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When she was younger, Jo had no desire to ever get married. She thought it a silly and frivolous thing; a tradition that generations ought to not keep up with as they aged. When she and her sisters played their pretend house, Jo dreaded having to play Father. It seemed unfair to her that all a husband did was work and eat and sleep; it was from this one simple, premature concept that Jo would develop an irrational hatred for marriage and unions of any kind. This would later render her scared of romantic relationships and any feelings of the same kind (silly flings, flirtatious glances, it was all banned as far as she was concerned).
And then she showed him her hem. Her burnt hem, the thing that should’ve embarrassed her, set her cheeks aflame with shame - she showed it to the not-quite-stranger with the pretty smile and charming eyes. He was everything she never knew she wanted; the very night she met him she memorized the contours of his face, tracing it softly - delicately, even - on the sleeves of her shirt. Every step, breath, pen stroke, dream, and idle moment was consumed by him. The very center of her world had been tilted off its axis, but Jo found that she didn’t quite mind it.
They danced like chickens around the porch while elegant women watched, yet it felt as if the world had granted them the most precious secret. They’d stumbled into a secret celebration, just the two of them: a union. The very thing she had sworn, although absentmindedly so, to never involve herself in. But he carried her sister home. A silly thing to notice amidst the chaos and dramatics, but she’d kept it, and tucked it into the deep grooves of her unforgiving heart.
She fell in love with him the way she’d rolled down the hill near their home a few years prior. It was a slow and gradual tumble, and by the time you realized what was happening there was no way to regain your footing, simply put: you were going down. But she knew herself enough to recognize this one truth (this was, after all, something she couldn’t lie to herself about). She liked Laurie. She loved the way he’d run up to her and hug her, the way he slung his arm around her shoulders, the way he’d jostle her hands after a particularly expressive sentence. There was no doubt about anything with him.
One day, as she lay her head on his lap for a cloud watching session, she thought of that one quote Amy loved so much - Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.