Him.
His deep, calm voice caused a physical reaction that made her insides tremble and thrill. When she saw him, she was propelled into his arms by nothing short of pure joy and a truckload of endorphins.
Love wasn’t hard. It wasn’t complicated. They didn’t have to talk about monogamy or commitment. “I want to see you again as soon as possible,” he said on their first date, so forthright and unguarded that she felt a rush of protectiveness.
She would take such good care of him. He was so pure, and she would make a beautiful life with him. For him. Because of him.
And he took care of her, too. He admired her work and understood its complexity, unlike most people, who thought she was an interior decorator or landscaper, rather than the designer of how space would be used. He was so focused on her as she talked about it that, at first, she felt shy. This guy saved lives with his brain, and it was kinda sorta hard to compete with that. But he asked for her perspective on things, readily admitting he didn’t know anything about what made a park pretty or what purpose a public square had or what pedestrian flow meant. And he listened to her answers about how public spaces could be the soul of a city or college, how they could transform the bleakest industrial park or poorest neighborhood.
His attention, so focused and singular, made her feel bathed in warm, golden sun. No guy she’d dated had ever been so interested in her. Most had just waited for their turn to talk, or interrupted her or mansplained till she cut them off. Other guys bided their time (generally fifteen minutes) until they could see if she’d put out that night.
Josh saw her, heard every word, and made her feel . . . important. The most important person in the world.
Which, to be fair, was not the most common experience for Lauren. Jen was the superior sister, a fact Lauren would not dispute. Growing up, her mom always assumed her second daughter was fine, which Lauren was. Her mom had been a teacher, and her patience for kids dried up before she came home. Jen was fabulous, and Lauren was her biggest fan. Her dad had thought both his girls had hung the moon.
Men Lauren’s age . . . most of them were still teenagers, no matter what age their driver’s licenses showed.
So to have this beautiful, brilliant man tilting his head when she talked, his brows drawn together, not missing a single word she said . . .
To have this kind, gentle man asking her if he could hold her hand and later, kiss her, and later after that, unbutton her blouse . . .
To have him ask if she’d like to have dinner with his mother, because “she’s dying to meet you” . . . it was like the best dream she’d ever had. No hipster pretentiousness, no millennial cynicism, no mansplaining superiority even though he was a bona fide genius who was making the world a better place.
He told her on their fifth date that he had wondered if he’d ever meet someone. That he’d never expected to get married, because his place on the spectrum put a lot of people off. That women didn’t have patience for him. That he wasn’t tall enough. That he didn’t know how to flirt.
Lauren thought he was utterly delightful because of those things, not despite them.
Also, had he just actually said the word married? She didn’t ask him for further explanation, but she sure as hell replayed that sentence ten thousand times.
She didn’t wonder if they should take things more slowly. Didn’t wonder if anyone else was out there. She deleted her dating apps the night of the Hope Center opening.
He was the one. And so was she.
He was equal parts smooth and dorktastic. He unabashedly loved his mom, who raised him single-handedly after her boyfriend had abandoned her. Josh saw her and the Kims every Wednesday night for dinner. If his mom texted him a cat video, he’d watch it, and love it. Yes, he lost track of time and was often late and didn’t have a Pavlovian response to texts and needed her to explain things like body language, only watched the same two TV shows (The Great British Bake Off and Star Trek). Yes, he desperately needed a decent barber. It didn’t matter. He videoconferenced with the likes of Bill Gates and Bono—Bono!—and presented workshops on up-and-coming fields of biotech. Several times when they were out walking, deans from RISD and Brown had literally run to catch up to them to say hello to their prodigy.
Joshua also held the door for her and took her to the nicest restaurants as ranked by Providence.com (he was big on research). He was unabashed in telling her she was beautiful, smelled good, had smooth skin. He sent flowers to her home and office, sometimes twice in one day, forgetting that he’d already done it.
His work was so important, and he was so wonderful, but left on his own, he might stay in his apartment for the rest of his life, lost in his mind palace. So she scheduled time off for him, putting it into his phone so he’d get a reminder an hour before that he was due to shower and answer the door when she buzzed. She would text him and tell him to stretch and drink a glass of water and eat a vegetable, and he’d answer with a picture of a carrot and the words thank you.
They took walks in the cold winter air, went to student shows at the Providence Art Club and RISD, where Josh was always fawned over (justifiably) and Lauren was not (irritatingly). She cooked for him and introduced him to the wonder of roasted broccoli, which he had never tried before.
There was a lot of soulful gazing. It sounded cheesy, but it was . . . it was like coming home. Kissing was the best. Long, hot makeout sessions on various pieces of furniture or on a bench at the Roger Williams botanical gardens.
And sex . . . oh, God, sex was . . . it was fun and amazing and it had moments of utter . . . reverence. Because this was the last man she was ever going to have sex with. This was sex with the man she’d marry. This was the father of her future children, children she loved already.
When he asked her to meet his mother and the Kims, she was as nervous as she’d ever been. After all, Josh only loved a handful of people, and at least half of them would be at this dinner. She wore a modest dress, tried to look effortlessly perfect and natural in the hair and makeup area (which took hours) and called her sister eight times to get pointers on how to impress potential in-laws.
She didn’t have to worry. Stephanie, a tall, striking blond woman who looked nothing like Josh, opened the door, took a critical look at Lauren, and then said, “I approve. Come on in.”
She did, glancing at Josh with wide eyes. He shrugged.
The Kims, by contrast, fell on her. “At last!” Sumi cried. “Joshie has been telling us great things! Oh, sweetheart, you’re lovely! Stephanie, the babies they’ll make!”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” said Ben with a wink.
“That took . . .” Josh looked at his watch. “Sixteen seconds. Lauren, this is my mom, Stephanie Park, and our best friends, Sumi and Ben.”
The photo albums were next. Stephanie, who seemed warmly amused by this whole “meeting my son’s girlfriend” experience, brought out the photo albums of baby Josh and told the story of moving into this very house, eight months pregnant, having just transferred from Harvard to Brown. The Kims practically adopted her; Sumi had been Steph’s birth coach.