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“That’s the nerves talking, not the brain. You’re good enough for anyone, and you’renotgoing to be terrible at any of those things, Elvis. That’s not who you are.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because you’re my best friend. But even if you weren’t, the data doesn’t support any of your suppositions. Nothing you’ve ever done points toward failure in anything. But it doesn’t matter what I believe. Gwen is the one who matters, and she’s made it perfectly clear she’s in love with you.”

“I know she loves me. But what if she’s making a mistake being with me?”

“Then it’s her mistake to make. You can’t decide for Gwen. She’s a big girl. If she doesn’t want to get married to you, she’ll tell you. If she does, she’ll accept your proposal. That’s how it works. What made you think alcohol could help?”

“A lot of anecdotal information online indicated alcohol provides courage in such situations.”

I had to stop myself from a lecture. “Exactly how much did you drink?”

“I don’t know. Maybe too much. I feel kind of sick. I left the bottle on the table over there.”

I walked over to the coffee table. An open bottle of whiskey, no glass. He must have been drinking straight from the bottle.

I lifted the bottle and checked it. It looked like he’d barely had any, but even that was apparently more than he could handle. I set it back on the table. Next to the bottle sat a small black velvet box. I opened it, revealing a lovely square-cut emerald ring surrounded by two rows of diamonds. I wasn’t a jewelry person, but even I thought it looked nice.

I snapped the box shut and, still holding it, returned to the table. Elvis had his head down, his forehead resting on his arms.

“Do you really think it’s a good idea to propose to Gwen right now?” I asked, setting the ring box on the table. “Given your current state and level of anxiety, it doesn’t seem like the right time.”

“I have to,” he said in a muffled voice. “I don’t think I could go through all this stress again.”

For the first time, I noticed the papers scattered across the table. “What’s all this?”

He lifted his head and blearily followed my gaze. “I wrote her a poem.”

“You wrote Gwen a poem?”

He nodded. “While I was waiting for the liquor to work, I thought I’d write a romantic poem to convince Gwen I was the one for her. Except writing a love poem is harder than I expected. Writing one while inebriated is near impossible. It’s nothing like writing good code. I had difficulty making it rhyme.”

I pushed around some of the papers. “Which one is the final version?”

He picked up several pieces of paper, discarded them, and then finally handed me one. “This is the final one.”

I looked down at the paper and read aloud.

“Roses are red,

I’ve booze in my head.

Here is a ring

It goes on your fing…er.

I hope you say yes,

Or I’ll be a mess.

But if you say no

You don’t have to go.”

When I stopped, he looked over at me. “So, what do you think? Is it romantic enough?”

“I…ah…think you should put this away for now and add the final tweaks when you have a clearer head.” I handed it back to him. “Without that extra polish, it might not help you with the ambience you’re trying to achieve.”