She yanks the ring off her finger and slaps it against my chest. “You’re going to propose again. Properly this time.”
I sigh and grab the ring before it can fall to the ground. I’ll need to inspect it later to see if any of the tiny, annoying diamonds in the halo fell out. “Sweetheart, I’ve already proposed twice.” The first time was at our favorite sushi restaurant, with a lot less unwanted fanfare. Just a simple ‘will you marry me’ that was public enough for her to get the attention she wants, but private enough for her to decline if I’d misread her hints. She did decline, with gentle exasperation, stating that it wasn’t the right atmosphere.
Which was the whole reason I made the reservation at Pedestal. It was high-end enough to suit her needs and give her an excuse to dress up and do her nails, while still a reasonable price.
“Third time’s the charm,” she replies, her smile so sweet it burns. She turns on her heel and starts to walk away.
God, she expects me to go through all of that again?And of course it can’t be at the same restaurant, because the staff would remember us from the first proposal. No, she’ll expect me to find another restaurant—probably a more expensive one this time—and to craft a better presentation with some flowery speech that praises all her best qualities. The one I already wrote obviously won’t be enough to soothe her wounded pride.
I just … I cannot fucking do it. “No.”
She freezes. Then she slowly turns to me, her heel grinding against the concrete. “Excuse me?” Both eyebrows are raised and her head is slightly tilted in inquiry. She expects the simplequestion to be enough for me to back down, to agree with her. To pretend like she really did mishear me. In fairness, it’s worked in the past.
“No,” I repeat more firmly. We’re not playing the ‘I didn’t hear you right’ game tonight. “You accepted the proposal. I’m not doing it again. The whole damn thing is embarrassing and anxiety inducing even when I don’t make an idiot of myself.”
She walks back to me and grabs my tie, clutching it in her fist, twisting it around until it squeezes against my throat. “You will propose to me again, Alexander Marklin, or we will not get married.”
I look into her eyes, searching for remnants of the girl I’d fallen in love with. The one who squealed in glee over surprise gifts of flowers or chocolate. Who almost cried when I remembered her birthday all on my own, because she’d always needed to remind her ex. The one who said I made her feelspecialandlovedevery time I paid attention to her interests. All I see is the determined, stubborn look she gives her male coworkers when they’ve stepped out of line. Shoulders slumping, I tell her simply: “Fine.”
She nods, satisfied, and releases my tie. Then she smooths it out with a beleaguered sigh, as if I’m the one who wrinkled it. “Perhaps the setting put too much pressure on you. Let’s go somewhere a little less high-end next time.” It’s a small consolation, a compromise she’s offering as much for her benefit as mine. After all, what’s the point of a third proposal if my nerves fuck it up again?
I take a deep breath, bracing myself for her reaction. We’ve rarely argued because I usually see her point and capitulate before it goes too far. But this is too important to say ‘you’re right, honey’ and move on. “There won’t be a next time, Theresa. I said I wouldn’t propose again, and you said you won’t marry me without it. So, I guess that means we’re done.”
Shock widens her eyes. “You’re breaking up with me?”
I think you broke up with me, actually.I give her a curt nod.
She searches my face for any weakness in my resolve.
I stare back at her, trying to project a stone wall with no cracks to exploit.
She scoffs in disgust and steps back, putting a foot of space between us. The distance feels so empty and cold, yet there’s a strange lightness to it. Like I didn’t realize the sturdy weight I’d clung to for years was a rock slowly crushing me.
“Fuck you, Alex,” she snarls, and then stomps away without another word.
I loosen my tie, hoping it’ll make it easier to breathe. Then I run a hand through my hair, mussing it and breaking up the gelled curls. After a few seconds, I decide to unbutton my suit jacket too. Might as well be as rumpled as I feel.
I need a fucking drink.
Chapter Two: Euan
I sit near the baggage claim, leg thumping restlessly, staring at my phone. My suitcase sits next to me, already picked up from the carousel. In fact, everyone from my flight—and the next two flights after that—have already picked up their luggage in the time I’ve waited for Nick’s reply.
Hey, baby. My flight’s landed, I’m just waiting to deplane.
Grabbed my luggage. Did you park or should I meet you at the drop off?
And then, fifteen minutes of silence later:
Is everything okay?
The two times I called him went to voicemail after several long, tense minutes of ringing. I kept my voice calm as I left a voicemail the first time, “Hey, Nick. It’s Euan. I’m at the airport now. When do you think you’ll arrive?” I didn’t bother to leave one the second time.
I’d cringe at my own behavior if Nick hadn’tvolunteeredto pick me up at the airport. After dating long distance for three months, we were finally supposed to meet in person. Is he not as excited about the idea as I am?
I think back on the conversation. Yes, I was the one who suggested flying out to see him. I work remote, so my job is more flexible, which means we could spend more than a long weekend together. How had he actually reacted? I remember him saying: “That’s a great idea!”
I just can’t remember what his face looked like at the time. Sometimes it’s hard to interpret expressions over video chat—I’ve been told more than once that I looked ‘angry’ or ‘disappointed’ when I was listening to my coworker’s input—but I thought he’d been genuinely excited.
