Chapter 55
Chapter Fifty-Five
Penelope
I hear them before I’m fully awake.
Whispering outside my door. Although I wouldn’t consider it whispering. It’s louder than regular talking and proof that Hazel has not yet mastered the concept of volume control.
“You have to let me carry the tray,” she says.
“Better if I do. You’ll drop it.”
“I will not drop it.”
“I’ll carry the tray,” Decker says. “You can open the door.”
“Fine. I carry the tray next time.”
“I’m hoping there isn’t a next time,” Decker says.
I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, listening to Decker and Hazel negotiate tray logistics outside my bedroom door at eight in the morning, and I feel something so large and warm in my chest I don’t have a word for it that is sufficient.
The door creaks open, and I pretend to be asleep, peeking through one eye as they file in with the focused energy of people executing a plan. Hazel first, both hands wrapped around a glass of orange juice, tongue pressed between her teeth in concentration. Decker is behind her with the tray.
Hazel makes it to the nightstand without spilling, and her expression when she sets down the glass is the specific triumph of someone who has been doubted and proved a point.
“Breakfast in bed,” she whispers.
I pretend to just wake up, but I’m pretty sure Decker knows I wasn’t asleep.
“There was a disagreement about the tray,” he says.
I sit up. Decker sets the tray across my lap, and I look at the eggs slightly overdone, the toast cut diagonally, the coffee in the right mug. “This is wonderful. Thank you both.”
“It was Decker’s idea,” Hazel says, sliding up and over my legs to the other side of me.
“It was a team effort,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed.
They look at one another, and I’m definitely not missing anything.
“Is this about the dog thing?” I ask. “Trying to butter me up?”
“Would it work?” Hazel asks. “If I make you breakfast in bed, we can get a dog finally?”
“No.” I run my hand over her knotted hair. There will be whining when I brush through that mess later. “Not yet.”
She groans, rolls her eyes, and flops into the pillow.
I pick up my coffee.
Decker is watching me. Hazel straightens and tucks her hands in her lap, watching me.
Something is absolutely going on.
“Okay,” I say. “What’s happening?”
“Nothing,” Hazel says immediately.
I look at her.
She stops bouncing.
“Nothing is happening,” she says, slower this time, with the exaggerated calm of someone who was briefed on this question and prepared an answer.
I give Decker an accusatory glare.
He looks at the ceiling.
“Hazel,” I say.
“Decker has something to—”
“Hazel,” Decker says.
She claps both hands over her mouth.
I set down the coffee.
Hazel is vibrating, both hands still pressed to her mouth, eyes enormous, looking between Decker and me.
Decker sighs.
“Sorry,” Hazel says.
“Don’t be.” He pulls a box from his pocket, opens it, and places it on the breakfast tray.
Simple. Classic. A round solitaire. Perfect and so very me.
Hazel makes a sound behind her hands that isn’t quite a word.
“I’ve loved you since I was eleven years old,” he says.
“I have been careful and managed and controlled about it for far too many years, and I am completely done.” He holds up the ring.
“I want to marry you. I want to live in this house and go to Portillo’s and sit in school auditoriums and find out what the dog’s name is going to be because we both know it’s happening. ”
Hazel laughs, and I roll my eyes. He’s probably right about the dog, but I’m putting up a good fight.
“I want every ordinary thing with you. Just you. For the rest of my life.” He steadily looks at me. “Marry me, Pen.”
“What do you think I should say, Hazel?”
Hazel gets up on her feet, and the tray wobbles.
Decker quickly takes it and moves it to the dresser. “Just in case. We don’t need you wearing the breakfast, although it’s probably not that good. Part of the proposal is cooking lessons by the way.”
“Say yes, Mommy. I did.” She holds her hand out to me.
I look at Decker. I love his blush. “You asked her?”
“Pen, I’m still waiting over here,” Decker says, holding the ring between his two fingers.
“Yes, of course.” I hold out my hand, and he slides the ring on my finger.
Hazel plops down on my lap, holding her hand over mine, my diamond and her flower shining under the sunlight pouring through the windows.
“We match,” she says.
“We match,” I say.
Then she throws herself at Decker, and he catches her the way he always does, and I can’t hold back the tears.
“Can we call Monroe?” Hazel asks into his shoulder.
“After breakfast,” I say.
“Can we call Grandpa?”
“After breakfast,” Decker says.
“Can we—”
“Hazel. After breakfast.”
She sighs dramatically and disentangles herself, climbing off the bed. “Eat fast. I have a lot of people to call.”
She leaves. We listen to her footsteps down the hall and her door closing.
Decker slides into bed next to me. “I love you.”
“I love you.”
I lean into him, and he puts his arm around me, and we lie in the morning light of a house that needs painting and probably an entire gut job.
None of that matters because the one thing we have an abundance of in this house is love.
It might have taken decades, but we got here, and that’s what matters.