Not that he has any idea that I already knew about the ring, thanks to his mother’s inability to keep a secret. He’ll never know that I had actually laid eyes on it once already, when I stumbled across it while rummaging through his suitcase during our Caribbean vacation last month.
No, I wasn’t shamelessly snooping around for the diamond.
I’m not that sneaky.
I only wanted to borrow his sweatshirt and stumbled across the ring box accidentally.
Yes, I opened it and snuck a peek.
Yes, I am that sneaky.
Anyway, I was genuinely surprised by his proposal today. So surprised he’ll never suspect that I’ve been waiting for him to do it since Labor Day weekend; that every gift-giving occasion since then has had me anticipating a diamond, and being crushed with disappointment.
Sweetest Day brought a Chia Pet; Christmas, a Gore-Tex Mountain Guide Gold parka…
Need I say more?
Like I said, though, that’s all behind us now.
“Listen, I made reservations a few days ago for a nice dinner tonight,” he informs me, putting his arm around me as I snuggle close to him on the couch. “Do you still want to do that?”
“Sure.” I’m relieved that he at least had a plan for Valentine’s Day. A plan that doesn’t involve a zip-out fleece lining or a creepy, living green Afro. “Where are we going?”
“To that new bistro you wanted to check out on West Fourth Street. I heard the French onion soup is amazing.”
“That sounds great.”
“Hey! Maybe we can have it at our wedding!” he suggests enthusiastically.
“Maybe we can!” I say just as enthusiastically, but I’m thinking there’s no way in hell I’m going to surround myself by three hundred people with onion breath at our once-in-a-lifetime event.
“So what time are those reservations?” I ask Jack.
“Eight-thirty. Why? Are you hungry now?”
“Not really. I’m sure I will be by then, though.”
“Yeah, I can think of a great way to work up an appetite,” he says suggestively, and in a swift, smooth move, flips me onto my back.
He nuzzles my neck with his stubble-studded face. “Your hair is sticky.”
“That’s hair spray.”
“And it’s all pinned together.”
“That’s my fancy hairdo from the wedding. Don’t you like it?”
“No. I like it better down. Don’t wear it like this for our wedding, okay? It doesn’t feel…normal.”
I laugh, thinking this is one of the things I really love about him.
You know, that he’s such a…typical guy. That, aside from sock sniffing, he’s unabashedly into sex, and sports, and beer, and me…unlike the late thinks-he’s-great Will the Metro-sexual.
I really have come a long way from that one-sided relationship with a man—and I use the term loosely—who was head over heels in love with somebody else. Not another woman. Not even another man. No, Will McCraw was deeply in love with himself. That’s the only thing we ever had in common. It just took me a couple of years and a whole lot of heartache to figure that out.
Jack Candell, however, is indisputably in love with me. Only me. And he’s promised to love me forever.
I am definitely basking now.
So much so that I’m positive we’ll be able to agree on the details of our wedding.
What counts more than anything is that we love each other, and we’re going to spend the rest of our lives together.
Nothing else matters.
2
Okay, so I take back what I said last night.
Other things do matter.
Things like head counts and menus and which end of New York State gets to host the big event—and that it will, indeed, be a big event.
So no, this getting-married thing isn’t just about being in love.
I figure that out the moment I awaken on my first Sunday morning as a fiancée to realize that A) I’ve got about eight months to plan my dream wedding, and B) the afterglow-basking must come to an abrupt end if I’m going to get this show on the road.
I slip out of bed quietly so that I don’t disturb Jack, who’s sleeping soundly at last. He was up and down for most of the night, blaming the hour delay in getting our reserved table at the bistro and the rich pasta dish he scarfed down after a fried-cheese appetizer.
I, however, suspect that last night’s extreme case of agita could be attributed to the cause célèbre for our dinner, rather than the food itself, or the hour.
This, after all, is a man who regularly comes home from late nights at the office to unwind with family serving–size Chef Boyardee beef ravioli—often gobbled cold from the can—topped off by an entire row of Double Stuf Oreos.
There was a time when I, too, could have chowed through that midnight spread, and more—and followed by a Salem Lights chaser.
Thank goodness my days of binging-without-purging are long behind me. My stint as a human chimney is more recent history, but after a couple of false starts I ultimately kicked that habit, too. I know I definitely won’t go back now because there’s something unsettling about envisioning myself as a bride with a cigarette butt hanging out of her mouth.
Somehow Jack, who never smoked, has always managed to avoid both a weight problem and indigestion despite his lousy late-night eating habits.
So like I said, I think his upset stomach last night was due to the shock of actually being engaged.
Oh, well. I’m sure he’ll eventually get over it. And while he’s lingering in the recovery stage, I really do need to get busy with the planning stage.
I open the closet and swiftly pull my lilac-colored velour robe over my comfy red-plaid flannel pajamas, then slip my bridesmaid-blistered feet into a cushy pair of green terry-cloth scuffies.
Yes, I clash. Who cares? I’m a fiancée.
And Jack—unlike Will McCraw—cares about who I am, not what I’m wearing.
You know, I can’t believe there was ever a time when I thought it was normal to have your boyfriend offer fashion pointers—or that I dutifully followed Will’s.
Wait until he hears I’m engaged. I can’t wait to tell him.
For that matter, I can’t wait to tell someone. Anyone.
Too bad Raphael is currently winging his way toward Africa and his safari honeymoon.
I wonder if it’s too early to call Kate. She likes to sleep in.
Who cares?
This is big news. I close the bedroom door behind me, grab the phone and quickly dial her number.
“Is Kate there?” I ask excitedly when Billy answers on the third ring.
“She’s throwing up.”
Oh. Right. Morning sickness. I forgot all about Kate’s new pregnancy. She’s due in late September…which means we’ll have to increase the guest list to three hundred and one. Two, if she insists on bringing a nanny. Three with an accompanying wet nurse, which, knowing Kate, isn’t all that far-fetched.
“Can you have her give me a call when she’s done?” I ask Billy, who mumbles something that might be an agreement.
To