“Then tell me something,” Ross said. “Describe love to me.”
She had to think about it for a moment. “Well, being in love with Hadley didn’t really feel great, but I remember thinking it was great at the time. My heart seemed uncomfortably large in my chest, I was all aflutter, I couldn’t think straight and my very existence seemed to balance on whether or not the phone would ring. I could barely express myself, and I didn’t know what to do or say. It was kind of like a delicious torture. He said all the things I wanted to hear, like that I’d taken over his mind and he couldn’t think of anyone else. That he wanted us to be together.”
“Together how?” Ross asked.
“Well, together to have sex, as it turned out. But I wanted to live happily-ever-after. And he did say he’d be divorcing his wife. Soon.”
“Hmm. Did you ever ask yourself if you could bear that feeling of quivering and having an enlarged heart forever?”
“I supposed it wouldn’t feel like that forever, that it would calm down and become a warm and comfortable feeling of love and trust and dependability.”
“That sounds very nice. Tell me what love looks like.”
The picture that came to mind was one of Hadley standing on the front porch with his wife, kissing her deeply and running a hand over her swollen tummy, proud of the baby his wife carried. Tears came to her eyes. “I always wanted to be in love. You know, that love that’s sure and strong and beyond doubt. And of course, filled with helpless passion.”
Ross leaned back in her chair and crossed her hands over her chest. “I was in love with my husband,” she said. “I was in love with him so much my eyes crossed. Then he hit me and terrified me and begged for forgiveness and promised to never do it again, and all that lightheadedness came back and I loved him desperately again. And then we fought and made up and it wasn’t long before he hit me again.”
“Oh, Ross,” Addie said, sympathetic.
“I was so high on emotion I couldn’t see daylight. I was either afraid or maybe just cautious and nervous or helplessly in love, because when he wasn’t cruel he was so loving and sweet. It was the most terrible roller coaster. It took me such a long time to realize it wasn’t love at all. It was addiction and abuse and control and maybe a lot of things that weren’t healthy. Because, Adele, real love doesn’t always sparkle and rain glitter on your head. Real love can be a little like warm milk—not all that tasty but soothing and predictable. Real love is feeling trust and kindness toward someone who isn’t a prince all the time but is never a beast. Real love can be a little boring sometimes. Or at least not so pretty. Real love sits in the steam bath with a baby with the croup or changes the oil in your car before you go off on a long drive. Real love is someone you can call when you have the flu and he brings home chicken soup and changes the sheets on the bed. Real love sits by you on the couch while you weep at a silly chick flick... Or maybe real love endures yet one more football game and even throws some wings in the oven for him because he deserves it.”
“And if you get bored and just don’t feel that jazz anymore?”
“I guess that’s an individual thing,” Ross said. “I had an awful lot of jazz with my abusive husband. He used to say the best part of a good fight was the making up afterward. Eventually I began to really resent what I had to endure to get that good lovin’. It took me a long while to realize that all that sparkle wasn’t really love. It was infatuation, and it wouldn’t turn into the calm, strong, enduring and dependable trust that could last.”
“I think, Adele, you have to figure out what love looks like to you. Can you imagine a life with the professor? Or do you think you’d just