The End
Epilogue
Iemerged from thebathroom with a towel slung low around my waist and steam billowing around me. Emma was nowhere to be found. Listening for any sounds in the apartment, I threw on a pair of briefs and jeans, knowing she would have already left if I hadn’t heard her moving around in the kitchen.
Since it was after eleven on a rainy Saturday morning and we still hadn’t had breakfast, there was only one place she could have gone—the bakery down the street.
My mouth watered, knowing she’d bring back a chocolate croissant and blueberry scone along with super sweet coffee. I took advantage of her temporary absence to open the bottom drawer of my dresser, checking that the black velvet box remained undisturbed.
Minerva watched me, the disgust evident on her smushed kitty face as she bathed her paws from her cat tree in the corner. I couldn’t blame her for the expression—I felt the same sense of wrongness every time I dared to open the drawer. I grimaced at the box as it lay there, mocking me.
I hated seeing the damn thing resting peacefully at the bottom of my sock drawer.
No.Hate wasn’t the right word. I deeply despised that box, wrinkling my brows as I slammed my palm against the side of the drawer hard enough to rattle the pictures on top and make Minerva pause her meticulous grooming ritual.
How could every one of my proposals inexplicably fail, turning into utter disasters of epic proportions?
First,there was Paris. The most romantic city in the world.Yeah, right.
I put so much thought into planning each detail. Dinner at a cafe overlooking a breathtaking view of the Eiffel Tower at sunset. Then, a walk along the River Seine, hand in hand, before I dropped to one knee and professed my eternal love and devotion to her. She’d cry, and I’d pretend my eyes weren’t wet as she said yes. Our night would end with my ring on her finger and me wringing multiple orgasms from her beautiful body.
Who could have predicted our first meal would cause food poisoning, leaving us with nothing but a view of the porcelain throne in our hotel room for three days? After we recovered, wevisited the sights and indulged in tourist experiences, but the ruined mood persisted.
No matter.
Paris was a trial run—just a little test to see if I’d get cold feet. My overwhelming irritation at the ruined proposal proved how right it was for us to get married.
New York at Christmas was a better choice, anyway. There was nothing more romantic, right? Seeing the giant Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center, shopping at the original Macy’s before buying hot chocolate and visiting the Central Park Zoo. The box in my pocket felt like a lead weight as we explored the city, begging me to drop to one knee and make confessions of love while we waited in line for a hotdog.
Who could have predicted I’d slip on a patch of ice and fracture my ankle? There were no more strolls along Herald Square after that. The only saving grace was a hotly worded conversation with the airline and a ridiculous amount of money spent to upgrade a seat on our return flight so I’d have enough legroom to accommodate the cast.
Perhaps I’d taken a page out of Emma’s book, overthinking the proposal instead of doing something simple and sweet.
Charleston in springtimewas beautiful, and the perfect place for a proposal, right? The crepe myrtle trees were in bloom, and the White Point Garden in Battery Park provided the perfect backdrop. I had been preparing my speech for months, and Emma’s yellow sundress had me eagerly anticipating our afternoon walk. The chance to sink to one knee and hope for a yes hadfinallyarrived.
The universe proved to be a fickle bitch.
A broken tie rod ruined the afternoon, and an ‘I told you so’conversation from Mom about delaying maintenance on my truck had a nagging feeling creeping into my subconscious.
Three times thwarted.
So, I decided to postpone the proposal. It was the only rational explanation, but the ring always stayed with me after that. Surely, the time would come soon, and I could carry the ring with me, just to be prepared.
Nope.
A family brunch? Mark and Jenna announced she was pregnant with their second child.
A Valentine’s Day dinner? The smoke alarm went off, and the staff evacuated the restaurant.
A weekend winery trip her parents gave us for Christmas? Ha—the joke was on me.
Of course, thinking I could propose to my girlfriend had been unbelievably arrogant. At the vineyard, the culprit had been none other than that legendary actor from the Ghostbusters franchise. Apparently, he frequented the vineyard, and Emma spent the entire weekend covertly trying to find the star and get a picture.
My lovely girlfriend had made up for the semi-stalking behavior with a spectacular blow job in the shower. Still, I remained woefully distracted, thinking something waswrongwith proposing. After so many failed attempts, the ring went safely back into the drawer, only to be removed when my self-deprivation reached an all-time low—or when I drank too much and felt sorry for myself.
We loved each other, confessing the words at every opportunity. She told me over coffee, on the phone, whispering them while we made love—while we fucked. I told her before we went to sleep, on random Fridays when I arrived at her office with flowers, and when I’d open her fridge to find a new flavor of creamer she thought I’d like.
I’d moved into her apartment in everything except my name on the lease, and Mom had been introducing Emma as her daughter from the first time we admitted to being a couple.Proposing wasn’t just the nextlogicalstep—it was a culmination of everything I wanted.
