That was my sister’s favorite cliché . . . until she decided that rules should never be made at all.
More thoughts of my sister tug at the edges of my mind but I won’t give them the attention they’re demanding.
I cast a sideways glance at Dave. He looks good. I think I detect the faintest hint of cologne, which is unusual for him. He’s been working through the same bottle of Polo Blue for the last five years.
He’s wearing the sports coat I bought him from Brooks Brothers, Italian linen dyed the color of a warm cashmere tan. It suits him beautifully.
And for the first time I notice the way he’s gripping the steering wheel as if it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. Is he nervous? Does he sense the shift in me?
I study his expression but for once I can’t read it. His eyes are glued to the road, his lips pressed together in something that could be determination, could be apprehension.
I give up and try to relax into the plush leather seats. My phone vibrates in my purse but I ignore it. I’m afraid of how I’ll react if it’s him. Afraid of what Dave will see in my face.
One step at a time.
* * *
I’VE NEVER BEEN to Ma Poulette before but I don’t like the name. It’s a silly pun, playing off the French word for “hen” and one of their terms of endearment. But English speakers will fail to understand it and French speakers will fail to be amused by it.
Still, the interior is nice. Dimmed lighting complements a bucolic charm. There’s an exposed brick wall here, wooden accents there. Dave gives his name and the hostess looks down at her list. She hesitates for a moment, her finger touching what I assume is our reservation, and when she finally looks up, her eyes linger on mine for just a moment too long and her smile is wistful.
Something’s up. This isn’t just a simple dinner.
Suddenly I want to get out of the restaurant. But I can’t make myself do it. That’s the funny thing about cowardice. People think it makes you run away and hide but it’s more likely to be a facilitator of something darker. It’s the emotion that allows you to be passively led to places and fates you would otherwise reject.
And so I am led—the hostess in front, Dave’s hand on my arm guiding me. The patrons we pass blur together as we’re led to a closed door . . . another dining room, I’m told. Something more intimate.
One step at a time, I think as I listen to my heels click against the hard floor.
The hostess opens the door. As we step in, I see them all: his parents, my parents, a few college friends, one of the partners from Dave’s firm, his godfather, Dylan Freeland . . . who is also the cofounder of my firm. Inexplicably, Asha is a few steps behind him. And then there’s Simone; her eyes are wide and reflect the fear I’m feeling. She shakes her head and I know what she wishes she could say: I called. I tried to warn you. You chose the wrong time to stop listening.
“I wanted everyone we love to be here for this,” Dave says softly as all these people smile at us, clutching their own loved ones’ hands, waiting for the magical moment.
Dave lowers himself to one knee. I can’t move, can’t even look at him. My gaze is glued to my feet. One step at a time.
He reaches into that sports coat, the coat I bought him, the coat that will now have more significance than I ever meant it to have. I won’t look. I squeeze my eyes closed. I don’t want this diamond. I don’t want to be Dave’s white rose.
“Kasie,” he says. His voice is confident, insistent. Reluctantly I open my eyes.
It’s my ruby. The very ruby Dave and I had looked at, with all its delectable silks and passionate red glow.
“Kasie,” he says again.
He got me a ruby. Something inside me softens.
“Did you hear me?” he asks, a slight touch of nervousness in his tone now. I look up, see the approving smiles of my parents, see the encouragement in the eyes of our friends.
“I asked you to marry me,” he says. I think he’s said it a few times now. I had lost myself in the ruby, in the cowardice, in the simple ease of being led to a once-rejected fate.
“You bought me a ruby,” I say, my voice sounds so quiet, so removed. “You’re asking me to marry you.”
Our friends, our coworkers, our family . . . they’re all represented here in this room. Some came from far away. They all expect to hear the same answer.
I meet Dave’s eyes and smile wide, for him, for our guests.
“You’re asking me to marry you,” I say one more time, “and my answer is yes.”
CHAPTER 14
CHAOS.
I don’t know how else to describe it. The cheers that erupt are so out of sync with my emotions. Every handshake and tearful congratulations frightens me. This should have been a private moment between two people: me and Dave. Even in the best of circumstances I would have wanted it that way.