My hands are over my mouth. The breeze moves the white fabric and the signs sway. The whole deck is a venue that someone built for me.
I turn around. Mickey is at the door. Oh my God, he’s not in the chair.
He’s standing.
Both hands on the doorframe. His arms locked, holding his weight. His legs underneath him, shaking. Everything about his body is working to hold him upright except his eyes, which are steady and blue and locked on mine.
“Mickey,” I whisper.
“I can’t hold this long,” he says, his voice strained. “I need you to hurry and come here.”
I rush over, and stop in front of him.
“Reach in my shirt pocket,” he says.
I reach up and slip my fingers into his front pocket. There’s a small box. I pull it out and open it. Inside is a simple silver band, catching the first light of the dawn.
“I wanted to be standing when I asked,” he says.
“You’re standing, Mickey.” My voice breaks. “You’re standing up.”
“Benji Bennett,” he says. “Will you marry me?”
“Yes!” I say, nodding. “Yes.”
He could’ve asked me from the chair and my answer would’ve been the same. But he’s shaking all over and holding on to a doorframe because he wanted to be on his feet when he said my name. I am done.
I’m completely gone.
“Put it on,” he says. “I can’t turn loose of the doorframe to do it myself.”
I slide it onto my finger. The silver band matches the chain at my throat. “It’s perfect,” I tell him.
His arms give out. He drops back into the wheelchair positioned behind him. He lands heavily in the seat, and his hands grip the armrests. His breathing is ragged and his face is flushed from the effort, but he’s smiling. The widest, most unguarded smile I have ever seen on Mickey Weaver’s face.
“How long did you practice that?” I ask.
“A week. Steve spotted me. We worked on the doorframe hold every session.”
“You trained for a marriage proposal?”
“I trained to stand up in front of you before I asked. Steve said it was the best motivation he’s ever worked with.”
I climb into his lap. My knees on either side of his hips, my arms around his neck, my face against his. I kiss him and the kiss tastes like the Gulf air and the salt on our faces because we’re both crying.
We stay like that. His arms around my waist, mine around his neck, my forehead against his. The breeze moves the white fabric behind us.
“I want you to know something,” he says.
“Tell me.”
“The night you showed up at the hospital with pizza. I was in the worst place I’ve ever been. I couldn’t move my legs. I couldn’t see a future. And you walked in with a box of pepperoni pizza and talked to me like I was still a wholeperson. Nobody else was doing that. Everyone else was being careful with me. You just walked in and started talking.”
“You were a whole person, Mickey. The most handsome and bravest man I’d ever seen.”
“I didn’t feel like one. You made me feel like one. You never once looked at me like I was broken.”
“You never were.”
