Then there was Thanksgiving—okay, I didn’t have high hopes for that one. We both looked like potbellied pigs after three Thanksgiving dinners—his parents, my mom, and my dad’s family. I was so swollen from the sodium and sugar-induced coma, he would’ve had extreme difficulty sliding a ring on my finger. It was not exactly romantic.
Christmas was—again—hectic. Three separate families crammed into one day. Once again, it was a no-go on the proposal. On New Year’s Eve, I fell asleep early. I was so certain he was going to pop the question that in my giddy delight, I knocked back an entire bottle of champagne and passed out in Mason’s lap by ten o’clock. I kicked myself for weeks after, wondering if I foiled his big plans.
Valentine’s Day was another bust. The evening started wonderfully. He bought me the most beautiful flowers and his card nearly had me in tears. We were in the car, on the way to the Italian restaurant to make our seven o’clock reservation, when some idiot riding our ass hit us from behind. We were okay, but Mason’s bumper and right taillight were destroyed. The airbags deployed, meaning we were all but urged to go to the emergency room as a precaution. Needless to say, our moods, as well as our evening, were ruined.
Since then, it’s been quiet. About once a week, I grab my little step stool and check the top of the closet, hoping the box has moved. It hadn’t budged. It lay in the same spot to the left of my neat piles of clothes…
Until tonight.
Oh, you bet your ass I checked before tonight. My thirtieth birthday. As of eight o’clock this morning, the ring box was removed from the closet, which is why I wore my classiest black dress with the slit up to my knee, was extra thorough curling my hair, and spent an obnoxious amount of time on my smoky eye makeup. I could’ve given Thomas Kinkaid a run for his money the way I painted on light and shadows, contouring and highlighting my round face into the angles of a sleek antelope.
Tonight is my goddamn night.
And I will take a picture to document this monumental moment. I swear. Yes, I’m camera-shy. Yes, I duck and run anytime someone pulls out the selfie stick. I’m comfortable in my body, but I’m not exactly proud of it. I’m healthy. I’m just not a model. Let the beautiful people be beautiful. I’ll cheer them on from the sidelines. I don’t need to be a trophy…I’m treasured…by this man.
“What are you doing?” Mason asks with wide-open, bewildered eyes as I pinch apart the last remnants of cake. There is a crumbly chocolate graveyard in front of me…but no ring. I murdered this dessert and now it’s time to confess.
“Enough,” I grumble when I realize I’m left without a proposal for the umpteenth time. “I know, Mason.” Grabbing the linen off my lap, I wipe off my fingers one by one. “Just ask already. If you’re nervous, don’t be. Of course I’ll say yes.”
I give him a warm, bless-his-heart smile, but instead of relief, I’m met with his petrified expression.
“Ask what?” His face flushes and he looks incredibly nervous.
I tent my clean, but still chocolate-smelling fingers, over my nose and mouth. “Oh. My. God.” The horror floods through me as I imagine all the other things that could fit in a small square ring box. A crumpled-up necklace. Earrings. A key…to a safe…where I could stash my egregious embarrassment and lock it away forever. I should’ve opened the damn box before I let my expectations run rampant. “It wasn’t a ring? Shit. I am so stupid…I…I thought—”
Mason holds up both of his hands in surrender, like he’s trying to dissuade an approaching grizzly bear. “Avery, calm down. Are you talking about the black box on the top shelf of our bedroom closet?”
I nod sheepishly.
“Honey, it’s a ring.” He pats his sports coat on top of the breast pocket. “An engagement ring.”
I let loose the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “Oh, thank God.”
“You knew? How long?”
I grimace as I shrug my shoulders. “About six months.”
“Six months?” he squalls. Clearing his throat, he leans forward. “Six months?” he asks again in a lower voice, far more collected. “And you didn’t say anything? You never even asked…”
Reaching over the table, I place my fingers over his tenderly, trying to show him how I feel with just a touch. “I didn’t want to be demanding or steal your moment. I know you’re careful with all your decisions and I admire you for it. You’re my rock, honey.” I squeeze the tips of his fingers. “When you’re sure, I’m sure.”
Mason reaches into the inside pocket of his sleek sports coat. “You thought I put the ring in the cake?”
Hanging my head, I nod.
“And you knew about this ring for half a year and didn’t badger me for a proposal?” He pulls out the familiar little black box with the thin golden lines around the seams and sets it on the table between us. At this point, I know what’s coming, but there’s no controlling the nervous tingles dancing furiously around in my chest.
“I wanted you to ask me because you wanted to, not because you felt you had to.”
Mason’s eyes begin to well and his complexion grows blotchy. His thumb knocks nervously on the table. It’s an odd response, but this is a big moment for both of us. Finally, after all the familiarity of our very tame, even-keeled relationship, at least his behavior is…new?
“How long would you have waited?”
I answer his odd question with a tepid smile. “When our finish line is forever, what’s the rush?”
“You’re too good of a woman.” He says it like an admission instead of admiration. “You’re too good to me.”
I shake my head, my hair falling into my face. “No, I’m not—”
“You are.” His tone is so matter-of-fact that I have to study his strained expression. It’s in this moment I realize he won’t return my gaze. He’s looking in my direction but over my shoulder. I glance behind me, trying to see what’s caught his attention, but there’s nothing but an elderly couple silently enjoying their steak dinner behind us.
“Is everything okay?” My eyes toggle between the box on the table and Mason’s wandering gaze. Instead of answering, he covers both of his eyes with his hand. My full stomach drops ten floors as the nerves shift from excitement to dread.
“Open it,” Mason says, nodding to the little box. He’s normally such a gentleman. When I saw the ring for the first time, I thought it’d be between his fingers as he was down on one knee. Mason’s avoiding the box like it’s on fire. “Please.”
I pry the box open. It’s reluctant, like a clamshell unwilling to lose its pearl, but the prize inside…holy hell. “Oh my God,” I mumble as I free the ring from its resting place nestled inside the tiny plush velvet pillow. “Mason, this is too much…this is what? Two carats? It’s stunning. So elegant.”
It’s a simple platinum band with a brilliant round diamond. The cut and clarity seem flawless. I know it’s far more than he can afford. Mason and I share everything—a home, a business—so I know he stretched the limits with a ring like this. I slide the ring over my finger and it halts at my knuckle. Ignoring the pain, willing my finger to instantly slim, I force the ring over the thickest part of my finger.