Lauren Layne

“I didn’t exactly see you clamoring to stand by my side.”

“Yeah, well, I forgot my sweater,” I snap. “I wasn’t properly dressed to withstand the chill you emit anytime I’m near.”

And though I know I should step back, the selfish part of me who knows my time with him is coming to a rapid end closes my eyes and pulls him closer.

“I thought you knew. I fell in love with you weeks ago. It was highly inconvenient.”

My brother offers to help with the prenup. We respectfully decline.

We name our first son Danny. He’s nearly two now, and I have yet to not cry when I hear Colin quietly singing “Danny Boy” over the baby monitor.

We live very, very happily ever after.

When people believe you don’t care about much of anything, they don’t try to talk to you about the sticky stuff.

They don’t bring up things that make your eyes start to tingle if you think on it too long. Or the topics that trigger that strange lump in your throat when you try to swallow.

“As we expected when you were brought in, that nasty headache you’re feeling goes hand in hand with a concussion.”

“Impossible,” I say. “Her head’s much too hard for that.”

And after a while, being unlikable makes me feel like I’m unlovable.

And for the first time in a long time, I let myself admit the truth.

I may have been a fool to let this one slip away.