So far Barry has spent tonight trying valiantly to win my attention, picking me up outside my house in his immaculate Ford F-150, opening doors and sliding out chairs, even taking the single red rose out of the vase on the table and sticking it behind my ear, like a regular Casanova.He looked so pleased with himself I didn’t even make a face when the thorn caught my skin.
Unfortunately for Barry, mentally I’m in two places, and neither are here: the first is the pitch-black water of the gulf, which haunts me, and the second is Ever’s house, where I desperately need to be.
But Everett has disappeared. Last night I drove to his house soaking wet, all the way from the inlet, in a frenzy to tell him about the boxes and the fishing boat, willing to take whatever rebuke he’d give me for investigating. But Ever wasn’t there—not him or his car. Imagining he’d left me yet again, I’d slid down the side of his house, feeling the beginnings of panic. Then I saw the note taped to his front door, barely visible in the dark.
It said simply,R—I’ll be back.
I’d leaned my head against his house and laughed until there were tears in my eyes. A note on the door. Not a carrier pigeon, but close.
I still don’t know where Everett’s gone, or when he’ll be back. What I do know is that if Barry hadn’t nearly melted down when I suggested we reschedule dinner, I’d be at Ever’s house now, waiting.
“Don’t you love Rosethorn’s breadsticks?” Barry talks as he chews. “Best in Louisiana, guaranteed. Don’t even need to leave town.”
“They’re good,” I agree, mentally making a list of things that could be in those cardboard boxes.
Barry brushes his thick brown hair over his forehead. He’s worn his hair long and swooped to the side since high school. I can still picture him on the football field taking off his helmet, his hair damp with sweat but otherwise perfectly intact, as he grinned at all the cheering people in the stands.
“Let’s toast,” he says, holding his champagne flute.
The expectation in his eyes finally captures my attention. I realize Barry’s tapping his foot at high speed under the table.
“Okay.” I lift my glass. “What to?”
“To us,” he says quickly. “To you being my girl.”
I resist the urge to raise my eyebrows at his uncharacteristic sentimentality and simply sip my drink. It’s syrupy-sweet. The bubbles burn my throat.
Though I haven’t thought ofTwilightin some time, the scene returns to me: Bella and Edward in that restaurant in Port Angeles, Bella circling closer to the truth about him, Edward’s plate strangely empty. The secret burning under the surface of their conversation: that she is what he really wants to eat.
“What’s the latest on the murder investigation?” I ask, realizing too late I’ve interrupted Barry midsentence.
He blinks for a second, taken aback. “We’ve been crawling the swamp for more evidence.”
“More pieces of the body?”
Barry cocks his head and studies me. “You know what? I don’t really want to talk about what we found. It’s dark stuff. That’s not what tonight is about.”
They found something new. My heartbeat picks up. “Has the sheriff mentioned who he’s looking—”
“Shoot.” Barry grips the table, shaking his head. “I was gonna wait for dessert to do it, but I’m too nervous.” He laughs to himself. “Me, nervous!”
I slowly put down my glass. “Do what?”
It happens so quickly—too quickly to stop. Barry slides out of his seat, pulls a small box from his pants pocket, and drops to a knee.
He opens the box and there it is: a small diamond glinting on a gold band.
Around us, the entire restaurant goes quiet. I feel the weight of a dozen sets of eyes.
I can barely breathe.
“Ruth,” Barry says, and although he swore he was nervous, he sounds confident and calm. “I love how big-hearted you are. How devout. How good you’ve always been, ever since we was kids. You never made any trouble like the rest of us growing up, weren’t a loose girl like some others, tryna’ trap… Anyway, point is, I shoulda asked you out sooner. I love you and I love your momma and daddy, and we make so much sense together. So…” He’s blown these words at me full speed, but now he pauses. “Will you marry me?”
I can feel what I must look like: how wide my eyes, how red my cheeks, how arched my brows. Under all this scrutiny, my hands start to shake. It’s not the proposal I dreamed of, not the way I would’ve chosen to hear these words, and there’s this feeling inside me, like I’m in a car speeding off a cliff.
“We’ve been dating less than a year.” My voice comes out a squeak.
He laughs. “Your daddy married your momma after courtin’ three months.”
