When you’re single, you tend to tell yourself and anyone that will listen that Valentine’s Day is the most hated day. That it’s stupid. That it doesn’t deserve to be celebrated. This, ironically, is especially true for those of us who are hopeless romantics. Which I just so happen to be.
And this is exactly what I had been doing. Valentine’s Day was pointless, I had told him days earlier. Having dated briefly the previous year and just recently starting to spend time together again, it was my way of telling him that it was stupid if you didn’t have someone to spend it with. Someone who wanted to spend it with you. On top of all this, I was really sick.
The night before Valentine’s day, in my worn-in grey Cal Poly sweatpants and head covered by the hood of my black Cal Poly hoodie, I sat curled up on the couch with a box of Kleenex and the remote in hand. My doorbell rang and, not expecting anyone, was surprised to see Carlton on the other side of the peephole. I let him in and he followed my huddled, blanket covered figure back to the couch.
I know how much you hate Valentine’s Day. So I figured I would come today, since it’s technically not Valentine’s Day until tomorrow.
He held out his hands. In one, a rose. One of my favorites where the colors are almost that of a sunset, fading from yellow to gold to pink. In the other hand, a large can of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup.
I had told him I hated Valentine’s Day, when in fact I just didn’t want to feel the loneliness every single girl associates with the day. In reality, I love Valentine’s Day and any day that celebrates love. But I have to admit, at that moment, I loved February 13th so much more.