"I'm not one of your petty officers," I hiss.

  "No, you're my daughter and I expect you to get dressed and report downstairs in ten minutes." He stomps down the hall.

  My mother shrugs delicately and whispers, "I think it's safe to say he means five."

  I begrudgingly get dressed, brush my teeth, tie my hair into a knot on top of my head, and go downstairs.

  The night I got home was a blur, but my parents had the kitchen remodeled and something furry tickles my ankle.

  "That's sailor," my mom says, picking up the cavalier King Charles spaniel puppy.

  "You got a dog?"

  "Your father brought him home."

  He wags his tail and I let him sniff my hand.

  "Dear, don't furrow your brow, you'll get wrinkles," my mother warns. "He misses you."

  "I've never met him," I say.

  "Not the dog, you. Your father misses you."

  "He replaced me with a puppy?"

  "No, he just needed someone to order around." Her smile hints that she's joking.

  "He's waiting for you in the car."

  "Where are we going?"

  Her tight-lipped shrug tells me she knows exactly where he's taking me. To walk the plank? Back to the train station? To Navy boot camp, to shape me into the son he always wanted?

  I harrumph outside to find him warming up the SUV. He's silent as he winds down our long driveway toward town.

  "Where are we going?" I ask, but then he pulls into the all-American restaurant he'd take me to the second night he was on leave. The first night my mother would make a big home cooked dinner and then he'd sleep off the rocking of the sea. The second night he'd take me for pizza and ice cream and no matter the weather we'd walk along the water. Then, exhausted I'd pass out back home and he and my mother would stay up late into the night talking and dancing. I only know this because once when I was eight, I had a stomachache and couldn't fall asleep. I went out to tell them, but just sat on the stairs, watching them waltz to a softly playing record. From then on, when my dad would return home, on that second night I'd do whatever I could to keep awake and watch their love story unfold in little shuffles from side to side, my mother's head on my father's chest, their hands clasped, and the music like a lullaby.

  We eat our slices of cheese pizza and drink our plastic cups of root beer in silence. After he pays, he leads me to the beach. The waves gently lap the shore at low tide, exposing the spines of rocks and drooping seaweed. He looks out to sea, as if he sees ships along the horizon. Just as he did when I was a little girl he asks, "Do you see?"

  I shake my head. Like always, there is only a flat line, much like the form my life has taken.

  He continues to watch, his eyes long used to spotting ripples and wrinkles on the smooth sheen of ocean.

  He lifts his large, meaty arm and points toward a flash of light like a mirror in the sun.

  I focus, scanning the water, and I do see a bump on the slim line between sea and sky.

  He smiles at me and we continue walking.

  I ask him about the dog.

  "She's a good girl. Obedient. Eager to please. She likes the water. That's a good thing." His clipped sentences remind me he's not a big talker. He sips the remains of his soda and then says, "You have those qualities too, Navy."

  "Are you comparing me to your dog?" And here I thought men were dogs. Shame on me.

  "I am, but not for the reasons you think. A dog, as I understand it, wants to love and be loved. Am I right?"

  I nod.

  "And you, as I understand it, want to love and be loved."

  "Yeah, but I'm not a dog."

  "No, you're a beautiful young woman, full of potential, full of heart. And love is what we all want and need."

  My eyebrows lift in question.

  "Yes, even old guys like me who've spent more time on steel ships around boys and men, protecting our country's freedom than with women and considering what it means to warm the heart."

  We walk a few more paces, leaving squishy footprints in the sand. "When did you know you loved mom?"

  He leans in. "This might sound very, very strange, especially coming from me."

  I stop walking because my father, stiff upper lip, order, and all business all the time has never said anything even remotely strange.

  "I always loved her. I loved her before I knew her."

  "Like a soul mate?" I ask.

  "Something like that. It's my job to use my mind to know many things: how to command a fleet of warships and every dedicated seaman and asshole alike on them; how to navigate enemy waters if our communications are down; how to stand proud and serve my country; how to be a good husband and father. Navy, I'm meant to know many things, but not everything." He's quiet a beat, the water matching the cadence of his breath. "For some matters, it's best to let the heart do the knowing. Your question was when did I know I was in love with your mother?"

  I nod.

  "I was on leave and we went out for dinner and then dancing. It was a glamourous night with all of the women dressed in gowns and us guys in our dress blues. We'd only been on several dates, but each time I was at sea, I'd be thinking of her." He inhales the salt air. "Her hand in mine. The way she filled the space when I didn't know what to say. How comfortable she made me. How happy..." He exhales. "I'd fallen into conversation with a few of the guys and later found her seated, alone, her eyes glassy. My heart ached right then, seeing her upset. She didn't want to talk about what made her cry." He shrugs. "You know, women."

  "I'll pretend you didn't say that."

  "What? I've spent more of my life in the company of men. Females mystify me. But right then, I knew that if I didn't do everything in my power to alleviate whatever was hurting her heart, my own would ache so deeply I don't think I'd be able to stand it."

  "So what did you do?"

  "I applied for an extension, got a few more days onshore. I borrowed a buddy's rag top convertible, we went cruising up and down the Cape, stopping at beaches, swimming—skinny dipping—," he whispers. "We got to know each other. I learned what made her laugh. I found out she loves oysters even though I can’t stomach the things. I discovered her right foot is ticklish, but not her left. I realized then in those simple moments of time spent together, that I loved her and was in love with her. I made it my mission, from then on to never, ever see her upset like I had at that party again. I made it my job to make her heart feel happy and full in every way I know how. Sure, I've come up short a few times, it's a big job to keep Minnie Carrington happy, and I imagine her daughter, the equally diminutive, but also very fierce equally as content. It takes a big man to fill that role. I have a feeling though, there's a fellow out there up for the job." He winks at me.

  "What upset her so much at that party?" I ask.

  "That I was leaving. That even if we were married for fifty years, for the rest of our lives, one of us would always be leaving." His voice cracks.

  Tears crash like waves from my eyes. I wrap my arms around him and he squeezes me close.

  "That's life," he says.

  "So what do you do?" I ask. My voice barely registers above a whisper.

  "You stay, for as long as you can. Be present as much as you can. You love with everything you've got while you can."

  We stand there a little longer, our eyes fixed on the horizon. Seagulls wheel through the sky, crying out as my salty tears drip into the sea.

  When we walk back to the SUV, he asks, "So, have you seen the Kennely boy lately?"

  "Which one. There are five."

  "You know which one."

  "Do I?"

  "I know which one," he says pointedly.

  "Yes. I have."

  I spend the next twenty minutes recapping the story and how I'd always had a crush on Carrick, which he knew.

  "I didn't think you noticed things like that."

  "I can see those ships before they're a blip on the horizon; you think I couldn't spot the boy who held my daughter's heart?"

  "But you never said anything."

  "No, matters of the heart, I leave to the heart."

  I tell him about the night of the funeral, sparing the private details, and everything that happened since.

  "Loss makes us draw those we care about closer. I don't blame you for wanting to be with him."

  "But then he left. In the story you just told, you stayed with Mom. If he cared about me as much as you did for her, why did he leave?"

  "Ah, the one that gets even the mightiest of men and women alike. Fear. I'll put his Marine-ass to the test if you want me to." My dad smirks.

  "Have him walk the plank."

  "I'm not a pirate."

  "No, you're my dad," I say, giving him another hug.

  "And Carrick was just a boy. I said loss makes us draw those we care about closer, but I was already on the boat when I made my decision to go back. I swam, Navy. I jumped the ship literally. Granted, I had permission, and it was more of a show for my lady—"

  "You jumped?"

  "Right into the bay. We'd only just pulled in the lines." He taps me on the back. "And he came back. A little later than perhaps you would have liked, but that time apart gave you perspective, a chance to grow, and put distance between the other stuff that happened with Zach—never did like him."

  "But—"

  "You're trying to figure out the heart. It can't be done. With all of my expertise and training and knowledge, I suggest you leave it as a mystery. Listen to it, but don't try to command it. Don't try to understand its whys and wherefores. Let it do its thing, keep you alive, and lead you to love."

  "That sounds like poetry."

  "I have a lot of time out at sea." He smiles privately like he's written his own love letters to my mother.

  "I just can't stand to have my heart broken."

  He chuckles. "No one can. As I see it, the only way to fix it is to let it do what it does."

  "And what's that, oh sage bearer of wisdom," I ask. "Keep us alive? Lead me to love?"

  He nods. "Yes, love. The simplest and most complicated thing about being human. Happy Valentine's Day. Now, how about some ice cream?"

  I shiver. "Okay, but somewhere warm."

  What my father said wasn't strange at all even though if he'd said it to me at any other time I would have wondered if he needed to spend more time on solid ground. What's more, he's the last person I ever thought I'd talk to about matters of the heart, but somehow he always sees what's on the horizon.

  My father's version of tough love—ripping the bandage, or covers as it were—off me, getting me out of bed for pizza, and the ice cream we ate in front of the roaring fire is nothing to my mother's assignment.

  She sends me to the basement, presumably to clear out a space for when I move back in.

  "You've had these boxes down here for ages. It's time to clean them out. Make a pile of stuff you want to get rid of and things you want to keep. She hands me a large trash bag for the former and a small shopping bag for the latter.

  I pick through ancient relics: kindergarten drawings, projects made out of pasta and glue. I find old quizzes and essays—items she saved over the years. I imagine she picked through and held onto a few keepsakes, but the rest, evidence of eighteen years of my live, waits for me to recycle.

  One particular artifact sends me rocking back on my heels and into a chair. I hold a stack of yellowed paper, folded together and stapled. The cover is a drawing of a princess and her prince. The book is titled And They Lived Happily Ever After by HRH Navy Carrington and HRH Claire Kennely.

  I part the brittle pages and recall the stories Claire and I wrote when we were little, how we'd fall in love with a prince—she was a physicist, mostly because she liked saying the word and I was a Nobel Prize winner for doing a very brave deed and writing about it. I can't remember her prince's name, but I think he sat next to me and picked his nose in Mrs. Young's class. But I never told her that. My prince was none other than her brother, Carrick. She insisted.

  My breath catches. She claimed he loved me but said shh, it's a secret because her big brother was afraid and shy and not very princely. She said I could change that.

  I read the story, with both of our handwriting filling the pages and a few illustrations with hilariously disproportionate arms and legs, oversized heads, and an abundance of pink ruffled gowns.

  About halfway through the book it says, Carrick is Navy's one true love. Navy is Carrick's one true love and the only thing that will come between them is a great war!!! Claire was fond of exclamation points.

  I sit back on the cold basement floor, clutching the little book to my chest. Maybe my father is right. Love just is and always has been.

  I get to my feet and rush upstairs to an empty kitchen. My mother must be out walking the dog. I read the rest of the story, remembering Claire insisted there be a problem. She said the fairytales where the princess and prince just fall in love in the end aren't as exciting as when they have to overcome an obstacle. I thumb through the pages but we never got to the past a fire-breathing dragon, a hoard of treasure, and a war between two kingdoms that wanted it for themselves. We never worked out how to get them to their happily ever after.

  I love him, I love him, I love him. I hate him, I hate him, I hate him. One is the truth. One is a lie I've been telling myself for years.

  I pull out my phone, ready to call Katya, when the envelope Carrick gave me the other day tumbles out of my bag.

  I flatten it and then tear it open. Inside is a plane ticket to Rome and a note that says

  Navy,

  I want you to know that it was you who brought me back from the brink. Your dimpled smile was like a flash of lightning, a crack of thunder, an anchor in the chaos. I said no, but now I say yes. Yes to you, yes to possibility, yes to us.

  You are my sun, my moon, my heart, my breath. You're the one who keeps me alive. You're the last person I think of before I go to sleep and the first person I think about when I wake up. I'm never not thinking of you. I loved you fifteen years ago, ten years ago, five, and yesterday. And I will love you tomorrow. You have my heart, the whole thing, the rest of me too, if you want. I want.

  This isn't my first love letter to you and it won't be the last because more than anything, I want us to get our happily ever after. Please meet me. Let's go to romantic Rome. Please give me a chance to show you how much I love you.

  XO,

  Carrick

  I laugh. I cry. It comes so hard I ugly sob and snort, not sure how I feel except overwhelmed with hope that the war is finally over.

  I hug my parents and get on the next train back to New York City. As it travels south, I open a fresh document on my laptop and spend the next hours finishing the story Claire and I started writing all those years ago.

  When I'm done, I go to my blog and instead of wasting my time on writing up the ABCs for Tristen, I write

  The Book Boyfriend turned out to be a toad and not the kind that turns into a prince. However, I did find my prince. Well, a paper one who I realized had been there all along. We'll call him my OTP. One true pairing.

  We modern women don't really need a prince, a knight in shining armor, a Romeo, or a Mr. Darcy, not necessarily. But it's okay to accept the truth of whom we might be, to desire examples of romantic tropes, to want to feel adored and desired. I'd be a liar if I said I don't like a surprise bouquet of flowers. It would be a fib to deny a sweet compliment doesn't make me blush. A complete and utter fabrication if I denied the little thrill of a twinkling, smoldering, handsome pair of eyes on me. You couldn't trust me if I claimed not to want a book boyfriend. You'd leave this blog if I said I don't like chocolate or I don't like sex. I want and I like and need all of the above. In a three-piece suit and aftershave during the week and a perfectly worn in pair of jeans, a baby-soft T-shirt, bare feet, and tousled hair on the weekend.

  The girl I really am wants all of these things. I've hid the truth in the darkest, most frightened parts of my heart—a part of me that wanted nothing more than to protect me from further pain. It's caused me to renounce relationships, dating, and sometimes even made me think it was a good idea to leave the house dressed in what some might consider less than proper attire. (And anyway, if I'm wearing a heavy winter jacket, no one can tell that I'm wearing my pajamas underneath.)

  Love is paradox. Love is contrast. Love is complicated. I don't understand it, my OTP, or myself any better than the next couple, but it's up to me to own who I am without apology.

  It's up to us. We can be modern and empowered, yet want our feet rubbed by a prince at the end of the day. We can want our independence and a relationship with a modern Romeo. We can be fierce warriors in the home and workplace and put on lipstick and a sexy skirt with the slit up the side for our guy. Wanting and having both doesn't diminish the work we and our sisters have done to promote, empower, and gain respect for women. In fact, the greatest thing we can do for ourselves and our sisters is be honest about our desires, to lay claim to them, and be the truest version of who we are.

  Today, that means a girl going after her guy, taking a risk, and being completely honest and vulnerable.

  My best friend had a theory that people are like birds. I had a theory that men are like dogs. Nope. We're just people. Messy, complicated, big hearted, tremendous people. This whole thing got started with a discussion about OTPs at a housewarming party and it turned into a dare, but the thing I know about my one true pairing is that it started long before that party and I'm on my way to see how it goes. Wish me luck.

  I'll be signing off for now, but you can be sure, whatever happens, whether he is my OTP or it doesn’t work out and I turn back to my paperback boyfriends, I'll keep reading and believing in love. I hope you do, too.

  I press publish and lean back, but before I get too comfortable, I remember there are others relying on me. I open up the UBoss chat.

  The program is over, but members have lifetime access to the material, modules, and the chat. There are only three avatars lit up, indicating the current users, including MelodyMiles.

  She instantly writes Navybean! Where ya been?

  I inhale and begin typing. I've been exploring living more and being the boss of my life. There were times I wanted to turn back, give up, and let someone else take the wheel. But I couldn't let myself or any of you down.