Chapter 2 #2
I always made sure to get extra rest on the days leading up to my Thursday date with Brock so I could put my best date-night self forward.
He’d be picking me up in his red Porsche 911.
Brock was obsessed with that car. I admit I don't know much about cars, but the heated leather seats always felt like heaven on my stiff back. Another thing I enjoyed about Brock was that he always took the wheel in planning our dates. He wasn’t one of those “whatever you want, babe” kind of men.
He was assertive and certain, and I never once felt his attention from me stray to a beautiful waitress or other nearby patron.
This time he’d told me to “be sure to dress up.” I was never a slob on our dates, but I sometimes just wore jeans and a stylish top. It sounded like this occasion called for more than that, so I enlisted Whit’s help.
We’d settled on a fitted black wrap dress that hit me just below the knees.
I knew Brock loved me in black, and the silhouette was sophisticated and made me feel older and more cosmopolitan.
I adorned my ears in simple studs and chose a necklace that accented the dress’s low-cut neckline.
I reluctantly slipped on my strappiest silver heels—my feet would be killing me by the end of the night (probably my back and hips, too), but the lift made my legs look more shapely than they had in years. No pain, no gain, right?
Though it wasn’t a fact I’d admitted to anyone, my confidence had taken a bit of a hit after my diagnosis.
I’d always veered toward pear-shape, with thin arms, a trim waist, and thick, muscular thighs.
Volleyball practice five days a week will do that to a body.
I was never overly confident in my appearance, but back then I had appreciated how my body worked for me on the court.
Over the last couple years, I’d felt my hard-won athleticism slipping away.
Fortunately, my doctors had caught the RA early, and the joint damage at this point was relatively minor.
I still hit the gym a couple times a week when I could, putting in time on the elliptical machine or using the pool to swim laps.
Even on my best days, though, I couldn’t manage more than an hour before my body stiffened up and my energy was zapped.
Afterwards, I’d have to take a warm bath in Epsom salts to get my body relaxed enough to sleep.
On particularly bad weeks, though, a trip to the gym felt like a distant Everest, and all my time off work was spent in recovery mode.
As I got ready, my eyes fell to my dresser and the framed photo of Brock and me at a hospital event.
I smiled down at it: we looked picture-perfect.
I was a big believer in printing physical photos—call it the 90s child in me.
I knew almost everyone had made their albums digital at this point, but I still enjoyed the feeling of seeing a tangible, framed photo, one I could pick up and admire.
I took a deep breath, the underwire bra poking uncomfortably against my upper ribs.
I was typically a sports-bra-under-my-scrubs kinda girl, but at least I still knew how to clean myself up nice.
One added benefit of my softer body was that I’d gone up a cup size from my high-school B to a generous C cup.
This wrap dress cinched my upper waist and magically deemphasized the bit of weight I now carried around my stomach.
I added a touch of lipstick and admired the effect in my full-length mirror.
Taking a break from cooking dinner, Whit poked her head in from the hallway and whistled, admiring my completed look.
“What did that random patient say the other day? Total Anne Hathaway vibes. Yes, mama.” She pretended to fan herself with the wooden spoon in her hand.
I laughed. “Okay, says Miss Hilary-Duff-Lookalike. Besides, I think that guy was on morphine.” I rolled my eyes playfully.
“Hey, those are both timelessly classy ladies, and relatively drama free rom-com queens. We could do worse. I’m here for it.” She pointed the spoon at me and wandered back toward the kitchen.
From my room, I heard the doorbell ring. I opened the front door and there was Brock, a dozen red roses in his hand. Consistent, I thought to myself. That’s how I would describe Brock. He leaned in to give me a chaste cheek kiss.
“Lovely,” he said appraisingly.
I smiled under his approval.
He opened the passenger car door for me and offered his hand for balance as I slid into the comfortable seat. I relaxed as he drove, enjoying the warm heat beneath me as we made the drive to an upscale Italian restaurant. The valet parked the Porsche, and Brock discreetly slipped him a tip.
As we sat, the tux-clad waiter draped a napkin over my lap.
He took our drink orders and left the table, and I took a moment to admire the ambience of the restaurant.
This place was fannnncy. I was pleased that my nice outfit fit in well with the soft lighting and quiet classical music.
I wondered what I should order, mentally noting options that would be inflammatory and should be avoided.
I turned to Brock, whose attention was fully on me.
“Anything new?” Brock smiled the whitest smile over to me. I racked my brain for updates on my life, suddenly coming up blank.
“Um,” I began, grasping for conversational straws, “My high school reunion is coming up. I don’t think I’ll go, though . . .”
“You kidding? Don’t you want to show off your life? All this?” He gestured up and down at himself and gave me a coy wink.
I let out a forced chuckle. “You sure would be the talk of Birch Hollow,” I admitted. I don’t think I’d ever seen a car as fancy as Brock’s back in my small Vermont hometown.
“It’s settled then. We’ll go. We’ll show those townies how the city life has treated Brooke Meadows. Now,” he smiled at me again. “Ask me if I have anything new.”
“Okay—Brock, anything new with you?”
“I’ve done a bit of shopping lately,” he replied.
“Hm—okay—shopping.” I glanced around the restaurant distractedly. I couldn’t say I was surprised. Shopping was a pretty regular occurrence for Brock. He made good money, so why shouldn’t he splurge on designer clothes and watches, if it made him happy? “What’d you buy?”
“This.”
I choked on my ice water. My eyes were suddenly blinded by the sparkly, pear-shaped solitaire nestled in its dark blue velvet box.
“Oh my God. Brock . . .” Words stuck like glue in my throat.
“I know it’s only been six months, but Brooke, you are so beautiful, and you have such a good heart. You understand a doctor’s schedule, and I can’t imagine anyone else but you on my arm. I think we are the perfect match. What do you say to being my wife?”
I took a moment to compose myself. The room suddenly felt stuffy, like I couldn’t get enough breath into my lungs.
Why am I hesitating? I asked myself frantically. It’s just nerves, right? A handsome, successful doctor is asking me to marry him. Why wouldn’t I say yes? A pair of ice-blue eyes with a spot of honey brown flashed in my mind, which I quickly shook off.
“Sorry, I . . .”
Brock watched me carefully, his smile tensing ever-so-slightly at the corners.
My eyes scanned the room nervously, and I realized we had a bit of an unprompted audience in the restaurant guests, who had overheard his proposal and were now awaiting my answer. My eyes connected with Brock’s, and I mirrored his grin and formed my reply.
“Um—yes. Yes! Wow, it’s gorgeous!” I held out my left hand and let him slide the ring on.
It was a tiny bit big on me (I had what my dad had called “piano fingers,” long and thin), but it really was stunning.
A platinum band, if I had to guess. The diamond had to be several carats at least. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach as the ring caught the light and I took in its sparkly appearance on my finger.
Was this really happening? I asked myself, stunned. Didn’t this fit my picture-perfect five-year plan? So why were there knots currently tangling my stomach?
Brock caught the waiter’s attention and ordered a bottle of champagne.
Brock had offered me a drink a few times, on our dates as well as nights in at his place.
But he’d never balked when I turned him down.
Of course as a doctor he knew of my medication and its side effects.
I started to shake my head at the waiter, who held the bottle ready to pour. Brock’s eyes caught with mine.
“Come on—surely this calls for bending the rules a bit. It’s a celebration!” he declared encouragingly.
I plastered a polite smile on my face, allowing the waiter to fill both our flutes with the bubbly alcohol.
“To us!” Brock cheered.
“To us,” I repeated. I took a few sips. As the bubbles hit my tongue, I forced my body to relax. I was in a city I loved, with a man I admired and respected, and I was going to be his wife. What more could I want?