Banks watches me as I stand up and start to pace his kitchen for a minute before he sets Noble in his high chair. "Alright, sit down. You're making me nervous."
I drop into the chair across from him, dragging a hand through my hair. "I've got it all planned out. Dinner at a fancy restaurant. Get down on one knee with the ring. The whole thing."
"Uh-huh." Banks sips his own beer. "And how's that working out for you?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, you've been planning this for three weeks, and every time you're about to do it, you chicken out." His grin pisses me off. "Remember last Tuesday when you had reservations for dinner?"
"She had a sudden craving for tacos," I mutter. "Not just any tacos. Fish tacos from that truck on Southeast Division that's only open until eight."
"Right. And when you had those sunset cruise tickets?"
"Kieran called with an emergency. Someone accidentally shipped a shit ton of beer to the wrong brewery." I take a long pull from my beer. "It was actually an emergency, but still..."
"I think the universe is telling you something," Banks says, trying not to laugh. "Maybe she doesn't want the whole fancy restaurant, one-knee thing. Maybe that's not her style."
"Of course it's not her style," I snap. "She'd probably roll her eyes and ask if I practiced my speech in the mirror while she laughs at me. But I don’t have a better idea.”
Banks erupts into laughter, nearly spilling his beer, and Noble squawks and then shrieks at the sound. "Dude. Look at you. You've gone from the guy who told me Wren Callan was a 'pink-haired menace who'd destroy craft beer as we know it' to the guy who drives across town for special tacos."
"Shut up." But I'm fighting a grin. "She's changed."
"No, she hasn't. You have." Banks becomes serious. "You've fallen for her hard, man. Which is why you need to stop overthinking this. When have you ever planned grand gestures?"
"Never."
"Exactly. You're not that guy. You're the guy who rebuilt his brewery from ashes. Who raised his teenage sister after their mom died. Who builds furniture for fun in his spare time. Whomakes the best goddamn IPA in Portland." He points his beer at me. "Be that guy. The direct, no-bullshit guy she fell in love with."
Noble chooses that moment to throw his teething ring across the room, letting out an indignant wail.
"Smart move, buddy," I say, getting up to retrieve the ring. "Sometimes you gotta chuck the whole thing and start over."
Banks grins, tossing me a kitchen towel. "Look, you want my advice? Stop planning. Next time you feel it, just ask. Doesn't matter where or when. Just be real."
I wipe down the teething ring and hand it back to Noble, who immediately sticks it in his mouth. "What if she says no?"
"She won't." Banks's certainty is annoying and comforting at the same time. "You know how I know?"
"Enlighten me."
"Because when I mentioned making a guys' poker night next week when her, Clover, and Navy were here, she immediately asked what I was planning to feed you. Then went on about how you always skip lunch when you're stressed and just drink coffee all day." He smirks. "That's not what someone who doesn’t care does, brother."
A warmth spreads through my chest that has nothing to do with the beer. "She knows that?"
"She knows everything about you, man. And she cares. Now go home to your wife and stop being a pussy about this."
Noble claps his hands in agreement, drool smeared across his face.
"Thanks for the pep talk, you two." I finish my beer and grab my keys. "Wish me luck."
"You don't need luck," Banks calls after me. "She’s already yours.”
The drive home feels different somehow. Like the universe is shifting, realigning itself around the decision I haven't made yet, but know I'm going to. The wedding ring in my pocket feels heavier than usual, warming against my thigh.
I pull into the driveway to find Wren's car already there. The house is lit up, warm golden light spilling from the windows. For a second, I just sit there, engine off, staring at our home.
The front door opens before I can reach for the handle. Wren stands there in one of my flannels—the blue one that makes her eyes look more blue than gray—and leggings I itch to peel off of her.
