Page 71 of June: Jess' Story

“At the bar that night. I thought I was meeting you for a date.” I thought he was, too, until I overheard him saying it was just an obligatory courtesy call for an old acquaintance. He said,“She’s nobody. Just need to check the box so I can leave.”

“I thought so, too…” I say, maybe a bit sadly because all I can think about is the hours I poured into getting ready in my hotel that night. The anticipation that kept me from being able to eat anything at lunch. The agonizing choice of what to wear. (Ended up in a slip dress with a blazer over and Prada heels.) I’d felt fuckingamazing, on a natural high. Alex, the man I’d been talking to on the phone daily for the past month was finally going to be face-to-face, in person, with me, and we weren’t going to be hovering over a pair gravestones.

“I said I’m sorry,” Alex breaks through the mental fog I obviously slipped into.

“Okay.” That's all I say back, then refocus on eating.Well, that took a turn.(Note: Avoid the past at all costs.)

“We should probably get our stories straight. With the holiday tomorrow. I’m sure people will ask questions.”

I say, “Okay, “ but continue to focus on feeding the baby.

“We met while we were visiting graves at the cemetery. I asked you for coffee and we talked and went on a couple dates prior to your move to DC, but we couldn’t make the distance work.”

I reply with, “Sure,” not looking at him.

“When I saw you in Spearhead this summer, none of my feelings for you had changed.” (Dagger. I imagine what he’s saying is true and it hurts because it’s not.) “And after we sort of cleared the air that day in the kitchen, we reconnected and haven’t spent a day not talking since. Does that work?”

“Definitely.” I cover my mouth to hide the massive bite of mortadella I’m chewing on. I swallow. “How did you ask me to marry you?”

When I look up at him, I don’t love it. We were in this little cocoon of playing house all morning. But just like when you have to stop playing pretend to figure out how to keep going, it’s the same now, and I can practically see the magic fading. Reality sneaks back in, reminding me that he doesn’t actually love me. He never actually proposed. He didn’t really build me our dream house.He loves Amy. He proposed to Amy.Is that Amy’s and his dream house?(It’s honestly pathetic being jealous of a dead woman.)

What was quickly becoming my dream feels dirty now.Placeholder. Replaceable. Pawn.(Shut up, little voice!)

He shrugs and puts on a small smile, (which means I’m doing a good job at hiding what I’m thinking) then poses the question back to me, “How would you want to be proposed to?”

I know, you’re probably thinking gallantly. Big. Over-the-top. Extreme. But I’m not. I think those are beautiful, but what would be better is if the person proposing actually meant it. (Depressing, right?)

“Simply. Just at home. Laying on the couch, while watching our favorite movie together. Which isCasino, by the way.” He laughs at that. I was being serious. “And the person proposing,” (notice I don’t say him, though obviously I’m imagining him) “would take my hand in theirs and slide the ring on my finger. It wouldn’t even be a question because we’d already know we belonged together.” I shrug, then help Eden who’s grappling to pick up a bite of rotini pasta.

“Well, we can’t use that then.” I’m wondering why, when he says, “You don’t have a ring.” Right. Obviously.

“Okay, then you come up with it, I don’t care.” I try to keep my tone light and neutral, because that’s what we’re supposed to be doing, right? But I think a hint of agitation makes itself known.

“Okay, then I came to your work at the coffee shop, and wrote on my receipt asking you to marry me.” That’s honestly lame. But I said I didn’t care, so I have to actually not care.

“Fine. How’d you know I was working at the coffee shop, though?”

“Brit told me.” Right she did.

“Okay. We should probably wrap this up. The cooler needs ice and my grocery list is kind of massive.” I start wrapping up the leftovers and rebagging them, then grab the wipes to clean off Eden.

Alex starts moving, too, and in synchronization we clean up and head for the car. He pushes the stroller with one hand, then reaches down, sliding his other into mine. We hold hands while we walk, and when I look up at him, he looks down on me with a smile.

But I’m wondering, is the smile for me? Or the idea of me?

TWENTY

Alex

I like this.Okay fine.I more than like this. We’re roaming the aisles of the Robles Safeway, two carts deep. His and hers. Each aisle we go down inevitably leads to questions and then often devolves into laughter. I haven’t even consciously thought of how many exits there are or counted windows once today.

“What’s your favorite movie snack?” I ask her in the candy aisle.

“Sno-Caps.”

I look at her incredulously. “So basically just chocolate chips?”

“They are not just chocolate chips!”