“Chloe, I—” His phone buzzed again, and this time he couldn’t resist checking it. Whatever he saw made his face go ashen.
“Is it an emergency at the bar?” I asked, though part of me wondered if this was somehow connected to whatever Sam had planned for tonight. “Do you need to go?”
“No. I…” Sam looked panicked. “I need to make a quick phone call. I’ll be right back.”
He was out of the booth and heading toward the restaurant’s back exit before I could respond, leaving me sitting alone with two untouched wine glasses and a growing sense of dread.
He’s calling about the proposal,I told myself firmly.He’s coordinating with someone – maybe a photographer, or a musician, or whoever he’s arranged to help with the surprise.
But minutes ticked by, and Sam didn’t return. I sat there and watched while some diners finished their mains, others ordered dessert, and still others paid their checks. The young couple at the bar left, the woman’s engagement ring catching the light as she waved goodbye to friends.
Where was Sam?
I sipped my wine and tried to look casual, but my professional training was kicking in. When an animal exhibited the kind of stress behavior I’d just seen in Sam – agitation, avoidance, physical symptoms of anxiety – it usually indicatedserious distress. The kind that didn’t resolve itself with time or patience.
I stood up from the table, murmuring to our server that I was going to find the ladies’ room, and made my way toward the back of the restaurant. Maybe Sam had stepped outside for better cell reception. Maybe he was having trouble with whoever he was trying to coordinate with.
The back door opened onto Rosewood Inn’s private garden, a small courtyard with wrought-iron tables and fairy lights strung between the trees. During the day, it was used for outdoor dining. At night, it provided a quiet space away from the main restaurant’s bustle. It was the perfect place for a proposal.
A flutter of excitement mixed with my concern. Was this it? Had Sam been waiting out here for me, wondering what was taking me so long to check on him? Maybe those texts had been from whoever was helping him coordinate everything, and he’d rushed out here to make sure it was all ready.
Sam stood with his back to me near the far corner of the garden, his phone pressed to his ear, his free hand running through his hair in the gesture I knew meant he was overwhelmed.
“I can’t do it, Jack.” His voice carried across the quiet space, filled with an anguish I’d never heard before. “I can’t marry her.”
The world stopped.
I can’t marry her.
The words stole the breath from my lungs. I gripped the door frame to keep from falling, my legs suddenly unable to support my weight.
“I know I said I was ready,” Sam continued, his voice breaking. “I had it all planned out. But I can’t do this.”
Why not?I wanted to scream.Why not, Sam?
But I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but stand there and listen to the man I loved explain to his best friend why he couldn’t bear the thought of marrying me.
“She doesn’t deserve this,” Sam said. “She deserves someone who can give her everything, who doesn’t come with… complications.”
Complications. What complications? We’d been together for two years, living together for eight months. What complications could he possibly have that I didn’t already know about?
“I have to go,” Sam said suddenly. “She’s probably wondering where I am. I need to figure out how to… God, Jack, how do I get through the rest of this dinner?”
I stumbled back through the restaurant, barely making it to our table before my knees gave out. The green dress that had felt so perfect two hours ago now felt like a costume, like I was playing a role in a story that had already ended without my knowledge.
I can’t marry her.
The words echoed in my head as I stared at our untouched dinner plates, at the wine glasses that I knew had been meant to toast our engagement, at the candles on nearby tables that seemed to mock my stupid, naive hopes.
I can’t do it.
What had changed? Everything had been perfect just an hour ago. The breakfast, the flowers, the way he’d looked at me and called me “everything.” What could possibly have happened in the space of two text messages to make him say he couldn’t marry me?
This wasn’t about proposal nerves. This was something else entirely. Something that had just happened tonight.
By the time I’d composed myself enough to sit up straight, Sam had returned to the table.
“Sorry about that.” Sam slid back into the booth, his face pale but composed. “Work emergency.”
