Page 38 of Love… It's Messy
“They change in their own time, at their own pace.”
His comment intrigues me, so I look to him for clarification.
He points toward a tree in the wooded section near us. “The maple will let its leaves go in a whoosh. The first decent rainstorm will blow most away in a cyclone of wind. The oak, on the other hand, will cling to its leaves with crunchy brown ones holding on till the very last turn of the season. Then, there’s the evergreen with its constant flow of dropping needles and creation of new ones. You don’t see the change because it stays an everlasting green.”
“You know a lot about trees,” I muse. “Horticulture enthusiast?”
“Just a kid who grew up playing in the woods. I like the way they’re all the same yet different. My dad says trees are like people. Some give up easily, others try to hold on to things they need to let go of, and then there are those that are constantly reinventing themselves. No matter what, no matter the difficulty, the trials and tribulations … hell, even the best parts of our lives … will fade. We all change and renew if we just give it time.”
“That’s insightful. Your dad’s a wise man.”
“He’s great. Kept me from falling apart far too many times. In case you were wondering, I’m a maple. My father has been pretty strong in his assessment.”
I never thought about comparing myself to a tree, but as Luke talks about his father’s analogy, I think of where I fit into the idea. I think I’m an evergreen. Constantly changing and going with the flow, always appearing green on the outside yet making quick changes on the outside.
A golden retriever comes up to Luke, and we stop so he can kneel down and rub the large head of the friendly animal as he makes small talk with its owner. As the retriever and its owner walk away, a park table of elderly women—all curly-haired with canes resting against the table, playing a game and chatting loudly—has us turning our heads.
“I saw that show on Netflix. The one about love and sex. What was it called?” one of the women, who appears to be in her eighties with a large cross around her neck, states rather loudly to someone at her table.
“Love Sex,” another in a buttoned-up sweater says as she takes a tile from the pile in the center of the table.
Luke and I look at each other quizzically. I try not to laugh, especially when he looks at me with a brow raised very high and his mouth tipped up on one side.
“It was filthy. Naked people and adultery. You see all the naked bits of everyone. When I got to the finale, I nearly fainted,” the first lady states, to which another agrees with a disapproving hum.
“Did you see episode seven? I had to rewatch it to see if I saw things correctly!”
Luke and I fight smiles as we continue our stroll. After a few steps, I can’t help but let the laugh out.
“Older women talking about raunchy shows on Netflix is not something you hear every day,” I say with a smile still on my face. “I like how the one woman pretty much said it was trash yet stated she watched the whole series.”
He grins. “Apparently, it was so dirty that she had to rewatch it to see the sex scenes.”
I laugh. “I know exactly what scene she’s talking about. It was quite taboo, to say the least. Lots of eggplants in that one, if you know what I mean.”
Luke leans back and stares at me with incredulity as we stride. “Jillian Hathaway, do you watch porn?”
I scrunch my nose at him. “Don’t be shocked that I watch romance. Most women do.”
“What’s your favorite show?”
“Bridgerton. I can rewatch every season.”
Tilting his head to one side, he steals a slanted look at me. “You act all buttoned up, but you’re really a romantic on the inside.”
His words have me nodding and looking at the path in front of me.
“Everyone knows romance is only believable in books and films. Real life doesn’t roll the credits.”
“Can’t say I disagree. Life can be pretty ugly. That’s why I’m not the forever kinda guy.”
“Yeah, well, that makes you an even hotter commodity. A man who swears off love and maintains his distance is a heartthrob who women swoon over and can’t wait to tie down.”
He laughs in agreement. “My sister used to read these books where the guys were total assholes, and she was so obsessed that she’d make these fan graphics and everything. She said bad boys were her jam.”
“Exactly my point!” I stop walking and turn to him, lifting my hands as I declare, “a woman who doesn’t seek relationships and maintains her distance is cold and frigid. A guy like that is a romantic hero.”
“I recall things pretty well, and I’d say the workaholic in Aruba who swore off men had a pretty great romance even if it did last only a few nights.” He steps closer to me to avoid a child on a tricycle. His hand finds my lower back as he steers me out of the child’s path.