What If It’s You?

Chapter One

That had better not be an engagement ring.

I set the pile of socks and underwear on top of the antique dresser, the one Ollie’s had since we got together five years ago. It was scavenged from Allston Christmas—the local name for the explosion of detritus, some of it shockingly valuable, left behind by lazy college students when they graduated—and he’d shored it up structurally, working magic with sandpaper and surgical applications of wood glue. Most of our décor was similarly salvaged, but the dresser had always been my favorite, maybe because he’d still been working on it when we started dating, the smell of sawdust and the faint hint of sweat as he brought it back to life—the careful, repetitive motions of sanding and planing carving out the lean muscles of his arms in a way that sent my blood rushing south—forever inextricable from the hormonal rush of new love.

Today, though, the hulking dresser just felt forbidding, the dark color he’d coaxed the wood to soak up a visual “stay away, evil resides here” warning, one I clearly should have heeded. I reached my hand into the drawer tentatively, half-afraid it had sprouted fangs.

The tiny jewelry box was tucked in the very back corner, the nap on the navy velvet worn away in places. It might not be an engagement ring, right? Still…what else could it be, a nuclear bomb? It felt like one. Stomach tight with anxiety, I plucked it out with two fingers, like touching it might contaminate me. I flipped open the top and my stomach dropped.

It was a ring. A beautiful yellow gold ring, with delicate filigree work cradling a teardrop ruby, tiny chips of diamond bordering the main stone. I’d seen it at least half a dozen times before—it had been Shelly’s grandmother’s, and though it had usually been passed down mother to daughter, Ollie’s sister, Lily, had made it very clear that it “didn’t match her aesthetic.” Luckily, as their mother Shelly regularly noted, voice tinged with fondness, Ollie was “the romantic of the family,” which had apparently moved her to shake things up by giving it to him.

As proven by the appearance in our apartment of what was clearly intended to be an engagement ring, one he was hiding from me. This was what I got for doing his laundry. It was like the universe was punishing my stereotypically wifely good deed with particular irony. God forbid I ever cook us dinner, I might wake up pregnant with a shoe allergy.

Before I could lose my nerve, I yanked the ring out and slipped it onto my ring finger, hoping it would somehow…I don’t know, transform me? Magically transmute my anxiety into certainty? It should make me feel something . Ideally something good.

I glanced up at the large oval mirror above the dresser, the slight foxing at the edges showing its age. The woman staring back at me looked like she had it together. Long caramel-brown hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders, a breezy ivory silk tank top tucked into wide-legged sailor-style pants, buttons marching down the front from the high waist, subdued makeup except for the cherry lips, the one pop of color on an otherwise neutral canvas. And now a delicate ruby ring on her left hand, a soft but insistent symbol that she was taken. Permanently.

My lungs tightened as I gazed at the reflected red stone—had someone just sucked all the oxygen out of the room? Be reasonable, it’s a little strip of metal and a rock, I told myself. It can’t hurt you. Anyway, it’s a good thing that the man you love wants to commit to you forever.

But god, forever was such a long time . Even rocks—presumably even beautiful blood-red gems—got worn away by forever. And I loved Ollie, obviously—he made me laugh more than anyone I’d ever met, he got me to try new things—but it’s not like our relationship was perfect. And even if it were, how could a feeling as ephemeral as love endure something as relentless as forever ? I certainly hadn’t ever seen it happen.

A wave of bile crept up my throat and I frantically tugged at the ring, wincing as it caught on my knuckle. Hands shaking, I gave it another yank, hard enough that it nearly flew out of my hand as it came off, then I tucked it in its satin bed, closed the box top, and jammed it back into the drawer, piling Ollie’s underwear on top and slamming the drawer closed for good measure.

He’d never know I’d been in there. Or…I was ninety-three percent sure he wouldn’t. Ollie was a true creative, which often came out in charming ways—the theme parties he’d plan in great detail, to the delight of all of our friends; the scavenger hunt he set up for me on our second anniversary—but sometimes was just maddening, at least for a confirmed Type A like myself. Completely forgetting about the concept of laundry until his last pair of underwear had been worn, leaving him literally butt-naked, was an example of the latter variety. It was why, four years into cohabitation, we still maintained separate hampers. When I had done his laundry in the early days, carried along on clouds of still novel nesting, he never seemed to realize his drawers had somehow magically been restocked, until I barked at him about it at the end of a particularly frustrating workweek. He’d thanked me, then gently reminded me that he hadn’t expected it, hadn’t asked for it, and, given my reaction, frankly didn’t want it. I’m capable of doing my own laundry, Laurel, I did it for years before we met. But I can try to do it sooner if it’s that stressful for you. He hadn’t really succeeded, but the complete sincerity with which he’d made the promise had been enough to douse my temper, and for the most part I’d tried to live and let launder.

A cloud of steam burst into the bedroom from the en suite and I jumped back, feeling caught in the act, even though the evidence had already been dealt with.

“Everything alright, Lo?” I glanced over to where Ollie leaned against the door frame, a towel slung low around his hips, just-too-long curls tendriling from the shower. Ollie had the kind of dark, almost feminine beauty that felt a little dangerous, all heavy eyelids and thick dark lashes and full lips permanently quirked in the sort of half-smile that promised a naughty secret. At thirty-one he still had the lean, ropy muscles and lightning metabolism of a man ten years younger, hints of a six-pack and sharp vee-lines visible despite the fact that he never deliberately worked out, just biked everywhere. Dark hair still glistening with damp trailed from his chest to his pelvis, disappearing beneath the towel like a provocation. Embers stirred at the pit of my stomach, my desire for him undeniable, if not as all-consuming as it had been when we first got together. Back then, I’d have already been stripping off my carefully chosen work uniform and pulling him on top of me.

Hell, back then I would have already been running half an hour late because I’d have been in that shower with him.

Now, though, I simply blinked and exhaled an awkward little laugh, striding away from his dresser toward my own, bending over to focus on my reflection as I applied another (unnecessary) coat of lipstick.

“Thought I saw a centipede.”

“Is Bubs sleeping on the job again? That cat promised me he’d earn his keep this month.”

“Don’t worry, Bubs is in the clear. Just a dust bunny.”

“Okay. But if he starts eating my yogurts again and not replacing them, when I’ve clearly labeled them with my name, we’re gonna have words.”

Ollie moved up behind me, his languid grin appearing over my shoulder as he wrapped an arm around my waist from behind.

“What are you all dressed up for?”

“My job?” I laughed, rolling my eyes and pulling away slightly. Even though part of me—a large part—wanted nothing more than to dissolve into his embrace, I couldn’t risk it. I could already feel his damp soaking into my shirt, and my latest promotion to a VP role at Pixel was too recent for me to start showing up to work looking like I’d panic-sweated through my top. Looking the part was a very important element of convincing everyone that you deserved it. “Not sure if you’ve heard, but I’m kind of a big deal.”

“As your kept man, it’s my favorite thing about you. Well…second favorite.” He turned to nibble my earlobe, his hand moving downward over my stomach to find the now roaring heat between my thighs.

“Not sure splitting the rent qualifies you as a ‘kept man,’?” I said, voice breathier than I wanted it to be. “And if you do love it so much, you wouldn’t try to make me late for work.”

“But my lusty poet’s soul is your favorite thing about me .”

“Keep telling yourself that, Hughes.”

With a final peck on my cheek, Ollie grinned and released me, crossing to his dresser and dropping the towel unceremoniously as he dug around for a pair of underwear.

“Don’t just leave that on the floor,” I said, gesturing absently at the towel with the lipstick as I bent to drop it into my giant tote, cherry red for fall.

“I would never, ” Ollie said, faux indignant as he tugged the underwear over the taut muscles of his ass. He grabbed a T-shirt off his dresser top at random, one he’d worn at least twice since he’d last washed it, and started pulling it on.

Ten to one odds he would leave the towel there, but I had bigger fish to fry today—C-suite fish, I remembered with a spike of anxiety. Besides, if I was totally honest with myself, his poet’s soul was my favorite thing about him, the carefree way he moved through the world something I’d always envied and never been able to embody. Poets weren’t known for their love of spreadsheets, after all.

I took a deep breath, ticked through all the items in my bag one last time, reassuring myself they were all in their designated places, then hoisted it onto my shoulder, my work brain already kicking into gear.

“I’ve gotta go, my first meeting is in an hour and I need to run through my deck another time before it starts. See you tonight at Mother Hen? The reservation is for seven, right?” I didn’t need to ask—it had been in my calendar for a month, and I’d been using the prospect of the restaurant’s familiar fare and gigantic martinis as a mental “reward” for sticking the landing on this morning’s presentation. On top of that, we’d had anniversary dinners at the same restaurant every year since we got together—Ollie’s romantic side loved a good tradition.

But double-checking was sort of a thing with me, especially when I was feeling anxious. I glanced down at my bag a third time, pulling open the inside pouch to reassure myself that my ID badge hadn’t sprouted legs during the night.

“It is. But before you go…” He moved over to his side of the bed, pulling the acoustic guitar that lived in our bedroom off its stand. He plucked each string, twisted one of the pegs slightly, then turned to me, strumming a single chord.

“I don’t think they’re ready…”—his voice was soulful, almost mournful—“for you, Laurel…”

“Ollie.” I glared at him from beneath a lowered brow. “I do not have time for this.”

“I don’t think they’re ready…for you, Laur-or-or-el,” he warbled, closing his eyes, leaning into the drama of his cover. I sniffed out a laugh.

“Seriously? ‘Bootylicious’? Is that really the vibe I need for my big meeting?” I couldn’t pinpoint when, precisely, he’d started serenading me in advance of major work events, but over the years his “pep-up songs” had grown progressively more ridiculous.

He took a few steps closer, bending his head to hold my gaze as he strummed a few slow chords.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m singing an absolutely original tune inspired by your undeniable fierceness. It came to me in a dream last night and I thought to myself ‘Ollie, you need to share this with Laurel, it’s important that she hear it before she walks into battle.’?” He shrugged. “When the muse calls, Laurel, I have to answer. On that note…Can they handle…handle you?” He sang the last few words, leaning so close that I could smell the spicy notes of his bodywash. “I don’t think they’re ready…” He drew the last word out to ludicrous length and I groan-laughed, rolling my eyes. He responded with a melodious solo on the guitar.

I really should have headed out—the meeting was important—but I didn’t move as he pressed his forehead to mine, letting the warmth of his skin dissolve a little of the anxiety coursing through me.

“It is a battle, you know. And you’d better hope I win it, otherwise I’m not gonna be able to float my half of that trip to Morocco you keep fantasizing about.”

“I don’t have to hope, Laurel. I have faith. In you, and in the epic power of… your jelly. ” Gripping the guitar neck with one hand, he reached around with the other to playfully squeeze my ass.

“You’re so weird, Ollie,” I said, my embarrassed-teenager tone totally at odds with the grin I wasn’t even fighting anymore. A flurry of the lust that had kicked up when he emerged from the bathroom swirled through my stomach.

“Think what that says about you, Lo.” He raised his eyebrows. “I can’t help the person I am, but you…you chose this.” He gestured to himself, then plucked out a few more minor chords, shaking his head sorrowfully.

I laughed, anxiety fully forgotten. Ollie always had been good at getting me out of my but what if…and then maybe… doom loop and back into the present.

“Probably nothing good. On that note…” I slid my hand around the back of Ollie’s neck, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, the pressure of them against my own reassuringly familiar. “I’m leaving now.”

“Seriously, though, you’re going to kill it. Can’t wait to celebrate your victory tonight.”

The warmth in his eyes lingered in my chest all the way out the door. The “Bootylicious” chorus stuck around even longer, the familiar tune adding a little spring to my step as I made my way down the street.

Which might be why it didn’t click into place until I was halfway to the T stop: Not only did Ollie have a ring, it was our five-year anniversary. And he was him . The family romantic. The musician with a poet’s soul who had always loved a grand gesture.

I broke out in a clammy sweat as the realization hit me: He wasn’t just planning to propose, he was going to do it tonight.