Abby Jimenez

I’d realized something after being with her. A valuable lesson that I think all the best and most enduring romances have figured out.

The love stories sold us the wrong thing.

The best kind of love doesn’t happen on moonlit walks and romantic vacations. It happens in between the folds of everyday life. It’s not grand gestures that show how you feel, it’s all the little secret things you do to make her life better that you never tell her about. Taking the end piece of the bread at breakfast so she can have the last middle piece for her sandwich when you pack her lunch. Making sure her car always has gas so she never has to stop at the pump. Telling her you’re not cold and to take your jacket when you are in fact, very, very cold. It’s watching TV on a rainy Sunday while you’re doing laundry and turning her light off when she’s fallen asleep reading. Sharing pizza crusts and laughing about something the kids did and taking care of each other when you’re sick. It isn’t glamorous, it isn’t all butterflies and stars in your eyes. It’s real. This is the kind of love that forever is made of. Because if it’s this good when life is draining and mundane and hard, think of how wonderful it will be when the love songs are playing and the moon is out.

Mom was flipping out. Not just because Sloan was The Huntsman’s Wife, but because I didn’t bring women home as a rule.

And bringing Sloan home meant exactly what Mom thought it did.

I wanted to reach her and touch her and hold her in my arms forever.

Because I was completely and totally in love with her.

capable, loving hands.

“Have them. They’re yours,” he said.

I smiled. “You’re giving me your hands?”

“My hands, my voice. My back to do your heavy lifting, my arms to carry you to bed when you’ve had too much tequila. My money, my time, my heart. It’s all yours, Sloan.”

Sloan had painted me.

She’d painted this from memory. It was like seeing the moment through her eyes. This was how she had seen me that day, smiling and happy.

I’d been happy because she was there.

And I’d never be that happy again.

Someone smart once told me you can start over again. Start now

“Where’d you get her?”

“Target,” she deadpanned. “She was on sale and you know how you can never leave with just one thing,” she mumbled

Then I noticed my black hoodie was missing from the hook by the front door

What, like it’s hard?”