Chapter 24

I used to think that a relationship would always feel like there were butterflies fluttering around in your stomach, and that even years later, this feeling of being head over heels in love would still manifest in a pounding heart and being short of breath every time he entered a room. That we’d lie every night tightly wrapped around each other in the same bed—and look lovingly into each other’s eyes first thing in the morning—assuming one even got around to sleeping.

But it’s not like that.

Not really.

At least not for me.

Because the butterflies disappear after a while, the heart settles down, your breath evens out, and sometimes you’re happy to have some peace and spend some time by yourself. Passion flattens out, and you don’t make love every night. In the morning, you sometimes turn away in a bad mood, hoping the other will be quiet for a few minutes.

Sooner or later, a relationship reaches the point when you stop making an effort for the other every second. Sometimes then, you show another, less pleasant side. The unvarnished, ill-tempered, farting, messy truth. After a fight, there’s no great makeup sex during which you swear eternal love and affirm that you’d rather die than lose the other. No. Sometimes, things stay unsaid and unresolved. You have to get used to that. Being madly in love disappears, and something else takes its place. Your heart doesn’t leap into your throat when he touches you. Instead, you feel well and safe near him. You don’t hungrily fall upon each other but instead lounge together on the couch, wearing sweats, covered by a thick wool blanket as you watch old movies. Every so often, he runs his fingers through your hair. You don’t spend the nights so tightly wound together that you breathe each other’s breath. You spend it side by side, sometimes turned away from each other. Every now and then, you’ll give him a little shove to stop his snoring. There are also nights when you lay your head on his chest, reach for his hand in your sleep, or pull him close to feel his warm body against yours.

The kisses aren’t as wild and passionate, but they have a thousand shades. There are warm kisses waking up, mint kisses after brushing teeth, cold sticky kisses over ice cream in summer. There are “I’m late” kisses and sleepy “I made you coffee” kisses. There are “Sleep well” kisses and “You’re so sweet when you’re clumsy” kisses. There are “Because animals and children love you” kisses and “Because you helped the woman in the wheelchair get on the bus” kisses.

You don’t post “I love you” notes everywhere in your home but instead laugh about silly inside jokes. You’re no longer on cloud nine but you create your own little world.

Relationships are not like fairy tales. There is no happily ever after. No everlasting burn of passion. But there is the calm, steady rhythm of two hearts beating in harmony.

It no longer feels like fireworks—but it feels like home. Shelter.

“May I?” I asked the driver.

When he nodded, I rolled down the window to let the spring air flow over my face. I closed my eyes and felt the wind in my hair. I had immediately booked the first flight to Boston, squeezed the essentials into my suitcase, and called the cab that was taking me to the airport now.

“Where are you going?” the cabbie asked, grinning at my head-out-of-the-window act.

“Home,” I answered, “just home.”