Chapter 29
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I really like essays…and Damion Anders.
Mirabelle
“He wrote you an essay?” my father asks while I try very hard not to regret my decision of calling my parents right now.
Sprawled on my bed, I flip through the pages of Damion’s record book.
Every account is dated, to the minute. And some have been wholly desperate.
I have never read fiction both this clean and yet this scandalous before.
In every breakdown over how lovely he finds me, he remains respectful. It’s art, how skilled he is about it.
I have never felt wanted like this before.
Never.
“It’s a beautiful essay,” I say, softly.
“And he wants to marry you?” my mother cuts in.
“That was the topic of the essay,” I answer.
I have yet to cross the threshold between the years when I just cleaned for him and the weeks we’ve shared together this year. Needless to say, the pining—the unadulterated yearning—is off the charts.
I had no idea someone could long for someone else this violently.
“How long have you known this man?” my father asks.
Glancing at the pages of our history, the accounts of our first conversations, the thoughts that happened between the cracks, I say, “Four years.”
My father hums.
“That’s a good length of time,” my mother says. “Do you like him?”
Unprepared for that question, my heart jumps. “Do I…like him?”
“Well, yes. That’s primarily important when considering whether or not to accept his proposal. If he’s writing you essays, it sounds like he knows you fairly well. So do you like him?”
“I…don’t know. I’m not sure I know him half as well as he knows me.
” I certainly don’t have pages upon pages of admiration, desire, and praise to give him.
It was only recently I learned that he can smile and laugh, and it was an absolute shock to learn that he does so with at least some frequency.
Everything about him in my brain feels so… intense.
“Do you want to get to know him?” my father asks.
Pulling my attention toward my bedroom window, I find Damion on a ladder beyond the pool, stringing Christmas lights. In this moment, I might be convinced that he’d do just about anything for me. Softly, I say, “Yes. I think so.”
“Can you start there, then?”
“I can.”
“So why do you seem conflicted?” my mother asks.
Closing my eyes, I let the scent of ink-strewn pages fill me.
Why am I so conflicted?
He’d wait for me to marry him. He’d probably be thrilled if I told him a tentative yes dependent on my getting to know him better.
Even though he already wants my father’s blessing and to plan a wedding over these next few months, after what I’ve already read and after scanning his essay several more times, I can’t imagine he’d be disappointed if I want to slow down a little, maybe discuss matters that could make or break a relationship before we look toward setting things in stone.
Why am I conflicted, when the answer is either yes or not yet, and not yet would be painless to say?
Flesh tingling, I utter the softest, “I…think I want to marry him.”
My mother gasps.
“It’s stupid,” I hurry to add. “It’s so stupid.
I need to know him better. And then there’s all this nonsense surrounding who he is, and what that will mean for me, but…
Oh, Mom, Dad…he’s just…” Breath leaves me, and I find myself staring out the window at him again.
“He’s wonderful.” He cares about me so completely.
It bleeds from the pages. If not him, I don’t think I will ever find someone this committed to wanting me again.
And it really is me he wants. Even in these early accounts, he saw past the way I present myself every single time it seems my mask cracked.
He fixated specifically on those imperfect pieces and glorified them as the definition of perfection.
I never ever in a million years thought I’d marry a wealthy man. I’m sure there’s a lot of mental adjustment I’ll need to make, so many things I’ll need to learn, so many things I’ll have to come to terms with. Like the media. And the lies. And the external perception.
But.
I don’t know.
“I think I do actually like him,” I whisper, keeping the purest truth tucked away in my chest, because the more I’m considering it, the more I know I like him. The scary part is…I think I’m falling in love with him.
“You’re going to marry a man you only think you like?” my father asks.
“I’m going to do worse than that, Dad.”
“Oh?”
Drooping, I say, “I’m going to make a fool of myself.”
“What an excellent idea,” my mother notes, a smile in her tone. “But let’s make sure we don’t leave Mom and Dad out. When do we get to meet him? Before or after you make a fool of yourself?”
“Christmas would work well for me.”
“Christmas?” My mother’s smile disappears from her voice. “Mirabelle Elaine, we’re literally down the street from you.”
I protest, “Yes, but it might take me a month to recover from being a fool.”
She tuts. “Pity. You have one week, I think. What do you think, Dad?”
“One week sounds good to me.”
I whimper.
“One week it is.” My mother’s smile returns. “Now, sweetheart, make us proud.”
Doubting that spending several thousand dollars on stupidity and foolishness will result in making my parents proud, I hang up and spend the next few hours reviewing Damion’s records—just to make sure he’s everything he seems to be.
Once I’m more than convinced, I sigh, get my phone, and make a very stupid call to set my very foolish plans in motion.