Ethan shakes his head, smiling into his empty whiskey glass. “I can tell you the secret to making it real and making it last, but it’s not going to be romantic and you probably won’t like it.”
“What is it?”
“You just decide it is. Love isn’t some magical pixie dust bullshit. The initial attraction, the chemistry, the feelings, sure, you feel that for a while. But it all ebbs and flows. That’s life. It doesn’t mean your relationship isn’t real, it doesn’t mean it should end. Relationships last because people decide to make them last. If you’re an asshole who needs to chase an emotional high all the time, then yeah, that’s going to happen. It’s not if, it’s when. Relationships get hard. They get boring. They hit rough patches. It’s your job to keep investing in it, to keep deciding on that person every day. Love is more a decision than some fleeting, magical bullshit. If you care about each other, if you love her enough to commit to her, then that’s it. If you get bored, suck it up. Do something you did when things were new. Do something you’ve never done before. Take some time together and go somewhere. Relationships aren’t magic. They’re work. As long as you’re with someone who fits you well and you’re both realistic and doing the work, your relationship will be fine.”
“Then why are you divorced?” I ask him, simply.
He levels me a look to tell me he’s not impressed. Here he is giving me all this good advice and I bring up shit like that. But hey, if he’s such a fucking expert, it’s a logical question.
He’s apparently sick of my shit tonight, so he pulls no punches. “Because I took a bad job and had to rape your sister.”
The near-friendly feeling I just had a second ago abruptly evaporates and I suddenly want to kill him again. Not like this is news, but hearing him actually say it makes me want to put a bullet in his fucking head.
“My marriage didn’t fail because it was a bad marriage. It failed because I did something unforgiveable and my wife couldn’t get past it. I also didn’t cheat out of boredom. I would never do that. Only selfish assholes start something like that on purpose. I don’t have to tell you that. Go in with realistic expectations and you won’t be disillusioned. Well, if you can get this thing off the ground to begin with. Odds aren’t exactly in your favor.” He grabs his glass to take a last drink, then realizes he already finished it. Since our business here is complete and we’ve left friendly territory, he climbs off the stool, grabbing his bag off the floor. “Anyway, I’m gonna get out of here. Willow made some awful-looking lentil soup shit for dinner, so I need to grab a burger before everything closes.”
I rotate my glass on the counter, staring at the remaining contents like they might hold easier answers.
Before he leaves, Ethan pats me on the back. “Good luck.”
I give him a hostile look instead of offering back anything friendly, but he doesn’t care. He’s used to me being a jerk to him, and he probably just wants to get the hell out of here.
“I need more than luck,” I mutter to myself, once he’s gone.
Then, like the hopeless motherfucker I am, I pull out my phone to text Francesca.
Chapter Fourteen
“Happy One Month Anniversary!”
I don’t expect to hear from Francesca until later, and I definitely don’t expect her to send that text message, but it makes me smile. I have no idea if it’s been one month—and if so, one month since what? Since I met her? Since we had a drink? It doesn’t matter. If she says today’s our anniversary, today’s our anniversary. I guess I’ll stop and grab flowers on the way home.
“What’s that smile for?”
I glance up at Paulie, about to tuck my phone away. I don’t want to ignore Francesca though, so I shoot her a quick text and turn my attention back to work. I roll my eyes congenially, but he doesn’t really expect an answer. We don’t exactly talk about our romantic pursuits over mojitos, Paulie and me.
When I get another chance, I take out my phone and see that Francesca has already responded, asking what I’m up to.
“Thinking about what I’m gonna make you for dinner,” I shoot back.
She sends me a smiley face with hearts for eyes. “You’re an actual prince, Castellanos.”
That makes me laugh, which gains me a funny look from Paulie. I should put my phone away, but I just want to keep talking to her since she’s responding so promptly.
“I hope you’re ready for the final season of Entourage,” I tell her, grinning all the while.
“Ugh,” she sends back, along with an emoji of a frog face. A moment later she adds, “Mark said he has no knowledge of these plans.”