Itmade sense, though, after a half decade of being the epitome of cute couples. Imean, what else was there? We had the apartment, we had the cat, the matchingpajamas … So, wasn’t marriage the obvious next step? I had been trying to tellhim that for years—three out of the five, to be exact—that there really wasn’tany reasonnotto get married. I love him, he loves me, my family loveshim, his family loves me …
It.Just. Made. Sense.
Ofcourse, he would always tell me there were millions of reasons not to getmarried (an obvious exaggeration), like not needing a paper to solidify hisdevotion to me, but dammit, weren’t my feelings important enough?
Well,apparently, now they were.
Hollyfreakin’ Hughes. Soon-to-be Hollyfreakin’Keller.
***
Iwalked through the bustling city and although I wasn’t even close to being afashionista, I knew I looked pretty damn good. I had worn my finest little blackdress and my best red strappy stilettos—Stephen’s favorite. I couldn’t exactlywalk gracefully in them but hey, we all have to make sacrifices in the name oflooking good. My hair was curled and pulled to one side, cascading over myshoulder withDisney Princessperfection and leaving my slender neckexposed for the whole world to see. To top the look off, I had spent damn nearan hour perfecting my smoky eye, and I knew I could have passed for afreakin’ model.
Iwasn’t really one to leak self-confidence through my pores or anything, butthat night I could just feel the eyes of every horny man and every jealouswoman following me as I click, click, tripped my way towards the restaurant.
Ifinally made it to Antonio’s without falling flat on my ass in those heels. Istopped myself before going through the door, to try and collect my nervesbefore facing the man of my dreams and the dazzling rock that was about to siton my finger. It hit me then how nervous I was and I quickly glanced around tolocate the nearest garbage can. Just in case.
Amillion thoughts raced through my head all at once, and chasing them left mefeeling a little woozy. How was he going to propose? Was he actually going toget down on one knee in a restaurant full of people? How long after proposingwould we be married? How long after getting married would we have kids? DidStephen even want kids? Why had we never talked about kids?
Whoa,Holly. Deep breaths,deeeepbreaths …
Igathered my courage, and with a breath of humid New York City summer air, Iwalked inside.
Aclassical rendition of Frank Sinatra’s “My Way” tinkled over the restaurant’schatter-filled atmosphere, and a bubbly hostess greeted me with a cheery “tablefor one?” I involuntarily raised an eyebrow.
Didanybody dress like that to go out to dinner alone?
“Uh,”I began, feeling a little self-conscious that this girl thought I was somesaucy lone diner, “no, I’m actually meeting someone.”
Mysoon-to-be fiancé.
Igave her the name of my future husband, and she told me to follow her “rightthis way” through the restaurant. Just as I had hoped, she led me outside tothe terrace. And there, under the pergola, surrounded by planters of shrubs andtopiaries with twinkling white lights, sitting at the little iron table withthe mosaic top, was Stephen. My Stephen. My heart skipped so many beats, Iprobably should have died standing there, watching him nervously chew at thecuticles around his fingernails.
Aftertaking a few big gulps of air, I started my way towards him. Time seemed toslow to the crawl of a romantic movie as I pushed one foot in front of theother, and when he turned to look at me … Christ, I swear it was in totalJack-and-Rose alaTitanicfashion, especially as he stood, extending ababy smooth hand towards me. I took a hold, gripping on for dear sweet life,and I was pulled into his arms.
“Stevie,this is beautiful,” I gushed, gazing upwards at the sparkling slats of thepergola.
Stephendidn’t speak a single word, but his lips brushed against my cheek before hereleased me from his hold and walked around to pull my chair out. Like a truegentleman.
Ifhe was trying to make the night perfect, he was succeeding marvelously.
Maybehe’ll let me sleep with him tonight.
Wesat in unison, and I made an attempt at fixating on his eyes—those comfortablebrown eyes—but no matter how hard I tried, he never seemed to meet my gaze. Hejust stared at the flickering candle in the center of the table with anexpression that might’ve suggested someone had just kicked the bucket.
He’sjust nervous. My poor baby.
Myarm stretched across the table to take one of his hands, freeing him from hiscuticle picking. I admired his attempt to look his absolute best, taking noteof his freshly cut hair and clean-shaven face. I have to admit, I preferred himwith a little scruff; the baby-smooth look made him look a little too childishfor my liking. I like my man to lookmanly. Not lumberjack-manly,per se, but I would have gladly taken Paul Bunyan over the boyish look sittingacross from me.
I’mgoing to instate a rule that he’s not permitted to shave once we’re married.
Stephen’seyes continued their staring contest with the dancing flame. He didn’t look upat me until I spoke his name, and when he did, I smiled the most genuine smileI think I’ve ever smiled in my life. But he didn’t smile back. He just wentback to looking at that damn candle.
Takenaback, I let my face fall and I dropped the hand I was holding, giving himsilent permission to continue tearing his cuticles apart, except his thumb flewto his mouth to resume the even more disgusting chewing.
Thewaiter approached, asking if we were ready to order, and before I couldshoohim away for a moment so that I could weasel my wayinto Stephen’s brain, that’s when Stephen finally spoke. He requested wine, myfavorite red, and as soon as the waiter turned to retrieve the bottle, hisfingers were back in his mouth.
“Stephen,you’re drawing blood.” I pinned my lips between my teeth as my excitement fadedinto impatient agitation.
