Xavier: Don't freak out. It's not a bad idea. Let me think it over.
Xavier: Ophelia, are you there?
Xavier: You know, and maybe I'm a bit trousered myself, but the more I think about it, the more I think it's a brilliant idea.
Xavier: I'll call my agent and lawyer in the morning. I think we should discuss the details in person. Sleep tight.
Xavier: I'm on the train up. I'll be into South Station around 5. How far are you from there?
Xavier: I can't tell you how much I appreciate this. As soon as your lawyer looks over the contract, we can go ahead and get married.
It's the last word that has me running to the toilet again.
Married.
What the hell happened last night?
And he's coming up here? I look at the clock. He's going to be here—here!—in about two hours. My place is a disaster. I'm a disaster. Apparently, my life is a disaster.
Married.
Every time I even think about that word, bile rises in the back of my throat.What the hell happened last night?I guess the good thing about him coming here is we can figure this out.
Wait—where does he think he's going to stay? I don't know this man from Adam, anddid I invite him to sleep here?
Oh my God. I am never drinking again.
What am I going to do? I call Marley. She'll know. Dammit. No answer.
Me: Marley, call me. This is an emergency. I think I did something stupid.
Marley: Again?
Me: CALL ME ASAP
And then I wait. How dare my best friend choose to have a life when I'm in crisis because I'm a FREAKIN' idiot?
Think, Ophelia, think. What happened last night? I attempt to rifle through the alcohol-drenched corners of my brain, but I'm still coming up short. Surely—surely—I should be able to recall something as momentous as being proposed to. Just the fact that I've been waiting my whole life should make my synapses fire a little more.
But no. Like Taylor Swift says, "I've got a blank space, baby."
Shit.
And while this may seem like the perfect time to panic, I don't have time for that. I run around, scooping up strewn clothing and dishes. Books get piled up and the papers on my desk are quickly neatened and put into the folders where they belong anyway. I wash my dishes and wipe down the counters. A quick pass of the vacuum, much to Sunny's dismay, and then I tackle my bedroom.
Not that I'm letting him in there, but in case he peeks. My dresser, piled high with makeup and lotions and jewelry, is a lost cause. It's fine. I don't want him thinking I'm a neat freak. Next, onto the bathroom where I clean out the litter box and sweep the bathroom floor. But as I clean, the memories are slowly filtering in. Flashes of conversation. He went on about trades and international laws and needing to get married. Like in a book. Oh God, tell me I didn't.
At least I put down the toilet bowl brush before I bury my face in my hands.
I did. Obviously, I did because he mentioned it. I somehow, in my inebriated state, thought my life should be like a romance novel, and I proposed marriage. Between him and me.
And now he's coming up.
I can't breathe.
But it's not like he accepted. Or is even taking me seriously. There's no way he could. I mean, it was pretty obvious that I was hammered. He can't hold me at my word. I wasn't fit to give it in the first place.
I focus on sucking air in and letting it out slowly. Surely, he was coming up anyway. Surely he knows how drunk I was.
