Tools of Engagement

“If I didn’t know better, I’d almost be fooled into thinking you have a heart.”

“Oh, but I do. In the same place as yours.” She sipped her champagne. “It’s located about nine inches below where your brain should be.” He opened his mouth to respond, but Bethany cut him off. “If you make a ‘nine inches’ joke, I’ll dump candle wax on your head.”

“Damn, girl, that’s kinky as hell.” He winked. “I like it.”

He’d never wished harder for Bethany to be standing next to him. She wouldn’t know what the hell to say, either, but that was the beauty of the relationship. Whether it was an impromptu tea party or a bleeding finger, they muddled through it together.

“You don’t have to change everything about yourself. Sometimes you just have to add a little honesty and it makes all the difference.”

Problems don’t have to go away—they can change shape or you can make them work for you.

Perfection wasn’t success. It was impossible and frankly kind of boring.

He’d all but begged her with his eyes not to push him away. Now she’d lost the only person who’d ever looked over a list of her demons and signed up anyway.

She’d been looking for weaknesses in the foundation they were building together. She’d been up to her old tricks of searching for a way out so she wouldn’t have to face her imperfections.

With a child in the house, her life was suddenly a Pandora’s box of crayon crumbles and chocolate smears, but those things were slowly teaching her how overrated perfection was. Who cared what got messy as long as everyone was laughing?

She couldn’t become a different person overnight, but changes were happening inside of her. Positive ones. She no longer had to hide the red mark on her neck because it was gone. When she stood in front of her closet in the morning, she no longer went through a mental checklist of everyone who would see her that day and dress accordingly. She didn’t have to go through breathing exercises before setting foot on the jobsite. Every minute of her day didn’t have to be spent trying to make the next minute count.

“Did you know that only good people can feel guilty?”
She quirked a skeptical eyebrow, but he had her attention.
“It’s true. Think about it. You feel guilty because you think your feelings might hurt your mom if she found out.” He waited for her reluctant nod. “If you were a bad person, you wouldn’t care if you hurt someone else.”
“Oh,” she murmured. “But it would still hurt her.”
“Maybe. Yeah. But it’s not your job to make other people happy, kid. Especially not the people who are supposed to be making you happy.”