I’ve slipped back into my PJs while the contents of my suitcase are all over this queen-sized bed.

“Um. Hello?”

The door creaks open, and I’m glad I have any clothes on at all. Apparently “hello” in the Whitaker home is the same as “come in.”

“Hello,” Kristina sings. She peeks her head in, and once she sees I’m decent, she opens the door wider and wheels herself inside. “Callum said you might need help finding something to wear to the soirée. ”

“Oh. Yeah. Just decisions. You know?” I swallow and look at my mess all over Callum’s bed. “They’re the worst.” I try to laugh, but I’m having a small panic attack at the moment.

“I get it.” Kristina does chuckle—maybe she can’t tell I’m having a small emotional breakdown. “Is this really in the running?” She picks up my pink T-shirt, the one with the grease stain on the stomach that reads in bright blue letters, “STACKS.”

“Oh. Um. Well, the only time I’ve ever been to something like this is when I was working at it.” I titter out a delirious laugh. “That’s my work shirt. I packed in a hurry, and weird as it is, it felt appropriate at the time.”

She smiles at me like I’m charming instead of what I really am— ridiculous . She sets my work shirt on the bed and picks up my blue skirt—much too short for a family soirée.

“That was just a desperate possibility,” I say, pulling the skirt from her grasp and tossing it toward my suitcase on the other side of the room.

“I’ve been thinking about your theory,” she says, filing through more of my clothing piled on Callum’s bed.

“Oh yeah?” I bite my cheek as she picks up the halter top Rosalie gave me last year just to see if I’d wear it.

“You really believe you can remake a romcom scene?”

I swallow. My throat feels tight. This isn’t the first time I’ve defended my theory. But it is the first time I’ve defended it to Callum’s mom. “I understand romcoms. They make sense, and they end happy. A romcom never ends in heartbreak.”

“That’s true. I’m not sure I understand the sense of recreating a scene from a movie that isn’t about your life, but they do have happy endings. ”

“It’s more about incorporating a memorable or emotional moment into your everyday.

” I muster my bravery and continue. “My parents fighting all of the time never made sense. My dad leaving when I was a kid didn’t make sense.

My mom’s constant frown and general misery never made sense to me either.

I was a good kid. I could never make sense of her feeling so frustrated and unhappy with me, or with life in general.

I do realize now that my mother probably had some serious issues that she never got help for.

That she never loved my father, and his leaving put her in a tough situation. ”

Kristina watches me. I probably sound childish or silly to her. But believing in love and stories on the screen has gotten me through this last decade.

“I know what I want. I’m not going to settle.” Isn’t that what Cal said to me last night— no settling ?

“Knowing what you want is important. But knowing who you want is even more important, if you ask me.”

I pay attention, because I get the sense that this woman is wise—I was looking for someone to enlighten me, and Kristina may fit that bill.

She sets my glittery green shirt back on the bed and peers up at me.

“My whole growing up life, thinking about my person, I just wanted a man who would wrap one arm around me.” She grins, her smile lighting up her face.

“I didn’t care where we were—on the couch, in the car, church—I wanted to be wrapped up.

I wanted him to hold me close and make me feel safe and loved.

” She smiles at me, and I smile back. Her dream is a sweet one.

“I like that,” I say.

“I did too. But Brady was a wrestler in college. His junior year, he dislocated his shoulder. It’s never been the same. ”

My brow cinches. He looked fine as he carried her up the stairs. “Is he?—”

“Oh, he’s good,” she says. “With almost every single motion besides this one—” She moves her arm out as if to wrap it around an invisible friend’s shoulders.

“He can carry me, hug me, and pick me up. But to leave his arm out like this, around my shoulders for an extended period of time, causes him pain.”

“I’m sorry.” I sit on the bed next to her, studying her expression, doing my best to understand.

She waves away my sympathy with a swat of her hand. “I love Brady. I don’t need his arm around me to feel loved and safe. And I don’t want to be the cause of his pain.”

I nibble on my lip. “Of course not.”

She grins, pulling in a breath. “Now Brady, he always wanted someone to dance with.”

My eyes fall to her lap, to the chair she’s sitting in. I can’t imagine Kristina does a lot of dancing these days.

Her brows lift. “The man loves to dance. Always has.”

I swallow. “Can you?—”

She snorts out a laugh. “Not unless he’s carrying me. It doesn’t really work as he’d hoped. My point is, those things felt small and trifle when it came down to it.”

I take in every word she speaks.

“Fran, I don’t want any old arm around me.

I want Brady. And Brady doesn’t want to dance with just anyone.

He wants me.” She grins. “ Me —even though I will never dance again. It isn’t about the dancing.

It’s about the person you’re with. You don’t need a movie scene to be special or to make memories.

Sure, that might be fun. And that’s wonderful.

But what you need is someone who will see you.

” She reaches out a hand, patting my leg.

“I see you, Franny. You . Not a movie. And the Fran I see doesn’t just want a funny romantic scene to tell the kids about one day.

” Kristina shakes her head. “You want a partner. You want something real.”

Tears brim in my eyes. “I do.”

“You deserve real. You deserve to be loved, to be some lucky man’s favorite.”

I’ve tried to recreate instances from scenes that formed a bond between two people. Moments that would make a man see me as that leading lady. Have I ever thought that just being me would be enough?

“Do you know why Callum never kills me in that silly game of Tiff’s?” Kristina says, invading my epiphany.

I stare at her behind my watery sheen, confused by the change of subject.

“Because he loves me.” She winks and gives my leg another pat.

But I’m guessing Callum loves every member of his family.

“I’m his favorite,” she says as if understanding my thoughts. “Always have been.” She leans forward in her chair, taking my hand in hers. “Here’s what I noticed: He never took you out of the game either. Instead, he called you his partner in crime.”

A laugh that sounds more like a cry titters from my lips.

“He sees you, sweetheart.”