Why It’s Always Better When He Loves You More
(Than you love him)
Kristen rolled over in the soft blue 200 count sheets into Tom. The strong smell of Old Spice hit her, waking her up an hour before she had set her alarm. It was on a Saturday, the time that Squirrel Hill’s traffic began to tell the sleeping beauties and their beasts (princes aren’t real) that their hangovers were officially here.
Kristen opened her eyes and titled her head to see if Tom was awake yet—he wasn’t. He let his mouth gape in the most unattractive way when he was sleeping. Kristen didn’t make a habit of watching him sleep, though, so she didn’t really mind. She didn’t mind a lot of the physical flaws he had: his hair that was kind of a straight, mousy brown, his face that was non-descript (not in the good way), his chiseled abs that weren’t quite chiseled, and generally most of his appearance. All in all, he was plain.
He loved her, and was thin, though, so she didn’t focus on the flaws. Focus on the inside, that’s what she told herself. He was such a good person: he had a great job while being a stellar student, paid his taxes, went to church each Sunday, treated his family great, and most of all: treated her like a queen.
She pushed herself up to sit cross legged, wrapping the covers around as she nodded. “Did you?”
“’Course. Always do. Here—let me get you something.” Tom rolled out of bed, obviously still tired, and padded into the kitchen. “I’ve got to drop by the lab and do some extra work later but we could do something if you want.”
Tom walked back into the bedroom, carrying a glass of her favorite apple juice, leaning against the doorframe in his blue and green boxers. “God, you look beautiful. You should just go out like that.” He smiled (he was serious) as he brought her the juice.
That’s how Tom treated Kristen all the time. He showered her with everything: affection, compliments, presents—she was his pride and joy. She didn’t believe all the things he said, and kept saying, after seven months together, but loved that he thought she was pretty enough without makeup.
“No, actually, I have to meet Jocelyn and Tara for lunch. We’re designing the theme for the gala this year, did I tell you?” Kristen sipped gingerly at the juice. She loved it, but it was 200 calories a glass.
“Oh…yeah, you did, but okay. I guess I’ll see you tonight? I’ll make dinner!” He smiled as he twirled her hair in his hands.
“Ah, I’m not sure Tommy…We’ll see. I’ll give you a call.” She got up, setting the glass down on the nightstand and grabbing her towel to go into the shower.
That was the thing about Tom. Kristen knew she could let him down and disappoint him, and that he wouldn’t be dismayed. He was excited enough just to be in her presence. Every day with Kristen, for him, was like the first day.
Kristen had never really had the jitters around Tom; she’d never fallen for him, but she guessed that Tom had never gotten rid of that feeling. He still shook a little when she took his hand in the movies, like he was surprised she’d give him the time of day.
She was surprised at first, too; Tom really wasn’t her speed, she’d told her friends. But little by little he’d grown on her. He was just so nice, and really put her on a pedestal. She could do no wrong, and that’s how she wanted to keep it. Disney may have made it seem that Belle loved the Beast, but what Belle actually loved was how the Beast treated her.
Tom had given Kristen a ring two nights ago, and Kristen accepted it with open arms and zero hesitation. She knew that to find another man like Tom, a man that was so blinded by his love for her that he didn’t see affairs, indifference towards him, or unrequited feelings would be rare in Kristen’s love career.
She planned on marrying him not because of her love for him, but because of his love for her.©Allura Diez
Why It’s Always Better When He Loves You More (Than you love him) As the influence of the media and personal experience on everyday lives cannot be avoided, it is sufficient to say that nothing ever "just comes" to a writer. Though there are always sources for stories, I could not point to the specific ones drawn from for this piece.
The Sweetest Taste This story was in response to a writing group prompt about revenge. I imagined the internal conflict that would come from avenging a loved one's murder.