I do this to myself?”
“Because you’re a…” Always careful with words, her father paused to find the right ones.
“Three-time loser,” Olivia suggested.
“I was going to say hopeless romantic.” He smiled at her fondly.
She knocked back the rest of her drink. “I guess you’re half-right. I’m hopeless.”
“Oh, now it starts,” Earl said. “Let me take out my violin.”
“Come on. Don’t I get to wallow for at least one night?”
“Not over him,” her father said.
“He’s not worth it,” said Earl. “No more than Pierce or Richard was worth it.” He spoke the names of her previous two failures with exaggerated disdain.
“Here’s the thing about broken hearts,” Philip said. “You can always survive them. Always. No matter how deep the hurt, the capacity to heal and move on is even stronger.”
She wondered if he was talking about his divorce from her mother, all those years ago. “Thanks, guys,” she said. “The whole you’re-too-good-for-him-anyway routine worked once. Maybe twice. This is the third time, and I have to consider that the fault might be with me. I mean, what are the odds of meeting three rat bastards in a row?”
“Honey, this is Manhattan,” her father said. “The place is crawling with them.”
“Quit blaming yourself,” Earl advised. “You’ll give yourself a complex.”
She reached down and scratched Barkis behind the ears, one of his favorite spots. “I think I already have a complex.”
“No,” said Earl, “you have issues. There’s a difference.”
“And one of those issues is that you mistake your need for love for actually being in love,” her father observed. He watched a lot of Dr. Phil .
“Oh, good one,” Earl said, and they high-fived one another across the table.
“Hello? Breaking heart here,” Olivia reminded them. “You’re supposed to be helping me, not practicing armchair psychology.”
Both her father and Earl grew serious. “You want to go first, or me?” Earl asked.
Her father fed another tidbit to the dog. Olivia noticed he wasn’t eating or drinking, and felt guilty for upsetting him. “Take it away, maestro,” he said to Earl.
“There’s really not that much to say,” Earl told her, “except that you didn’t love Rand. Or the others. You only think Rand was special because he seemed so perfect for you.”
“He’s moving to L.A.,” she confessed. “He never even checked to see if that would be all right with me. He just expected me to go along.” She felt her chest expand, and knew she was inches from tears—because it was true that she didn’t love Rand enough…but she had loved him a little.
“You’re…what, twenty-seven years old?” Earl continued. “You’re a baby. An emotional newborn. You haven’t even scratched the surface of what love is.”
Her father nodded. “You never got past the early-crush phase. You were strolling in Central Park and fixing candlelit meals for each other, and he was parading you in front of his friends. That’s not love, not the kind you deserve. That’s like…a warm-up exercise.”
“How do you know that, Dad?” she demanded, crushed that he had managed to sum up her entire relationship with Rand so handily. Then she caught the look on her father’s face, and backed off. Even though her love life was always under the microscope, her parents’ marriage and divorce were protected by a conspiracy of silence.
“There’s a kind of love that has the power to save you, to get you through life,” her father said. “It’s like breathing. You have to do it or you’ll die. And when it’s over, your soul starts to bleed, Livvy. There’s no pain in the world like it, I swear. If you were feeling that now, you wouldn’t be able to sit up straight or have a coherent conversation.”
She met her father’s gaze. He so rarely spoke to Olivia about matters of the heart, so she was inclined to listen. His words grabbed at something deep inside her. To
“Because you’re a…” Always careful with words, her father paused to find the right ones.
“Three-time loser,” Olivia suggested.
“I was going to say hopeless romantic.” He smiled at her fondly.
She knocked back the rest of her drink. “I guess you’re half-right. I’m hopeless.”
“Oh, now it starts,” Earl said. “Let me take out my violin.”
“Come on. Don’t I get to wallow for at least one night?”
“Not over him,” her father said.
“He’s not worth it,” said Earl. “No more than Pierce or Richard was worth it.” He spoke the names of her previous two failures with exaggerated disdain.
“Here’s the thing about broken hearts,” Philip said. “You can always survive them. Always. No matter how deep the hurt, the capacity to heal and move on is even stronger.”
She wondered if he was talking about his divorce from her mother, all those years ago. “Thanks, guys,” she said. “The whole you’re-too-good-for-him-anyway routine worked once. Maybe twice. This is the third time, and I have to consider that the fault might be with me. I mean, what are the odds of meeting three rat bastards in a row?”
“Honey, this is Manhattan,” her father said. “The place is crawling with them.”
“Quit blaming yourself,” Earl advised. “You’ll give yourself a complex.”
She reached down and scratched Barkis behind the ears, one of his favorite spots. “I think I already have a complex.”
“No,” said Earl, “you have issues. There’s a difference.”
“And one of those issues is that you mistake your need for love for actually being in love,” her father observed. He watched a lot of Dr. Phil .
“Oh, good one,” Earl said, and they high-fived one another across the table.
“Hello? Breaking heart here,” Olivia reminded them. “You’re supposed to be helping me, not practicing armchair psychology.”
Both her father and Earl grew serious. “You want to go first, or me?” Earl asked.
Her father fed another tidbit to the dog. Olivia noticed he wasn’t eating or drinking, and felt guilty for upsetting him. “Take it away, maestro,” he said to Earl.
“There’s really not that much to say,” Earl told her, “except that you didn’t love Rand. Or the others. You only think Rand was special because he seemed so perfect for you.”
“He’s moving to L.A.,” she confessed. “He never even checked to see if that would be all right with me. He just expected me to go along.” She felt her chest expand, and knew she was inches from tears—because it was true that she didn’t love Rand enough…but she had loved him a little.
“You’re…what, twenty-seven years old?” Earl continued. “You’re a baby. An emotional newborn. You haven’t even scratched the surface of what love is.”
Her father nodded. “You never got past the early-crush phase. You were strolling in Central Park and fixing candlelit meals for each other, and he was parading you in front of his friends. That’s not love, not the kind you deserve. That’s like…a warm-up exercise.”
“How do you know that, Dad?” she demanded, crushed that he had managed to sum up her entire relationship with Rand so handily. Then she caught the look on her father’s face, and backed off. Even though her love life was always under the microscope, her parents’ marriage and divorce were protected by a conspiracy of silence.
“There’s a kind of love that has the power to save you, to get you through life,” her father said. “It’s like breathing. You have to do it or you’ll die. And when it’s over, your soul starts to bleed, Livvy. There’s no pain in the world like it, I swear. If you were feeling that now, you wouldn’t be able to sit up straight or have a coherent conversation.”
She met her father’s gaze. He so rarely spoke to Olivia about matters of the heart, so she was inclined to listen. His words grabbed at something deep inside her. To
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