say, ultracasual. “You couldn’t just tell them to make a plan not to feel that way.”
“Sure, I could.”
“Mom!” I protest, frustrated.
She laughs. “I’m not teasing you, Sadie — I promise. I know you think feelings are something we have no control over, but we do. We can control our actions, and eventually, we feel different. Take your example of someone feeling stressed,” she suggests. “He could make a plan with things to do that relax him and ways to avoid things that cause tension. He could take up yoga, consider a career move, even —”
“OK, OK, I get it!” I interrupt her logical list of solutions. “But what about falling out of love?”
“Love?” She gives me a knowing smile that makes me wonder if she can see right through all of this.
“Hypothetically,” I say quickly.
“Of course,” she agrees, before taking a thoughtful sip of tea. “Well, you’re right — that would be harder. But not impossible.”
“No?” I ask, feeling a tiny glint of hope.
“Nothing’s impossible if you set your mind to it. Hypothetically speaking.” She grins.
“So … you can plan to fall out of love with someone?” I ask, still not quite believing her, but surprised to realize just how much I want it to be true. What’s my alternative? Sitting around, aching with this broken heart, hoping that one day I’ll just magically wake up and find I’m not in love with Garrett anymore?
“I think so.” Mom nods. “You might not be able to choose how you feel, but you can choose how you act. Decide to focus on something else, and stay busy, and soon you won’t feel so tied to the person anymore. I mean, that’s what I’d tell my client,” she adds.
I nod slowly. I can’t believe it, but it kind of makes sense to me. “Thanks,” I say quietly.
“Anytime.” She pats my hand. “Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”
She’s halfway to the door when I call out. “There is one thing.”
“Yes?”
I cough, embarrassed, but if I’m going to do this, I need to go all in. “Can I borrow some of those self-help books?”
Upstairs, I settle in front of my computer, already turning over ideas for this new plan of mine. But staring at my e-mail in-box, and the database icon sitting there at the bottom of my screen, I’m gripped with sudden frustration. I know what’s wrong with my Great Love project — the one thing I’ve so conveniently overlooked all this time.
Enter new profile field: The End.
I feel a surge of new energy as I click through the pages, updating every relationship with their dismal demise. Shakespeare is easy. Desdemona: murdered by her husband. Ophelia: drowned. Cordelia: hanged. Uplifting. Then there are the Russians; with them, it was all a painful end in a gutter somewhere. The French were big on tragic consumption; the Greeks loved nothing more than a good sacrificial slaughter or mistaken identity. Banishment, divorce, retreat to a nunnery, inconvenient icebergs — my fingertips fly across the keyboard as I fill in the missing details. There are myriad ways Great Love is torn asunder; I’ve just been too lovestruck to see it until now.
And even the supposedly happy endings … well, we don’t know for sure what happens after the final credits roll. Elizabeth probably dies in childbirth while Darcy sits stoically outside the bedroom door. Nurse Hathaway might get bored of Doug Ross and his cable-knit sweaters and run off to a tropical island. Even Bella might discover that Edward always hogs the remote and has an annoying laugh and decide to call it quits — no hard feelings.
The hours slip past me in a blur of Google and database updates, until three a.m. rolls around and I finally drag myself away from the desk and collapse into bed. I’ve barely scraped the surface of the couples on the site, but instead of being bereft over the long catalog of death and dejection I’ve added to my shining tribute to True Love, I feel strangely
“Sure, I could.”
“Mom!” I protest, frustrated.
She laughs. “I’m not teasing you, Sadie — I promise. I know you think feelings are something we have no control over, but we do. We can control our actions, and eventually, we feel different. Take your example of someone feeling stressed,” she suggests. “He could make a plan with things to do that relax him and ways to avoid things that cause tension. He could take up yoga, consider a career move, even —”
“OK, OK, I get it!” I interrupt her logical list of solutions. “But what about falling out of love?”
“Love?” She gives me a knowing smile that makes me wonder if she can see right through all of this.
“Hypothetically,” I say quickly.
“Of course,” she agrees, before taking a thoughtful sip of tea. “Well, you’re right — that would be harder. But not impossible.”
“No?” I ask, feeling a tiny glint of hope.
“Nothing’s impossible if you set your mind to it. Hypothetically speaking.” She grins.
“So … you can plan to fall out of love with someone?” I ask, still not quite believing her, but surprised to realize just how much I want it to be true. What’s my alternative? Sitting around, aching with this broken heart, hoping that one day I’ll just magically wake up and find I’m not in love with Garrett anymore?
“I think so.” Mom nods. “You might not be able to choose how you feel, but you can choose how you act. Decide to focus on something else, and stay busy, and soon you won’t feel so tied to the person anymore. I mean, that’s what I’d tell my client,” she adds.
I nod slowly. I can’t believe it, but it kind of makes sense to me. “Thanks,” I say quietly.
“Anytime.” She pats my hand. “Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”
She’s halfway to the door when I call out. “There is one thing.”
“Yes?”
I cough, embarrassed, but if I’m going to do this, I need to go all in. “Can I borrow some of those self-help books?”
Upstairs, I settle in front of my computer, already turning over ideas for this new plan of mine. But staring at my e-mail in-box, and the database icon sitting there at the bottom of my screen, I’m gripped with sudden frustration. I know what’s wrong with my Great Love project — the one thing I’ve so conveniently overlooked all this time.
Enter new profile field: The End.
I feel a surge of new energy as I click through the pages, updating every relationship with their dismal demise. Shakespeare is easy. Desdemona: murdered by her husband. Ophelia: drowned. Cordelia: hanged. Uplifting. Then there are the Russians; with them, it was all a painful end in a gutter somewhere. The French were big on tragic consumption; the Greeks loved nothing more than a good sacrificial slaughter or mistaken identity. Banishment, divorce, retreat to a nunnery, inconvenient icebergs — my fingertips fly across the keyboard as I fill in the missing details. There are myriad ways Great Love is torn asunder; I’ve just been too lovestruck to see it until now.
And even the supposedly happy endings … well, we don’t know for sure what happens after the final credits roll. Elizabeth probably dies in childbirth while Darcy sits stoically outside the bedroom door. Nurse Hathaway might get bored of Doug Ross and his cable-knit sweaters and run off to a tropical island. Even Bella might discover that Edward always hogs the remote and has an annoying laugh and decide to call it quits — no hard feelings.
The hours slip past me in a blur of Google and database updates, until three a.m. rolls around and I finally drag myself away from the desk and collapse into bed. I’ve barely scraped the surface of the couples on the site, but instead of being bereft over the long catalog of death and dejection I’ve added to my shining tribute to True Love, I feel strangely
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