Twenty-four
Sarah
The smile on my face drooped as we left the fancy restaurant and went out to the car. I felt so foolish now—the way I’d primped extra and wore my slinkiest dress. I even got my nails done because I was so sure he was going to ask me again.
And it was easy to convince myself of such when Peter was staring at me like that—like I held the key to happiness in his life. Gosh, he was the perfect boyfriend, truly.
Except for one major thing.
One glaring thing that made every passing month more difficult than the one before.
I had been patient. I had.
When we were nineteen, I eventually gave the stupid ring back because he wasn’t ready.
A part of my heart died, slipping it off my finger.
What else could I do though? Anxiety was tearing Peter to pieces, and I knew he’d feel a little better if we weren’t in the “next phase” of our relationship while he went through chemo.
But even though he’d repeatedly tried to explain himself, he couldn’t make his fears make sense to me.
I was with him, come hell or high water, so what difference did our terminology make?
Wife, fiancee, girlfriend.
He was stuck with me so it didn’t matter.
All I could figure is that slowing us down granted him a bit of control in his life. Since he had no say about his health and future anymore, he obsessed over ways he could make it better and easier for everyone else. And somehow that included not making commitments to me.
It stung, but whatever.
The problem was, after he went into remission, he didn’t pop the question again. He fell an entire year behind in college and thought we should wait until after college to move forward in our relationship. I agreed.
But then, he wanted to get established in his career.
And then he wanted to make sure he had a little nest egg.
And then he wanted to save for a downpayment on a house because, “Sarah, a fifteen year mortgage is way smarter than a thirty-year.” By this point in our relationship, I was twenty-six years old, and I’d heard every damn excuse in the book.
A few friends told me to give him an ultimatum or dump him.
Part of me wanted to lay down the law and threaten him to marry me or else.
But the other part of me ached to have Peter choose me in spite of his fear.
What was he even afraid of anymore? He seemed to be permanently stuck in a state of preparation, and I didn’t know why.
And I could dump him, I guessed. But what would happen to me if I did? My life was so integrated with Peter’s that I knew I would fly off the rails and splinter into a million pieces if there wasn’t an us anymore.
The crazy part was we’d had this conversation so many times.
I told him I was ready. Beyond ready.
For all the adventures we had together, he refused to take me on the only one I ever truly wanted.
“Man, I’m stuffed.” Peter sat in the driver’s seat, gazing in his rearview as he pulled out of our parking spot. “What did you think of that place?”
The steak restaurant had been on our list of places to try for a couple years.
“It was good,” I said. But my voice sounded hollow.
Pausing, he brushed his fingers down the back of my arm. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.” I pulled my arm out of his reach.
Peter gave a soft exhale. “I’m very convinced.”
Turning my face toward the window, I rolled my eyes at his sarcasm. Heat billowed into my cheeks and my eyes stung with tears. I bit down on my lip.
“Talk to me, Sarah.”
“I said I’m fine.” My words came out like daggers.
He took a long, steady inhale. “Maybe we can talk about it later?”
“Sure. Whatever.”
We drove in silence for a few minutes, and the businesses flying by blurred as I fought back tears. But they brimmed in my eyes, persisting. When I blinked, my eyelashes sent them flicking down my cheeks. I wanted Peter to be my husband.
My husband.
Didn’t he want me as his wife?
Was there something wrong with me?
Was he still undecided somehow?
My fists clenched handfuls of my dress as I fought the massive explosion simmering in my chest. I wasn’t just hurt, I was angry. This evening would’ve been the perfect time to ask me. As well as a thousand other evenings proceeding it. What was he waiting for?
Heartbreak melted into rage.
I sniffled, the sound barely audible.
But Peter heard. “Sarah, talk to me.”
“No,” I spat.
“Did I do something?”
“Yes.”
He took another quiet breath and even though I wanted to strangle him, his calm never ceased to amaze me. “When do you want to talk about it?”
“We already have.”
I could feel my mascara growing tacky and I needed a Kleenex or a napkin or something. Sometimes Peter kept some in his glove box. I tapped the release button on the glove compartment. But just as I was about to put my hand in, Peter slammed it closed.
“What are you doing?” He asked, his voice panicked.
I turned toward him, my jaw falling open. “Um, getting a tissue for my face? Is that okay?”
“There’s no tissues in there.”
“Okay, a napkin then.”
“I don’t have anything. Sorry.” Hesitantly, he sat upright in his seat again. “Seriously, there’s nothing in there.”
Did he not want me to go through his glove box? A bolt of anxiety reared in my chest. I had never in my entire life known Peter to be secretive. He was always an open book and never had anything to hide. Swallowing, I said, “I’m just going to double check.”
I tapped the button again.
And again, Peter’s hand shot out, pressing it closed.
“What the hell?”
He didn’t move his hand as he slowed at a red light. “I can’t let you do that.”
“Why?!”
“Sarah, please just trust me—”
“No. I’m pissed now. Move your hand.”
“No.” He stood his ground. “You can’t go through that stuff.”
“Because you’re hiding something?”
“Of course I’m not hiding anything.” He flipped his blinker on, somehow driving with complete smoothness, despite being stretched over the console. “I just need you to not open it.”
“Well, it can’t be a birthday present, because my birthday isn’t for months.” I crossed my arms.
He nodded once. “It is your birthday present.”
“Liar.”
He sighed. “I’m not lying, Sarah. I have never lied to you.”
“Then give it to me early.”
He shot me a look. “Sarah—”
“Seriously. I want it now.”
The car bumped as he suddenly veered into a McDonald’s parking lot.
Peter whipped into a space and threw the car in park, doing it all one handed because he knew I’d open that thing as soon as he removed his hand.
When the motor had fallen quiet, he turned to me with a wild look in his eye.
“I need you to put aside your suspicion right now and just trust me, okay?”
I looked straight into his eyes.
Against my will, those big brown eyes disarmed me. “Okay,” I finally whispered.
“Okay?” He asked, double checking.
“Okay.” I confirmed, crossing my arms over my chest.
With a long exhale, he sat back too, rubbing his palms over his thighs. “You ready to tell me why you’re crying?”
“You should already know,” I whispered.
“Well…” He lifted a hand in a shrug. “I don’t.”
My lips trembled as I held back the flood of words and emotions burning a path up my throat. I didn’t want to unload on him, but the sleeping bear had staggered out of its den and I was ready to fight. “I thought you were going to ask me.”
Peter’s long exhale told me he was tracking now. His response was quiet. “I see.”
“And the fact that you didn’t, and now you’re hiding something from me…
I don’t know, Peter. I’m starting to think you’re never going to ask.
That you’ll be happy forever with me as your permanent girlfriend.
” Now that the ball was rolling, I had a lot to say.
“But I don’t want that. My friends told me to give you an ultimatum, which I thought was stupid, but now I feel like I don’t have a choice.
There’s nothing to wait on anymore. If you’re not going to marry me, we shouldn’t keep acting like a married couple.
Maybe we should break up or something and—”
Peter got out of the car, and I scowled at him for not listening to me. But he came around to my door and opened it. I thought he was going to demand me to get out, but instead he knelt on the asphalt beside the car and reached for the glove box.
Tapping it open, he fished around and pulled out a little red velvet box.
My heart stopped.
Burying my face in my hands, I burst into uncontrollable sobs.
Peter gently pulled my hands away from my face. “Sarah—”
“That better be—what I think—it is.”
“Look at me.”
Slowly, my eyes flicked to his, and I had to blink repeatedly to clear my vision.
He looked at the tiny box between his fingers then back at me.
His voice shook, too. “If you only knew how many conversations I’ve had with my dad, mom, and therapist about this.
” He shook the box a little. “I’ve hardly thought of anything else.
I’ve been sick about the fact that I want to ask but feel like I can’t.
That I want you as my wife but am so scared—”
“Why? Why are you afraid?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know.” Tapping his temple, he said, “Something up here tells me we’re right around the corner from something bad.
Just like we were last time. And that you’ll end up taking care of me…
and if I…” He huffed, the sound heavy with emotion.
“If I think about asking, I calculate the months until my next routine check-up and think ‘let me just make sure first’ and even when my doctor gives the all-clear, I’m still worried the next year he won’t.
” Peter shook his head. “I realize how insane I seem. I’ve tried to shake them off, but I keep having dreams about me in a hospital bed again and there’s tubes and wires and I’m strapped down and I can’t—” His voice cracked.
“I guess normal people would just call them bad dreams, but I always feel like they’re a signal about what’s coming.
Dammit, that sounds so dumb when I say it out loud.
Maybe I had too much chemo and my brain is cooked now or something or—”
“Peter.”
He stopped, his teary eyes finding mine.