The Psychology of Falling in Love

XIX. December 31st & January 2nd

Aria wrung her hands together, unable to look herself in the mirror as I latched her foxtail chain. I sighed and hugged her from behind, swaying back and forth. We looked like a miserable sight— Aria in her black button up and wool coat, me in a black turtleneck with a black skirt and leggings. Neither of us wore this much black by itself— it was jarring.

I tried my best to fix my girlfriend's hair, attempting to tame the cow-licks. A futile effort, I pulled away and put my own hair into a low bun. In some twist of fate, my nervousness about meeting Aria's family was overshadowed by something unexpected—

Her anxiety about meeting her family. For the first time.

Over the past few days, we've heard about aunts and uncles, cousins, and a grandmother. Most of them hadn't even seen a photo of Aria, and those that had, it was when she was a baby. After the death of Derek's father— Aria's grandfather— their family straightened up. Alcoholics turned to AA, druggies turned to rehab.

They brought themselves up from the bottom. It was honestly such an amazing, heartwarming story.

Sad that we're meeting under these pretenses.

"Are you ready to go, my love?" I asked softly.

Finally her striking cerulean blues met me in the mirror. She bit her bottom lip, took a shaky breath, and nodded. "As ready as I can be."

We walked to the car, hand in hand. I was scared that if I let go of her, she would run. She would sprint to the far away place her mind has resided in for the better part of a week. My heart ached for her. I had never experienced this life event—and never would.

The drive was silent. Both of us smoked, puffing our addiction out of the car through small-cracked windows. Aria played with a loose thread in her trousers, picking at it endlessly. I did not point out her tears, even though they broke my heart.

I parked at the far back-end lot of the church. My stomach lurched at the nearly barren parking lot. The sight really hit it home— Shannon Erickson ostracized herself for a large part of her life. Aria's sniffles grew louder, her breaths trembling.

With a deep breath, I climbed out of the car and walked around to her side. I opened her door and held out my hand. A face I could go my entire life without seeing again, the face of my beautiful girlfriend that I wanted to protect, met my gaze. She was ragged, shattered— dark circles from lack of sleep, puffy face from crying, raw, cracked lips. Tears stung at the corner of my eyes.

She exited the car, using my arm as leverage to stand. I linked our hands together, lacing our fingers and giving her a comforting squeeze. We marched through the wintry slush, past the empty parking spots, up the steps where a parishioner was welcoming people.

The warmth of the church was welcome, though discomfort slowly seeped up from the floorboards into the soles of my feet. It had been well over a decade since I had stepped in a place of worship, and it made me feel immensely awkward. My eyes darted around, looking for a place of respite for Aria and I.

A loud sob interrupted my fixation. I turned to the direction of the sound and saw a woman, maybe in her late 40s, a spitting image of Aria, Shannon, and Derek. Strong genes, good Lord. This is actually really creepy—

"You must be Aria," the woman cried, throwing her arms around my girlfriend—and me, by proxy. I felt a look of disdain cross my face, lips hitched, nose scrunched.

"Excuse us, ma'am," I said firmly, trying to stand as tall as possible.

"Oh, where are my manners? I'm so sorry," she began. "I'm Mary Ann, Shannon's younger sister. Your aunt."