He doesn’t remember my last name, so of course, it’s "dearest love."
“Will you do me the honor of being my wife?”
Every single person in the restaurant stops eating to stare at us. And Griffin doesn’t give a fuck.
I stand up because it feels rude to stay seated, but there’s no way I’m getting on a chair.
He reaches down for my hand. I lift it, and he kisses my knuckles.
“You lift me to heights I never thought I’d soar,” he declares.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
He opens the Tiffany box to reveal the biggest diamond ring I've ever seen. A massive stone set with smaller diamonds around the band. It sparkles so hard it hurts my eyes. In my world, no one buys five-carat diamond rings. Griffin is part of a society that does, and I'm about to marry him.
“Will you marry me?”
What the hell am I getting myself into?
“I love you,” I say, playing up the drama for the audience. “Of course I’ll marry you.”
There is immediate clapping and cheering. My head spins. I wish the wine didn’t make me feel nauseous because I’m about to be sick. He hops down from the chair, scoops me into his arms, and twirls me around. I really do think I'm about to toss my cookies before he sets me down and plants the softest, most delicious kiss on my lips.
“You have made me the happiest man in the world,” he announces.
Phones are out. People are recording.
Chef Ahmed comes out, beaming, to calm the crowd.
“In honor of our newly engaged couple, everyone gets the most romantic course on the menu!”
I realize this has been planned. There is no way the chef could prepare that many meals on the fly.
“Octopuses only mate once in their lifetime,” Ahmed explains with gravity. “After they mate, the male dies first, and then the female dies after bearing his offspring. Though this is a tragic end, it is also an unparalleled devotion to their legacy. Tonight’s meal is a female octopus, humanely harvested to honor her sacrifice. Enjoy grilled octopus with roasted red pepper coulis.”
The chef bows. Suddenly, I’m sad.
“So by this symbolism, if I get pregnant, I’m going to be roasted?” I look at Griffin, hoping for a little compassion.
He grins and lowers his voice to a whisper. “You’re not going to get pregnant, no worries.” He kisses my cheek for the cameras. “The symbolism refers to octopuses having only one partner. It’s supposed to be romantic. ‘Til death do us part’ vibes.”
“You don’t want to be a dad?” I ask quietly.
“Absolutely not,” he says through a fake smile, drawing me into a hug. He whispers in my ear, “In fact, I won’t be a dad. I have already made an appointment for you to be fitted with an IUD. It is the safest, most reliable method.”
I stiffen in his arms.
“I don’t even want to discuss the fact that you think you can make that choice for me,” I whisper back furiously, maintaining the hug. “But I’ll have a baby with mynexthusband.”
“I don’t really like the sound of that, especially since I’ve just proposed.”
“Well, I’m not an octopus. I’m young. I can do this with you and move on. Iwillbe a mother. You can’t take that from me.”
“Anything is possible, I guess,” he dismisses, pulling back to beam at me.
The octopus is delicious despite the sad story. The finishing course is a flight of pastries that look remarkably like real fruit. By the time we’re done eating, I’m full and still queasy.
“I wish you’d enjoyed the evening more,” Griffin says later, as his town car pulls up to my sublet.
