Love Story

I have always been a fan of the enemy to lovers trope. The Pride and Prejudice structure of going from I Despise You to Marry Me Now. It’s sexy. It is undeniably sexy. There is an established heat from the beginning. A very thin line between seething hatred and lust, and then the sweet transition into something softer. Something lovely. When I was younger, I didn’t really believe in love. But I read about it. Oh, did I read about it. Most of the books I read were romance. The same story told over and over again, in different ways, with a happily-ever-after ending each time. I vaguely fantasized about the perfect man, knowing full well that he didn’t exist.

I am 25 years old, and I am standing in line for a cup of coffee at my local independent café, Grounds. A no frills coffee shop that prides itself on having two things you can order: hot coffee or iced coffee. That’s it. Take it or leave it, love it or hate it. And my hipster neighborhood loves it. During the fall, they add a pumpkin spice latte, because, well. They have to, don’t they?

So, I’m standing in line. I’m about to place my order of hot coffee when a tall, blonde dude steps in front of me.

“Sorry, I’m in a hurry,” he tells me over his shoulder, not even looking at my face.

I am too stunned to move.

I have always prided myself on being the woman with a quick comeback, with a quick reflex at the ready, but in that moment, I learn indeed that I am not that woman. I am quite the opposite. I am a deer in the headlights getting mowed down by a tall, blonde dude.

The barista looks at me wide-eyed, but because I say nothing, do nothing, she takes his order. He grabs his hot coffee and flees the scene. I watch him hurry away, barely noticing how chiseled his jaw line is, how wide his shoulders.

I only see red.

“Sorry,” the barista tells me.

I nod and order my iced coffee.

As I walk to work and sip my coffee, I of course play the situation over and over again in my head.

I imagine all the things that I could have said and done and see the scenes play out from different angles in my mind.

I’m so wrapped up in my own world that I don’t see the large puddle on the street, right below the sidewalk.

As I’m about to cross the street, the light turns red, and I stop. I see the puddle and omit a sigh of relief.

A car turns in front of me, going straight through the giant puddle and suddenly I am drenched head to toe.

I stand, open mouthed, not fully comprehending what just happened.

As the car whizzes by, I look into the driver’s seat and see a chiseled jaw and a mop of blonde hair.

I pull my phone out of my now wet purse and check the time.

If I go home to change, I’ll be at least 10 minutes late to work and while normally that wouldn’t be a problem, I am conducting interviews for the first time. It is my first task as the new store manager and the last thing I need is to look bad.

But of course it’s either, go home and change and be late but dry. Or show up on time and look like a drowned rat.

And to add whip cream to the already shit storm of a cupcake, I barely got the manager position. The head of the region was pushing her daughter, but my boss advocated for me. Hard. And if I show up late, I don’t know what the repercussions will be.

So, I decide to show up wet. I decide to show up to my new job as manager at the very fashionable, very chique, Prada store, looking like roadkill.

I walk into the store with a few minutes to spare and my assistant manager starts to speak and then stops as she really notices me.

“You look like crap,” she says.

“Thanks, Sharon. Appreciate it,” I say, handing her my coffee, “Hold onto this for me, please. Anyone here yet?”

“There’s a guy here, Paul something, super cute, I might add. And of course Karen and Martha-

“Martha’s here?! Why?” I ask.

Martha is the regional manager. The one who hates me. The one who wanted her daughter in my position. She doesn’t usually show up for store interviews but of course she shows up to this one. Of course.

“Tell them I’ll be right there. Going to try and look presentable.” I rush off to the bathroom before Sharon can say anything else and do what I can to make myself look like a human being. There’s not much I can do except pad my clothes down and brush out my hair with my fingers.

I walk into the back room and Karen, my direct supervisor turns to smile at me and very quickly her smile falters.

She gives me a look that says What the hell happened to you?!

Martha looks me over and says, “Tough morning?”

“Actually, yes, I was on my way here and this guy-

“You’re late,” Martha interrupts.

“I’m actually right on time,” I say, with a smile not letting her get the better of me, “Where’s our first candidate?”

“He went to the bathroom, oh! Here he is,” Karen says with her high voice, her nervous voice. I turn to introduce myself and my voice gets stuck in my throat.

It’s him.

“Melissa, this is Paul Williams, Paul this is Melissa Gonzalez, our current store manager,” Martha says.

I’m too distracted to even comment on the word “current.”

Paul extends his hand and says, “Nice to meet you, Melissa”

I’m standing there staring and his smile begins to waver, his hand hanging in the air.

“It’s you!” I scream.

“Um, what?” he asks.

“You cut me in line at the coffee shop. You were in such a hurry that you didn’t even care there was a line, a long line I might add, and THEN you drenched me in water speeding over the curb!” I say loudly, completely not caring at this point where I am and who else is in the room.

“I-,” he tries to speak but I keep going.

“Your male white privilege couldn’t be any clearer. You jump the line at a coffee shop because your life is clearly so much more important than others, and you don’t seem to notice that there is a giant puddle next to a curb or that there is someone standing there who could get soaking wet because of your actions. You just don’t care. And you know what? We don’t like that kind of attitude at Prada. So, you’re free to go.”

There is silence in the room, and I slowly come back to my body. Realize where I am. What I’m doing, but I’ve already said what I said, so I decide it’s best to just stand there. Staring at this tall, blonde dude with the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen.

“Well,” he says slowly, “There actually wasn’t a long line at the coffee shop. It was just this one girl who was texting on her phone-

“I was not,-

“So, I didn't think she was ready to order. And, I didn’t see you standing on the curb. I was in a hurry to get to this interview. To be on time, I might add, unlike you-

"I was-

"Also, I find it curious that a Prada store manager is wearing last season’s clothes. Shouldn’t you be up to date?”

My jaw drops.

“Mr. Williamson, could you step outside for a moment please?” Karen’s squeaky voice cuts in.

Paul nods briskly and leaves.

“Melissa, what in the hell was that?!” Martha says as soon as Paul has left the room, “You call this professional behavior? Pull yourself together or there will be consequences. Karen, why don’t you conduct this interview. I have to head back to my office, but Melissa, do better. I heard that you were the best there is, so prove it. And he’s right, you should be staying current with the fashion.”

I watch Martha walk off, and I turn to Karen, starting to defend myself, but she holds up a hand to stop me.

“Don’t,” she says in her normal voice, “Just don’t.”

I close my mouth.

Karen calls Paul back in and conducts the interview with me sitting next to her in silence and arms crossed like a sullen child.

He’s the perfect candidate. Years of experience and knowledge in designer clothes, with a special emphasis on Prada.

We would be idiots not to hire him.

The first week of training is tense.

I give Paul the basics, show him around the store, give him a list of our most important clients, the usual. I only use the most necessary words.

He is equally distant with me, and we do everything in our power to avoid each other, but of course that isn't always possible and I find him to be so, very, annoying.

As the weeks pass, he's constantly contradicting the way I do things: the way I make the schedule, arrange the clothes and displays.

And I'm having to constantly remind him who the manager is.

Me.

And of course, of course, he is so insanely attractive, that even when we bicker, I can't stop staring at his mouth.

Then one day, on my lunch, I am sitting next door at our local sandwich shop when Paul walks in.

I attempt to hide behind my book but it’s too late.

He locks eyes with me right as I’m raising my steamy romance novel over my face.

I glare at him as he walks over to my table.

“Quite the choice of literature,” he says with a smug smirk.

“What I want to read on my lunch hour, is my business,” I snap.

“Easy there, just making conversation,” he replies with his hands up, “I come in peace.”

“Ok, fine,” I say staring at my book, urging him to go away without having to say the words.

“Enjoy your lunch,” I say, since he clearly isn't getting the hint.

There is silence, but he is still standing by my table clearly having not received the hint.

I look at him.

“Yes?” I ask.

He hovers, bouncing on his feet nervously, “We started off on the wrong foot,” he says, stating the obvious, “Can we start again?”

I want to say no.

I want to tell him that we’re just co-workers. We don’t need to be friends.

But when I open my mouth to tell him to essentially bugger off, the words catch in my throat.

I can’t help but notice how blue his eyes are.

His earnest and open face.

Maybe I misjudged him.

So, I nod.

The conversation…is rather pleasant.

I discover that we have a lot in common.

We both grew up in small towns in northern California, we are both staunch animal lovers and vegetarians (but not vegans because we both love cheese), we have a shared hatred of pistachios, and we seem to enjoy the same movies and even books.

He likes romance.

And I can’t help but notice that his eyes keep drifting down to my mouth.

And every time his eyes go there, my stomach does flips as if I enjoy it.

Hours later, we are closing up the store and it is just me and Paul.

I count the cash, while Paul makes sure all the displays are in order.

As we both head to the back room to grab our belongings he says, “I really enjoyed having lunch with you.”

“Yea, me too,” I say. And I mean it. It was really nice.

He’s bouncing on his feet again and I can see that he wants to say more, so I wait.

“Areyouseeinganyone?” he asks, his breath coming fast and words linking together so quickly that I barely catch his question.

But I catch it.

“No. I’m not seeing anyone. Why?” I ask.

I watch as he steps toward me, as his eyes meet mine and then drift downward toward my mouth.

“You know why,” he says softly.

And he leans in, and I meet him halfway and when our lips meet, the world falls away.

And there you have it.

I lived my very own romance.

Paul and I got married two years after that first kiss.

I eventually became regional manager and Paul ended up being a stay-at-home dad. His actual dream, it turned out.

We raised three beautiful children who each have their own lives in different parts of the country. But we are a close family who see each other often, and we facetime with each of them at least once a week.

I am recently retired, and we are about to move from our home of nearly thirty years in Los Angeles to a larger house in Tennessee.

It’s always been Paul’s dream to live on a space with open land, and I don’t mind the idea.

It sounds romantic.

A perfect ending to our pretty perfect love story.

I am in the garage determined to start cleaning out some of our boxes.

Paul said he wanted to do this but hasn’t yet and I’ve become impatient.

I grab a box that's sitting on a shelf towards the back of the garage. I figure I'll start from the furthest away and make my way toward the door.

I open the box, and I'm not quite sure what I'm looking at.

There are photos of me when I was younger. Photos I don’t remember taking.

I take out the first one.

It’s a photo of me in profile drinking coffee from Grounds.

There’s a photo of me reading Pride and Prejudice at the sandwich shop next to the Prada store.

There’s a photo that looks like it was taken through the windows of Prada and I’m setting up a display.

I look deeper into the box and pull out a stack of papers.

There are receipts from fast food restaurants with charges for cheeseburgers and chicken nuggets.

There are papers filled with scribbled notes.

Favorite movie: 10 Things I Hate About You; Favorite Snack: Wheat Thins; Vegetarian but loves cheese; Hates pistachios; Wants an enemy to lover style romance.

I read the notes over and over again.

I pull out another piece of paper.

Paul’s fantastic resume from his interview. Our first real meeting.

I stare at his references and realize that we never called them. We never checked. We just assumed he was the perfect candidate because he was.

I take out my cell phone and dial the first number which is supposed to be a Prada store in Seattle.

It goes to voicemail.

Hi, This is Cathy. Leave a message!

I hang up.

I don't know who Cathy is, but numbers change, don’t they?

I try the second number, a supposed Ralph Lauren store in San Francisco, and the phone tells me the number is no longer in service.

I try the third number, a Prada location in New York, and get another voicemail.

Hey Guys, this is Kyle. I’m not in, but wait for the beep and do your thing.

I’m frozen.

I know that voice and I know that name.

Kyle is one of Paul's cousins.

I know it’s so very, very, cliché, but my whole life flashes before my eyes.

Every moment since I met Paul has been planned.

He gave me what he thought I wanted.

The enemy to lovers romance.

He studied me.

My likes and dislikes, my pet peeves.

He studied me.

He.

Studied.

Me.

He somehow knew that all of this would happen; that we wouldn't even call his references!

And judging by a McDonalds purchase of a Big Mac from a week ago, he eats meat!

I stare at the box, realizing my whole life has been a sort of lie.

A fabrication.

He knows me so well, but who is he?

Am I about to move to the middle-of-nowhere Tennessee with a perfect stranger?

I think about my life and the choices I’ve made and everything that Paul has done, and I make a decision.

I go into the house and Paul is making his famous Cesar salad.

He sees me and smiles, his eyes lighting up with joy even after all these years.

“Honey, do you want red or white tonight?” he asks, holding up two bottles of very different wine, and each has a very different effect on me.

White makes me want to giggle.

Red makes me want to fight.

Paul knows this and it's his little joke.

I almost always choose white unless there's a very good reason for me to choose red.

I look at his face.

I think about the contents of the box.

The box that is still sitting in our garage, put back to the way it was, so that when Paul discovers it, he’ll think I never found it.

I should choose the red.

I know I should choose the red.

But it's all so romantic, isn't it?

"Let's do the white," I say.