Only Because It’s You

Chapter 1 Miz

1

MIZ

Because somebody doesn’t return what they’ve borrowed, here I am, crouched on my bedroom floor, decked out in my running gear, rummaging through Daniel’s gym bag looking for my AirPods. I should already be at Union Station, meeting Aimé for our run. But I refuse to go out, especially in this August heat, without my afternoon playlist.

“Come on,” I growl, feeling around and peering in the bag. I wrinkle my nose. What does Daniel have in here, a dead animal? I mean a bit of funk can be sexy, but something of his is in desperate need of a wash. I’m not about to put any guy’s crap in the laundry though. From there, it’s all downhill to wifey-town. No, thank you.

My phone chimes from the armband strapped to my biceps. I know who it’ll be even as I take it out to look.

Aimé: I’m here.

Shit. Hoping she won’t check my location and catch me lying, I text back:

Me: Sorry, omw.

After months of trying to convince her, she’s finally agreed to meet me for a trial run, starting at Union Station—a quick 2 k from my place—and working our way down to the waterfront. I have to get to the station.

I put my phone aside and shake the bag’s opening, hoping to see my earbuds in the contents. Instead, a small black box tumbles into view. I reach for the velvet cube and flip it open without a thought. Almost immediately, my breath catches in my throat.

I freeze, staring at what’s carefully nestled in the small black box. “What the…” My mind spins, as if it’s buffering.

Finally, my brain catches up to what I’m seeing, and heat rushes up my entire body. “Oh shit!” I whisper to myself.

I snap the box shut, hurl it back in the bag, and scuttle backward on my butt, one hand slapped over my mouth, eyes so wide they feel as if they’ll pop out of my head. I take a deep breath and then make the sign of the cross, like my mama. This is not happening. I whip my head around my apartment as if I’m expecting to see a hidden camera, my heart speeding as fast as one of Rophnan’s EDM tracks. Inhaling deeply, I take the box out of the bag again. Cradling it in my shaky palms, summoning all my courage, I lift the lid of the box by a teensy fraction. My heart sinks. Nope. It’s still an engagement ring. With a sigh, I open the lid fully. Undeniable—it’s an engagement ring, a one-carat square-cut diamond, sparkling in the golden late afternoon sunlight. I grip the box, in breathless awe at the ring’s almost holy artistry. I collapse in on myself as the shining proof that Daniel wants to marry me hits me like a ton of bricks. The question is why .

It’s the same question that I’d had when I was fourteen and I’d spotted Dad’s wedding ring still on his finger, for reasons unexplained, and when I’d found Mom’s rolling around in the back of her bathroom drawer two years later. As I stare at the glittering ring, panic starts to shorten my breath and I begin feeling lightheaded. I close my eyes and try to focus on breathing. Inhale two three four, hold two three four, exhale three two one. Whoosah. Then, as if I am handling a grenade, I stand up and gently place the open box on my dresser. Tiptoeing backward, I pick up my phone and sink down on the edge of my ancient, back-pain-inducing mattress.

First things first: Aimé.

Me: I’m going to be late. Warm up without me. I’ll catch up.

Then I put my phone on silent. Figuring out my next steps will require complete concentration. I march out from my bedroom to the living room’s floor-to-ceiling windows and look down at the spot where Daniel usually parks. He’s supposed to come over tonight, to celebrate the sale of his biggest property to date, and until a few minutes ago, I had been looking forward to our night together, and to a morning of me trying to quietly ease out of bed for my dawn run, but inevitably tickling his early-riser with the bedsheets and waking the rest of him up too, ready to get busy. I feel my body warm at the thought.

Focus, girlie! I do one lap of my one-bedroom apartment—through the living room to the kitchen island, into the bathroom on the opposite side, and then through the walk-in closet, ending up back at the entrance to my bedroom, all the while hyperalert to all evidence of Daniel: size thirteen FILA slides, a giant jar of whey powder, Old Spice shower gel and deodorant, a beard trimmer, his boxers in my laundry hamper. I frown. Bro’s been getting comfortable.

But marriage-level comfortable? Really? “What planet are you on, Daniel?” I mutter as I grab my headband and shove it on my head, messing up my side plaits. To say that Daniel and I have never talked about marriage, or any other major life subject, would be an overstatement. Talking isn’t our priority when we hook up. Hooking up is.

“Who tries to marry a one-night stand?” I ask nobody, adjusting the straps of my racerback tank that feels suddenly too tight. I walk over to Daniel’s bag and kick it—but I know that this is my fault. I got greedy. I ignored the terms and conditions of a one-night stand, which are right in its name: one night. Instead, I let that one night repeat for the better part of two years. On again, off again, on again. And here I am now, freaking out because my one-night stand bought me an engagement ring . I groan. Now what do I do?

“Think, Miz, think,” I squeak, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes. I must contain the situation. But how? I squat low until I end up on the floor again, legs wide, and flop forward, leaning on my elbows. I almost laugh. I’m so stressed I’m stretching. Kal would be proud. It does relieve the knot in my back that’s formed from just that half-minute of sitting on my mattress a moment ago. I lean into the stretch for a few moments, my hands almost reaching my Asics, and slowly feel my breathing regulate and my heart stop racing. I sigh. Okay, I am all brain now. What am I going to do?

Option One: I put the ring back in the bag, let Daniel propose. He’ll probably do it tonight—a double celebration, he thinks. My breath becomes shallow again, and I close my eyes and inhale slowly through my nose, spreading and lowering my palms to settle my energy. “Come on, Miz, just play the scenario out. It’s not gonna kill you. He proposes. Then what?”

How to turn him down gently? How? Get sick? No, I can’t do that. Then it hits me. I clap my hands and sit cross-legged in triumph. I’ll ask Daniel if he’s sent a shimagile posse of family elders to Mom. He won’t have. Mom doesn’t know of his existence, or that of any guy I’ve been involved with since I was fourteen. Hell, I forget Daniel’s existence until he pings me.

So make Daniel do proper asking, the tiyeka . Because I surely can’t give him an answer until he’s asked my parents for my hand first. He must formally send his people all the way from Calgary here to Toronto to seek Mom’s blessing. I pause. But then what? What would Mom do? I have no idea. I only know what she did do, twenty-two years ago, the last and only time she found out I was dating: she pulled me out of school in April and sent me to stay with Dad in Ethiopia for a long summer break. That had been a nightmare. The only silver lining—besides meeting my dad for the first time—was that I made a lifelong friend in Kal.

Dad is safer. I would tell Daniel to send his people to Dad all the way in Ethiopia. Dad would be forced to ask me about this guy, and I’d tell him that Daniel is some joker I barely know. Dad would refuse his blessing, and I’d be off the hook, baby! I pump my fist and do a little dance in place.

I take out my phone to call Dad and give him a heads-up. But when I open my mouth to sound out what I would say, the words get stuck in my throat. I can’t do it. Between my parents, Dad is the reasonable one, but I still can’t go there. I’ve never talked to them about anything like this. Something tells me that my plan will no doubt backfire, somehow. When it comes to my love life, I’ve kept my parents on a need-to- never -know basis ever since I was fourteen. It’s worked brilliantly, so why mess with a good thing? Not to mention that this is a fair thing too; they’ve kept me on the same basis my whole life about whatever caused their estrangement. My parents are the last people to go to about anything related to marriage.

I stretch out on my back and hug my knees to my chest, rocking side to side. The motion is soothing, and that ache in my back really dissolves now, but my mind keeps racing. Who can say no to Daniel for me? I mull, though I already know the answer: no one. Not Kal, who tried to sell me on marriage even as far back as when we were teenagers; and not Aimé, who’s been engaged to her college boo for years now; and obviously not my mom and dad. I have to do it my own damn self. I sit up, still hugging my knees, and force myself to visualize Daniel proposing and me saying no, the ring box in my peripheral vision. But hard as I try, I just cannot see myself being so brutal. I may not want to marry him, but I don’t want to hurt him either.

So then what? That leaves me with only one other option: I have to avert the proposal before it can happen. I straighten my now-fluid back. Yes, this could work. I can’t let the proposal happen, period. When Daniel comes over, I will send him on his way, for good, before he drops to a knee. I’ll tell him we’re through. He may be upset, but I know it won’t be for long; his big sale will be consolation enough.

I jump up, suddenly happy again. I have to meet Aimé. This first run has been months in the making, and I can’t just not show up when it was my idea. I’ll just keep the run super short—she won’t complain—and then get back to my condo before Daniel shows up. I check my phone and see a series of texts from Aimé.

Aimé: It’s summer I’m already warm.

Aimé: Wheere the f rrrr u???

Aimé: You’re still at home?!

Aimé: Hello! You better be putting out a fire or something!

You could say that, I think. I edge up to the ring, which is sitting on my dresser, commanding the space despite its size. Before putting it back in Daniel’s gym bag, I gingerly pluck it out of the box and take a photo of it to show Aimé. I study the shot as I would an X-ray of a complex injury at the clinic. On the screen, the ring looks so minuscule. Harmless. A mere photograph really doesn’t do justice to this catastrophic moment. When is something like this ever going to come around again? Exactly never. No, Aims needs to behold this historic horror show in full 3-D. I drop the ring in the teeny waistband pocket of my shorts, then I snap the box shut, toss it in the gym bag, pull the zipper tight, and head out the front door. Leaving everything exactly as it was, more or less.