And I wonder how long this has been waiting for me, or if I had to wait for myself.
I have a favourite bookstore. It’s located on a beautiful street in Melbourne, lined with white brick cafes and restaurants. The store isn’t organized by anything in particular, really, besides coffee table books on one side and non-coffee table books on the other.
Books have a way of talking to us. Or rather, we have a way of talking to them. I’ve always believed that we know the answers to our own questions, but sometimes it’s hard to listen to what we already know.
So, the softer approach is reading what we need to hear through other people’s experiences. Underlining and highlighting what stands out to us, folding the corners of pages, sending passages to our best friends.
Love Stories by Trent Dalton. Trent sat in a public square in Brisbane for weeks, asking people to tell them one of their own love stories. Some stories were of strangers they met in passing, their first love, their last love. Stories of their art, their pets, their charities, their children, their families.
All of these stories gave some sort of answer to a question: What is love?
I spent my first few weeks in Melbourne, embracing the sun and losing myself in other people’s love stories.
And I asked myself why I was drawn to this book in the first place.
-
“If someone told me to read this book, I wouldn’t.”
I start to laugh. I had spent the morning tidying that Roman apartment, but had forgot to put my pile of books away. They lay on the living room table, beside two half empty glasses of Amaro Nonino.
He sits down on the sofa and takes Cheryl Strayed’s Tiny Beautiful Things into his hands.
“I don’t know anything about this book. But if someone tells me to read something, it’s because they chose to read it. They needed to read it. It’s a personal experience.”
—
I started dating my first boyfriend when I was 18 and he was 20. The football player who everyone wanted to be around. The one that always knew which party to go to, the one that always knew someone who knew somebody else at the door. That guy.
But, there was a side to him. A side that was hell-bent on following A Path. His dad was a teacher, so he needed to be a teacher. His dad coached football, so he needed to coach football. Sundays were for football and 8 hour dinners at his Nonna’s.
We’d fight over him not wanting to go out for dinner more than once a month.
“I don’t understand - we don’t need to have dinner with your family every Friday.”
Everything. Was. Calculated. Everything had to lead to him following His Plan. No room for change, no room for error, no room for spontaneity.
He slurred “I love you” after 3 months of dating, and, naturally, a lot of rum and cokes.
I remember sitting in the backseat of that cab. His hand on my back, and my head on his shoulder. I wondered what love actually was.
He was smart. He read more books than anyone I knew. He had A Plan.
I probably should love him, I thought. I felt obliged to say it back.
—
“We surround ourselves with people who we think have the answers, because we think we have none.”
He fills my glass.
I take a sip, look at him and smile.
“And do you think you have the answers?”
He shakes his head. “No, Emily. Nobody does.”
“Can I tell you something? Someone once told me that we already know the answers to our own questions. We just don’t listen to ourselves enough.”
—
We had broken up for good in 2017. 6 years of being very much on and very much off, finally came to an end.
A year went by, and I was single and free. I went back to school, started my own fashion blog, and went out with different groups of people every weekend. I had no answers, and I was making mistakes as every 25 year old does - but I was doing exactly what I wanted to do.
It had been over 365 days since I last ended things with him over a phone call.
He had moved to Vancouver since.
I can’t remember what exactly had possessed me to message him on a Thursday evening in October.
“I just want to throw my phone away and come see you.”
“So what’s stopping you?”
A 5-hour flight and a carry-on later, I was in my ex boyfriend’s living room.
“I think we should go to a psychic. Let’s go get our cards read.”
—
The Bright Hour. Love Stories. They’re Going To Love You.
Titles of books and stories that line my shelves. Stories containing messages that I needed to hear. Books that found me when I started listening and stopped thinking.
“Our best decisions never come from thinking.”
He tells me this, but I want to ask him - which decisions, exactly?
Two empty glasses sit in front of us. We stare at each other for a long time, and I already know the answer to my question.
—
We choose to have separate readings.
“So, who’s the guy?”
I start to prepare myself for the answers I already know.
“My ex. I don’t know. It’s weird. It’s like no time has passed?”
Part of me hoped she’d tell me to stay here, in Vancouver with him. At least I’d have an answer to something.
She flips over cards. “King of Swords. There’s stability here, that’s for sure. But a very rigid approach. Almost too rigid for you.”
But my happiness. My happiness was not here, and it definitely was not with him.
I nod. “I know.”
“My advice? Do things like this more often. Travel, explore. Don’t have a set plan. But don’t lead him on, either.”
—
If I was ever asked about my own love story, I know what I would tell them.
I would tell them that neither of us were looking, but both of us ended up finding something we needed within each other. And even though none of us carry all of the answers, some people remind you what exactly it is you’ve been looking for.
Freedom.
Love is freedom. Love is throwing the plans and the lists out the window. Love is having your tarot cards read religiously while your ex boyfriend waits outside in the next room. Love is believing in your feelings. Love is today and tomorrow. Love is bookstores and expensive coffees. Love is fated. Love is changing your mind, and changing it back again.
Love is sitting in our best friend’s apartment. Love is crying on airplanes, and love is crying in front of strangers. Love is bringing roses to dinner, and wearing a black dress and a wool cardigan that falls off our shoulders at that said dinner.
Love is home. Home is everywhere.
And sometimes, love is returning to the place where it all started..
What a ride.
I love you, and I will see you in 2023.
xo,
Emily
🤍🌹