You, Again(109)

She’s uncharacteristically quiet as they cross Spring…and then Broome—the occasional intrusive flash of headlights cutting through the dim streetlights. She comes to an abrupt halt in front of a brick and stainless-steel storefront with one small window.

“This is the stop you wanted to make?” he asks. “Do you have a sudden need for a new vibrator? Or is that a dumb question?”

“It’s our meet-cute,” she replies. “One of them, at least.” She tugs him by the lapels toward the CreamPot entrance. “Just imagine how the trajectory of our lives would’ve been different without this place.”

He rolls his eyes and pulls open the door. “I’m sure the universe would have found some other way to throw us together. In another timeline, we would obviously have met at Briar and Chris Evans’s wedding.”

“Where I would definitely have banged you in the bathroom,” Ari assures him.

“Never to be seen again. We would have gone right back to our lives.”

“We should each pick something out for each other,” Ari says. “Souvenirs.” She glances up at something that looks like a coral-colored glass sculpture on a shelf behind his head. “Ooh, the tentacle dildo!”

“That’s what you want?”

“It’s pretty!” she insists.

“I’ll pretend to look around for a few minutes while you choose some ridiculous thing for me and then we’ll meet at the register.”

“Have you ever used a Fleshlight?”

“No.”

“Penis pump?”

“No.”

“Cake-scented lube?”

“Ari.”

“It’s culinary!” She wanders over to the small men’s section. “The possibilities are endless.”

There are only a handful of people in the store—a young couple who don’t appear to speak English but seem utterly delighted by the display of bondage kits and a woman in a lavender coat conspicuously turning on every vibrator display model.

It occurs to him that he hasn’t been inside the store since the day Ari stole glances at him and Briar conveniently disappeared into thin air. He tries not to think about that too much—how this particular spot became the pivot point of the rest of his life.

Maybe being in love is knowing that you’d live it all over again—every part, suffering included—to get right back to the place where you’re standing.

“If you had a mold made of your penis”—Ari suddenly presses up against his back, hugging her arms around him—“do you think I’d be able to identify it in a dildo lineup, using only my mouth?”

“Well now you ruined what was supposed to be your Valentine’s Day present.” He turns around to face her and Ari immediately puts her hands behind her back, like she’s hiding something. “Are you done? Did you find something?”

“Yeah.” She swallows. “Actually, I found it here two years ago, when I was lonely and horny and trying to kill time so I wouldn’t have to go back to my sad apartment.”

“I know. It was this.” He holds up the tentacle dildo and braces himself for her to make a little bit of a scene. It’s one of the hazards of being in a relationship with someone who performs improv twice a week.

So he’s not completely surprised when she slowly sinks down to her knees, letting her coat brush over the concrete floor.

She opens her right hand and holds out a large black silicone cock ring.

“I want to put a ring on it.”

Josh stares at it for a moment before letting out a frustrated sigh and taking a step back.

“Very funny.”

But she doesn’t seem to find it funny, either, because she’s not laughing.

“I want to be your wife.” There’s no trace of sarcasm in her voice.

He looks down, studying her expression. No grin. No smile. No joke. Her eyes are wide, like she’s genuinely asking for something.

He blinks, giving his brain a chance to rapidly sift through all the evidence to the contrary. “You told me that engagements are a narrative peddled by Hallmark.”

“I stand by that.”

“And committed relationships are a distraction that keeps women dependent on men for validation,” he points out.

“That’s also true.”

“You don’t want to get married again.”

“I don’t want to go through my first marriage again.” She takes a deep, audible breath. “But it means something completely different to me now.”

There’s a battle waging somewhere in the depths of his brain. Voices and sentence fragments that insist that she’s joking or she could change her mind or who the fuck proposes marriage while the other person is holding an “Octopussy”?

But somehow, he knows, just looking at her—making herself vulnerable in a way that’s becoming more and more familiar to him—

She’s serious.

Her eyes are welling up and he can’t look at her for one more fucking second without kneeling down and taking her in his arms.

“I love you for doing this.” He places the tentacle on the ground, brushes his hand over her hair, and cups her face. “But what’s the point of being married?”

Ari’s nose crinkles. “Getting up in front of an extremely small group of our friends and family and calling you my person?”