Love & Other Drunken Mistakes (Your Ex or Mine #1)

Chapter One Alex

Everything is set up for the perfect proposal. Candlelit dinner at an upscale restaurant. My best suit, including a tie she gave me for my birthday. A copy of my prepared speech in my pocket. The ring– fuck, where's the ring?

I check my suit jacket pocket for the velvet box, only to feel empty fabric. Panicking, I pat myself down until I feel the lump in my pants pocket. I open the box, just to make sure the ring is really inside. It’s right there, on its little cushion, sparkling innocently up at me.

The box itself is a little worse for wear, sections of the velvet rubbed smooth from nervous fiddling.

Maybe I should replace it with something newer.

That’s the kind of detail I’m supposed to notice well before this point.

There’s no fixing it now. I shove the box back into my pocket, hiding it from view, right as Theresa enters the restaurant.

Her face is glowing, auburn hair perfectly curled. She’s wearing her favorite little black dress, the one with a sweetheart neckline and an asymmetrical skirt, and the heels that make her my height. Damn, another detail I didn’t consider.

When she sees me from across the room, her eyes light up and she sashays toward me. “Alex! You look wonderful.”

I stand to greet her, placing a chaste hand on her hip while I softly kiss her cheek. The kind of tasteful PDA she prefers. “You look beautiful, sweetheart.”

She preens at the compliment but her pleasure fades quickly. It takes me a second to understand the expectant look in her eye before I remember what I’m supposed to do.

I step to the other chair and pull it away from the table, careful not to scrape it across the floor. As soon as she sits, I gently push it back in and return to my own seat.

The waiter arrives and asks what we’d like to drink. I stick with water, since I’ll need a clear head tonight.

Theresa’s lips purse slightly before she gives the waiter a dazzling smile and orders a glass of white wine. As soon as he leaves, she says, “I thought you might order something different tonight.” It’s a simple observation, but it’s pointed, leading, waiting for me to explain myself.

Should I just do it now and get it over with? No, if I’m thinking like that, this definitely isn’t the time. “I might later, depending on how the night plays out.”

The hint makes her smile. I’ve learned by now that she wants to know, but she doesn’t want to know. It has to be a surprise that she can see coming.

The waiter returns and we order our food. When it’s Theresa’s turn, she’s silent for a beat, again staring at me expectantly.

Clearing my throat, I add, “And she’ll have the roasted half chicken.”

Again, the twitches of displeasure. “Actually, I’ll have the scallops.”

Then why didn’t you order for yourself? I push the thought aside because I already know the answer.

She loves it when I order for her. When we first started dating, she’d never eaten sushi before, so I ordered all the things I thought she’d like.

Her eyes lit up with each successful bite, and for months afterward, I researched every restaurant we went to beforehand so I could figure out what to order for her.

The problem is: she only likes it when I order for her sometimes.

Other times, when I choose the wrong thing, it annoys her.

I still order for her every time we go out for sushi, but anywhere else, she usually orders for herself.

I’m more surprised that she expected me to order for her today than by her disappointment in my choice.

“I had chicken for lunch,” she explains.

I nod and mutter, “Of course.” I take a long drink from my glass. It’s not as satisfying as it would be if it was full of wine—or something stronger—but it gives me something to do other than mutter inanities.

“So?” Theresa says, smiling expectantly. “It’s not often we come to Pedestal. Are we celebrating something specific tonight?”

That’s a prompt if I’ve ever heard one. I clear my throat and sit up straight. Should I get down on one knee? No, she wants a spectacle, but only if it’s respectable. A respectable spectacle.

“Theresa,” I begin. Last time I started with a pet name, so I thought I would try something different. “We’ve been together for a while now.”

Twitch number three.

“Sixteen months,” I correct. “And I can’t imagine”—spending my life with anyone other than you—“spending my life with you.” Shit.

Her eyebrows raise toward her hairline. “Excuse me?”

“That’s not what I meant,” I rush to say. “I’m sorry, I’m just ... this is a big moment, and I want to get it right.” Because if I don’t, you’ll make me do it again.

“Go ahead,” she says, nodding regally.

But I’ve already lost my train of thought and forgotten my prepared speech.

Theresa sighs. “Did you not write any of this down?”

I did, but I didn’t think she’d like watching me read from the creased-up paper.

This is worse than giving a speech to a class where I’d be graded on presentation, memorization, and persuasiveness.

At least then, I was always given the rubric ahead of time.

I pull the paper out of my pocket and the box falls to the ground.

“Shit! Sorry.” I bend down to grab it and, in my haste, knock my head against the table. “Fuck!”

“Alexander!” Theresa hisses. “You are embarrassing me.”

“Sorry, I—” I fumble for the velvet box with one hand while holding the table with the other, but all my searching fingers find is the restaurant’s smooth floor.

Where the fuck is it? I peer around, squinting at the shadows, trying to make out the shape of the slightly curved top.

God, the box seemed so much bigger in my pocket.

There. At some point during my flailing and searching, I’d kicked the box into the aisle, right into an incoming waiter’s path. “Excuse me, can you—”

The waiter’s foot connects with the box and sends it skidding under the neighbor’s table. I mutter apologies and excuses as I shuffle awkwardly toward it, still hunched over because there’s no point in standing if I’ll have to crouch again in three feet. “Sorry, just grabbing something.”

The older lady at the table gasps, scandalized, as I crawl underneath the furniture to grab the box. Her foot kicks out at me, the blunt heel clipping my ear.

I hurriedly back out from under the table before she attacks me again. I’m already a bit dazed from the first blow to the head, I don’t need a second.

Theresa stares at me, mouth agape, a storm brewing in her gray eyes. As soon as she recovers herself, she demands through clenched teeth, “Get. Up.”

So much for a respectable spectacle. I ignore the demand.

It takes a few seconds for me to switch from crawling on the ground to posing on one knee.

God, I really wish there weren’t so many people watching us right now.

Taking a deep breath, I open the box, presenting her with the diamond ring inside that she heavily hinted at months ago, and say all in one rush, “TheresaAckerswillyoumarryme?”

The whole restaurant silently stares at us. Our waiter stands nearby balancing a tray holding our food. He’s too stunned to even put it down on the tray stand.

Theresa forces a laugh. “What a ... sweet and earnest proposal, honey. Of course I’ll marry you.”

Her answer should fill me with happiness, or at least relief, but mostly I’m just numb and achy.

She holds her left hand out to me, like a queen waiting for her knight to kiss it.

My own hand shakes so badly I miss her finger the first time.

Finally, I manage to slip the ring onto her ring finger.

It’s a bit too big, twisting around and slipping toward the second knuckle, as if it’s as happy to be here as I am.

The clapping is delayed and hesitant. It sounds like a single person has tried to start a slow clap and the rest of our audience hasn’t caught on.

I stand up and retake my seat. There are smudges on the knees of my suit from crawling on the floor, so I push my chair in close to the table to hide them. The restaurant is too high-end to have a sticky floor but after a full day of serving people, it’s bound to get a little dirty.

After a few painfully long seconds, other people begin clapping. The gesture becomes a little more cheerful and sincere as people rewrite the story in their heads, turning it into something charming and funny rather than straight up awkward.

The waiter finally remembers to set our food on the table and murmurs his congratulations. Theresa thanks him, touching her left hand to her chest in an exaggerated gesture of gratitude to show off the ring. Even crooked, the large center diamond sparkles in the restaurant’s intimate lighting.

As soon as the waiter leaves, Theresa starts cutting her scallops into small, bite-sized pieces. She doesn’t look at me or say anything else.

We eat in silence.

Before I can ask for the check, the waiter returns with two glasses of champagne. “For the happy couple!”

Theresa thanks him profusely, her hand on her chest again. She’ll be performing that gesture a lot over the next few months, making sure everyone sees the perfect ring her fiancé chose with only a little bit of prodding.

“To our future,” I say, earning a smile from her. Then I tilt the flute back and chug the whole thing in one long gulp. The waiter hasn’t even left yet when I set the glass down. He stares at me, bewildered.

He’s not the only one staring, though I think it’s more apt to describe Theresa’s furious eyes and clenched jaw as a glare. I’m pretty sure the other nearby tables are back to staring at us too, but at this point, I’m too worn out to care.

“Check?” I ask, not quite up to full sentences.

That shakes the waiter from his reverie. He nods and hurries away.

Theresa and I still haven’t said a goddamned word to each other since she accepted the proposal.