The Provence Cure for the Brokenhearted Read Online Free PDF

failing.
    I said, “I know what’s wrong with your car.”
    His blue eyes lit up. “You know engines?”
    I nodded. “The problem’s simple. When you turn the key, it doesn’t make any noise.”
    Henry found this charming. I found it charming that he found it charming. “You’re right,” he said. “It’s probably the sound-effects alternator.”
    Henry walked me home—about six blocks. When we got to my house, I realized I’d left my keys at the dinner party. He walked me back to Quinn’s, and then to my place again. At this point it was three o’clock in the morning. We’d walked and talked a good chunk of the night away. Now, back on my front stoop, we lingered.
    He said, “So, do you like me?” He tilted his head, his dark lashes framing his blue eyes. He had full lips and the smile appeared again—just a half smile really, just that one side.
    “What do you mean?” I asked. “Of course I like you. You’re very nice.”
    “Yes, but by the sixth-grade definition. Do you
like me
like me or do you only like me?”
    “I might
like you
like you,” I said, looking at my shoes and then back at him. “
Might
. I don’t have good luck with men. In fact, I’ve sworn them off.”
    “Really?” This is the part I remember so clearly—how close he was, so close I could feel the warmth of his breath. “Can I ask why?”
    “Men are work. They think they’re going to swoop in and save you, but then they take effort. They need cajoling. They’re kind of, by and large, like talking sofas.”
    “For a talking sofa, I feel like I’ve got a really strong vocabulary.” He whispered this, as if it were a confession. “I did well on standardized tests—when compared to other talking sofas.” And then he really stared at me. I was falling in love with his shoulders. I could see his collarbones, the vulnerable dip between them, his beautiful, strong jaw. “I think swearing off men is old-fashioned.”
    “It’s kind of an antiquated notion. I might have been drunk when I said it.”
    “Maybe you were on a bender?” He smiled his half smile. “Taking a break from belting out ‘Brandy’?”
    “Probably. And now in the sober light of day, I can see what a bad idea that was—like trying to put on a full-scale production of
West Side Story
in your local 7-Eleven.”
    He was impossibly close now. “Have you ever tried to put on a full-scale production of
West Side Story
at a 7-Eleven?”
    “Twice. It didn’t work,” I said. “I’m over it now, swearing off men, that is.”
    “You’ve officially de-sworn-off men,” he said.
    “Yes,” I said.
    “You sure?”
    I nodded, but I wasn’t sure.
    And he kissed me—softly at first, almost just a tug on my mouth, but then I gave in. He held my face in his hands. He pressed his body against mine, against the door. I dropped my keys. We kissed and kissed, a moment that in my memory feels infinite.
    The kiss, that was the beginning. Henry and I worked as a couple because he convinced me that I was wrong about love. Love isn’t about compromise.
Life
is hard.
Life
demands compromise. But when two people fall in love, they create a sanctuary. My family was fragile. Love was something made of handblown glass. But Henry had been raised so differently. His family was loud, rowdy, bawdy, quick to anger, quick to forgive—with food everywhere—Southern food mixed with Italian set to the mantra of
Mangia! Mangia!
—always frying, bubbling, spattering, the kitchen pumping like a steamy heart.
    On one level, I didn’t expect to fall in love. I saw this other future version of myself, a tough, independent woman, bullying my way through life. But, honestly, I also felt like Henry was the exact person I’d been waiting for—the
soul
I’d been waiting for—and the package he came in was like unwrapping gift after gift.
And this is what you look like. And this is what your voice sounds like. And this is the set of your childhood memories
. I’d thought I’d