Chapter 29
PROPOSAL INTERRUPTS REGULARLY SCHEDULED PROGRAMMING
VICTOR
Five days before Christmas, and I haven't gotten any better at surprising the people I give a damn about.
Because it's Friday evening—four days after Harper and I reconciled, not to mention the night before my best friend Roman's wedding—and I'm hiding in a gentlemen's smoking room at an oceanfront estate in the Hamptons, FaceTiming with my grandmother and her cat.
This is what my life has become.
The room is all dark wood paneling and leather club chairs, smelling of old money and cigars even though no one's smoked in here for decades.
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I can see snow falling over the Atlantic. The ocean is dark and restless beyond the snow-covered dunes, waves crashing in a rhythm I can hear even through the glass, while inside, a fire crackles in the marble fireplace.
Orange firelight illuminates the Persian rug beneath my feet. The room is warm—almost too warm after the controlled climate of the main dining area—and I've loosened my tie, top button undone, jacket discarded on the nearest chair.
And just fifty feet away from the doorway, my best friend's rehearsal dinner is in full swing. Forty guests enjoying a seven-course meal in the estate's formal dining room.
Champagne flowing. Toasts being made.
It's exactly the elegant and expensive celebration that Roman and his soon-to-be wife Calli deserve.
And I'm in here, on my phone, getting marital advice from an eighty-two-year-old Russian woman and her judgmental cat dressed as a Christmas elf.
"Vitenka, you are being ridiculous," Babushka says from my phone screen, her face taking up most of the frame.
Behind her, I can see Rasputin wearing a tiny green elf costume complete with a hat that has a bell on it.
"Of course you propose in Quebec City. Is romantic. Is Christmas. What could be wrong?"
"We're already married," I point out, adjusting my position in the leather armchair. "Legally. That's what could be wrong."
"Pah. Vegas wedding doesn't count. Was drunk. Was accident. This time is on purpose, yes?"
"Yes, but—"
"No buts. You have ring with you?"
I pull the ring box from my pocket and hold it up to the camera. The diamond catches the firelight. "Right here."
She leans closer to her screen, squinting. "Let me see better."
I angle the box so the ring is more visible. It's simple but stunning—a round diamond in a platinum setting, with a smaller band that I'm planning to have engraved with “Player 1 & Player 2” before Quebec City.
"Is beautiful," she says approvingly. "Harper will cry. Women love crying at proposals."
"That's the goal."
"And you have speech prepared?"
Not ready to give my grandmother ammunition, I choose my words carefully. "I have thoughts."
Through the door, I can hear laughter from the dining room. Someone's giving a toast. Probably one or two of the androids Roman calls board members are doing the traditional rehearsal dinner speech about how they met.
"Thoughts are not speech," Babushka says firmly. "You write it down. You practice. You don't want to stand there like fish with mouth open."
I sigh, settling deeper into the chair. The leather creaks softly. "It's handled, Babushka. Trust me."
Rasputin meows loudly—the bell on his elf hat jingling—and Babushka adjusts the camera so the cat is fully in frame.
"Rasputin says you should propose on Christmas Eve. Under tree. Very romantic."
"Rasputin doesn't talk, Babushka."
"He talks to me. We have understanding." She scratches behind his ears, careful not to dislodge the elf hat. "So. Christmas Eve in Quebec City. You have plan?"
"I have a general plan. Dinner. Somewhere with a view of the old city. Get down on one knee. Ask her to marry me again but this time on purpose."
The fire pops, sending sparks up the chimney. Outside, the snow is coming down harder now, obscuring the view of the ocean.
"And if she says no?" Babushka asks.
It's a thought I've considered more than once. Technically, Harper and I have been married for two months, and all talk of annulments have disappeared…
Except it's been four days since I showed up at her parents' home. And through chatting with her family and over-eating at her parents' place, we haven't discussed…our future.
Unfortunately, this is the time where someone decides to interrupt.
The door to the old smoking room opens, and I look up to find Roman and Christian standing in the doorway, both in their tuxedos—Roman's perfectly pressed, Christian's somehow already rumpled despite the dinner only being halfway through.
Having lost none of the muscle mass he accumulated after years of football, Roman steps forward like a fullback ready to make a play.
"There you are," he says. "We've been looking for you. You missed the salmon course."
"I was—" I gesture at my phone.
Both of them step fully into the room, and the scent of expensive cologne and wine follows them. Christian closes the door behind them, muffling the sounds of the party.
"He's FaceTiming," Christian observes, crossing to the fireplace and warming his hands. "During our rehearsal dinner. This better be important."
"My rehearsal dinner," Roman corrects, settling into the chair across from me. "And please tell me you're not having phone sex with Harper while forty of my closest friends eat seventy-dollar salmon."
"What? No—"
"Because that would be both disrespectful and also kind of impressive from a time-management perspective."
They both lean over to look at my phone screen.
"Babushka!" Roman says, his face lighting up. "Looking beautiful as always. Is that a new scarf?"
"Is Hermès," Babushka preens. "Viktor bought for me. Early Christmas present."
"And Rasputin!" Christian adds, still standing by the fire. He squints at the screen. "Is that—is the cat wearing an elf costume?"
Rasputin hisses at the screen, his bell jingling aggressively.
"He doesn't like you," Babushka informs Christian. "Says you have bad energy."
"The cat is dressed like a Christmas elf and he's judging my energy?" Christian looks at me.
"He's a cat," I mutter. "He doesn't talk."
"He talks more than you do, Vitenka," Babushka says. "At least he is honest about his feelings."
And while his feline temper tantrum drags on, Roman's attention strays.
Before I know it, the soon-to-be groom is picking up Harper's ring box from the side table where I'd set it down, examining it in the firelight.
His auburn eyebrows rise. "Wait. You brought the ring? Here? Tonight?"
He opens the box, and Christian immediately crosses over to look.
"Holy shit," Christian says. "That's the ring. The Quebec City ring. Why the hell do you have it at my wedding?"
"My wedding," Roman corrects automatically, then refocuses. "But seriously, Victor. Quebec City is in three days. Why is this ring currently in the Hamptons?"
I can feel both of them staring at me.
I exhale, tugging on my collar. "Maybe I wanted to make sure it was safe."
"Safe," Roman repeats flatly. "You thought the safest place for a ring was in your jacket pocket at a rehearsal dinner."
"Better than leaving it at the penthouse."
"You have a safe at the penthouse," Christian points out. "Multiple safes. Industrial-grade safes that could survive a nuclear apocalypse. I'm pretty sure one of them could withstand a direct meteor strike."
"Victor is proposing to Harper," Babushka announces from the phone screen, apparently tired of being ignored. "In Quebec City on Christmas Eve. Under the tree, like I told him."
Christian grabs one of the other leather chairs and drags it closer. "So I'll ask again—why is the Quebec City proposal ring currently at a wedding in the Hamptons? Did the ring get lonely? Does it need socialization with other jewelry?"
I roll my eyes. "Oh, for fuck's sake…"
"See, that's not an answer," Roman says. "That's deflection. We learned about deflection in B-school. This is textbook."
"Maybe I just wanted it with me."
"Why?" Christian leans forward. "Are you afraid someone's going to break into your nuclear-proof safe and steal it? Are we talking Ocean's Eleven scenario here? Should we be worried?"
The room goes quiet except for the crackle of the fire.
Christian and Roman exchange a look—the kind of look they've been exchanging since Harvard, the kind that means they're about to tag-team me.
"Oh shit," Christian says slowly. "You're going to propose tonight, aren't you?"
"What? No. I just said—"
"You said you don't know why you brought it," Roman interrupts. "Which means you brought it without a plan. Which means your subconscious is planning something your conscious mind hasn't caught up to yet. This is Psychology 101. We all took that class year two."
"I got an A in that class."
"And yet here you are, emotionally illiterate."
"You're carrying around an engagement ring like it's a lucky rabbit's foot," Christian says. "That's not rational behavior. That's feelings."
"I had a plan. Proposing here isn't it."
"Exactly," Roman snaps back. "The fact that you brought a ring to my wedding without knowing why means you're about to do something impulsive. And impulsive Victor is my favorite Victor. Remember spring break Year One?"
"We swore we'd never speak of that spring break."
"The Tijuana incident says otherwise."
"There was no Tijuana incident."
"There were three Tijuana incidents," Christian corrects. "And we have the arrest records to prove it."
"Those were expunged."
"Emotionally, they live on," Roman says solemnly, hand over his heart. "But we're getting off track. The point is—Victor, you're spiraling. And when you spiral, you do stupid shit. Remember when you almost married that Instagram model because you were stressed about your thesis?"
"I didn't almost marry her. I took her to one dinner."
"You bought her a ring."
"That was a friendship ring." I stop. "Wait—How did we get here?"