Chapter 3
3.
Rafi Belvedere laid two ugly Christmas sweaters on his bed, side by side. The first was bright red, embroidered with Snoop Dogg in a Santa hat and the words ’Twas the Nizzle Before Chrismizzle. The second was emerald green and featured a gingerbread man with a broken arm and the phrase Oh Snap!
The choice of which to wear to tonight’s office holiday party was much more than merely sartorial. Because Rafi would be wearing one of these two cheerfully hideous Christmas sweaters when he got engaged.
In classic Rafi Belvedere fashion, he’d made this decision yesterday.
Rafi had been dating senior software engineer Sunita Jackson for just over six months. Their friendship had evolved from platonic to romantic during the office’s first summer Friday drinks on the back patio of a local Irish bar. One by one, their co-workers peeled off, until Rafi and Sunita were the last ones standing. Should we do another? he’d asked, ready to pay for their fourth round.
Sunita had arched a brow, smile wicked. Or you can just dome.
They’d tumbled into a taxi, into bed, and that was that. Their relationship had been under wraps for the first month or so, but after getting busted kissing in the supply closet, they’d quietly informed HR. There were no more supply closet make-outs, but it was general knowledge that Rafi and Sunita were dating.
Sunita was confident and outgoing and fun. Her love language was unprompted gifts, and her thrilled screams at the House of Horrors company offsite on Halloween were the stuff of legend. Work had brought them together, so to Rafi, proposing at their holiday party sounded like the height of romance. Tonight would be Sunita’s all-time biggest and best surprise.
He just had to decide what to wear.
Snapping pictures of both sweaters, Rafi texted them to his longtime best friend—and personal fashion consultant—Ash Campbell.
Rafi: Fashion emergency! Chrismizzle or Oh Snap? My office holiday party has an Ugly Sweater theme.
It was about six in Philadelphia, which made it 11:00 p.m. in London. Ash, a night owl, would still be up.
While he waited for a reply, Rafi did a quick tidy of the apartment so his fiancée wouldn’t have to step over his dirty socks later that night. ( Fiancée! The word made him feel like a just-exploded firework.) Luckily his roommate was out of town for the weekend—Rafi piled all of Phil’s gaming equipment back into his bedroom.
He was all set: the Prosecco they’d had on their first official date? Check. Homemade chocolate-covered strawberries? Check. Ring still in the ring box? Rafi flipped open the velvet box for the one millionth time. As a community manager for a nonprofit, Rafi was paid more in karma than cash. But when he’d spotted the locally produced, conflict-free solitaire, something about it just felt right. The swipe of his credit card had filled him with hope. His future was quite literally in his hands. The diamond that glinted back at him reminded Rafi that this was all as real as the stone was.
His phone dinged.
Ash had sent a meme of Miranda Priestly from The Devil Wears Prada. Haughty Meryl, sitting behind her desk, looking devastatingly unimpressed, saying, You have no style or sense of fashion.
Rafi chuckled. Ash and Rafi messaged pretty much daily ever since they’d moved away from their shared hometown of Woodstock, a small artsy town in upstate New York, where Rafi’s mother, Babs, still lived. The two went to different colleges. Before he eventually landed in Philly, Rafi had gone to Georgetown, drawn to nonprofits and the idea that politics might be noble (turned out, it wasn’t). Ash got into NYU, pursuing interests in writing, fashion, and the idea that Brooklyn boys might be hot (turned out, they were).
Ash followed the GIF with a text. JK, these bad boys cross the line from ironic to iconic. Big yes to both.
Rafi snorted in amusement, thumbing a response. Right, but which one says Husband Material…
He frowned, deleting it. Tried again.
Rafi: Which gets your final rose? One of these icons will witness my engagement!
Nope, didn’t feel right, either. This wasn’t the kind of thing you announced to your best friend since age fourteen over text.
Rafi called Ash. A surge of spidery anxiety caught him unawares. Ash would be surprised, sure. He wasn’t spontaneous like Rafi, preferring a measured approach to big decisions. And Ash wasn’t a romantic. Since high school, Rafi had been with four girlfriends and one boyfriend while Ash dated only casually. Ash had never been in love, never talked about marriage or commitment.
Still, Ash would think the proposal was a good idea, right?
Just as Rafi started to regret calling, Ash sent it to voicemail, followed by a text.
Ash: Sorry man, at a jazz club. If I pick up, I’ll be side-eyed to death.
Rafi let out a breath of relief. They’d discuss this after he was engaged. Rafi pictured his future best man huddled in the corner of an East London jazz bar, perhaps with a coterie of cool, classy queers, drinking red wine out of balloon glasses. Probably wearing some sort of fitted cashmere sweater, his dark blond hair swept under a classic knit beanie. Soon after he moved, Ash had landed the prestigious position of style editor for London Man, a respected men’s lifestyle website and quarterly magazine. Now Ash inhabited the life of an urbane gay man in the way he never quite had in the States.
Ash texted again: Gingerbread boi. The green is better for your skin tone.
Rafi grinned. He yanked the winning sweater over his head, examining his outfit in the bathroom mirror. Ash was right: the emerald green did look flattering against his light brown skin. Rafi scrubbed a hand through his thick, loose curls, hoping for sexy-messy, not just messy-messy. All in all, a possibly cute young man gazed back at him, big brown eyes brimming with hope.
Husband. The word had weight. Enough to eclipse that nagging, imprecise sense of his real life not yet kicking into gear.
Rafi: Thanks dude. Miss you.
Ash: Have fun. Miss you too.
—
The holiday party was being held in the back room of a dive bar in South Philly. Rafi threaded through the already tipsy crowd, greeting his friends, scanning for Sunita.
He found her laughing with the other engineers over a plate of pimento cheese dip.
“Hey, stud.” She greeted him with a quick kiss on the cheek. “Cute sweater.”
“Thanks.” He blushed, silently thanking Ash for the suggestion. “You look unfairly sexy.”
His girlfriend tossed her head back to laugh. Her confidence was like her features: bold and unapologetic. Her thick black hair was swept into a lustrous high ponytail; her front teeth were charmingly crooked. Sunita’s sweater was, technically, ugly—a reindeer in sunglasses, holiday lights tangled around its antlers—but she was wearing it tight over an extremely effective push-up bra, along with a leather miniskirt, sheer stockings, and six-inch heels that made her taller than him. He didn’t recognize the stilettos and felt a burst of excitement for the familiarity they’d soon share. He had the rest of his life to learn everything about this woman, down to her shoes.
“Come on.” Sunita looped her arm in his. “Let’s get you drunk.”
Rafi had strategically offered to emcee the night. His sister Birdie was far more gifted in the public speaking arena, but given his mom was Hollywood legend Babs Belvedere, he’d picked up enough to pull off a decent hosting job.
It took forever to get through the founder’s overly earnest sentiments, then there were some prizes for Office Clown, Caffeine Fiend, and Meeting Addict. With every passing minute, Rafi’s nerves quickened from a jog to a trot to a full-on sprint. Finally, the formalities were finished. The DJ started Ariana Grande’s “Santa Tell Me,” and chatter rose in anticipation of a balls-to-the-wall dance party.
Rafi cleared his throat. “I just have one more order of business. Can we cut the music?”
The room fell suddenly, strangely, silent.
He peered into the sea of faces. “Can I ask Sunita to join me?”
The crowd shuffled, looking for her. Sunita made her way through to climb the two steps onto the stage with a wry smile. “Don’t tell me I’ve won Office Boozehound,” she joked, eliciting a wave of laughter.
“Yup.” Rafi nodded. “The prize is a lifetime supply of seltzer.”
“Kill me!” Sunita groaned, to more chuckles.
“But seriously,” Rafi said. “You all know Ms. Sunita Jackson. She’s your co-worker. Your friend. Creator of Margarita Mondays.”
A smattering of applause. Everyone liked Margarita Mondays.
“And,” Rafi continued, “to my endless amazement and sometimes confusion, my girlfriend.”
A few loose-lipped hoots and hollers.
Sunita’s smile slipped, but only for a second. “Dude.” Her tone stayed light. “No need to get mushy.”
Rafi gave her an I got this smile and went on. “We all do this work because we care about people. We care about their happiness. We care about their futures. It’s not just about access to clean drinking water in a world where that isn’t a given. It’s about access to a full and satisfying life. And when I think about what that life looks like for myself, it couldn’t be more clear. It means being with Sunita—”
“Raf!” She gave his arm a friendly punch.
“—for the rest of my life.”
The words hovered in the air, unable to land. Rafi’s heart was pounding so loudly he could barely hear the excited murmurs of his co-workers. There was an air of wonderful unreality to this moment, the feeling of magic happening to him, around him, right now.
Sunita let out a confused laugh. “Ummm…okay?”
Rafi slid his hand into his back pocket.
A woman in the audience gasped.
“Rafi.” Sunita’s tone sharpened. “What are you doing?”
He pulled out the ring box and got down on one knee. He wanted to remember every second. The tight stretch of his jeans over his skin. The whoops and whistles from the crowd. The way Sunita’s jaw had fallen all the way open, her dark eyes like saucers, her entire attention poured onto him.
The best surprise. Ever.
He flipped the ring box open. “Sunita Jackson. Will you marry me?”
Sunita had both hands over her mouth, her blood-red nails pressing into her cheeks. Ordinarily she loved attention. But right now she looked almost scared. His girlfriend dropped her hands and took a step forward. “Rafi.” Her voice was low. “Is this a joke?”
Rafi shook his head, as much to say no as to eradicate the sense that this wasn’t playing out the way he’d hoped.
Sunita darted a look at the crowd, then back at Rafi. Her eyes flickered between his. Left, right, left, right.
Rafi’s knee started to hurt. He was sweating. The stage lights bounced off the diamond, making him wince.
“Raf, for chrissakes, get up,” Sunita hissed. “Get. Up.”
—
Thirty seconds later, they were facing off in the front room of the bar, which was empty but for a handful of patrons watching ice hockey on TV.
Sunita’s eyebrows were halfway up her forehead. “What the hell, Rafi?” She looked equal parts mad and scandalized. “ We’ve never even talked about marriage. And then you go and—in front of everyone we work with?”
The first time Rafi visited his mother on a film shoot as a boy, he’d been confused by the set. The family kitchen wasn’t real, just painted plywood. That same feeling of uncovered illusion disoriented him now. “But—you said you loved me.”
Sunita’s eyes were so wide he could see the entire shape of her irises. “When did I say that?”
“Like—when—at the end of every call!”
Something clicked in Sunita’s gaze. “ Love ya ? That’s how I say goodbye to everyone! I say it to my UPS guy! Love ya!”
“But—but you kept talking about getting your grandmother’s dress refitted.”
Sunita gaped at him. “A cocktail dress. Not a wedding dress.”
The possibility that Rafi had done something extremely misguided and deeply inappropriate made him lose his center of gravity. He grabbed a nearby table for support. “So, you don’t love me?”
Sunita made a desperate noise. “Yeah, sure. Like I love—I don’t know—cheeseburgers and puppies. I’m only twenty-eight! You’re twenty- nine. This is casual.”
“Is it?” This was news to Rafi.
“Of course it is! We’re not meant to be together forever. ”
Rafi’s heartbeat boomed in his ears. “Oh.”
“I never wanted to hurt you.” Sunita puffed out a breath. “It sucks we have to end things like this.”
Rafi struggled to maintain decorum, but he was close to full-blown panic. “Why are things ending?”
Sunita squinted, one hand on her hip. “So you’d be fine not getting married and going back to dating?”
“Yes?” His brain decided now would be a great time to replay being down on one knee as Sunita’s jaw dropped in what he now recognized as horror. In front of everyone they worked with.
“Oh, Raf.” Sunita rubbed his arms like a consoling friend. “You’ll find your person. And we can be buds, I promise. I won’t make it weird or anything.” Sunita adjusted her skirt. “I’m sorry. Merry Christmas.”
Then she was gone. Back into the party full of his co-workers who’d all just witnessed his indecent proposal.
Reality wobbled. It was too late to call Ash. Too late to do anything. Wild emotion sloshed in his body, a sickening tumble of confusion and shame and regret. His heart felt like it’d been stomped on by a rogue herd of reindeer.
He’d gotten it so, so wrong. Again.