by Kat T. Masen
She’s here.
With me.
“One more rule.” I kiss her lips again and withdraw with a devilish smile. “This apartment is environmentally friendly… so no condoms on the premises.”
She laughs, wrapping her arms tighter around my neck. “Wait, do you hear that?”
“Hear what?” I ask, listening to the sound of nothing aside from the ocean.
“It’s my ovaries. They’re dancing. Some sort of celebration and they’re all jumping up and yelling, ‘Yippee…’”
“You know what?” I grin, keeping my voice to just above a whisper. “I do hear that.”
I’ve never pictured myself having a family with anyone, nor being married, and just in one heartbeat, it’s all I want with the girl wrapped up in my arms.
Lifting her higher, I steal a kiss, lingering as she moans softly against my lips.
“Wait.” She stops me again. “We need a song for this moment.”
“A song for this moment?”
“Yes. It’ll be our song… at least, one of our songs. Something to remember this moment by, and if ever we hear it on the radio, we’ll be like, ‘Oh hey, our song!”
I think about it, the perfect song coming to mind. That, and I’ve had it on repeat for the past week. “I’ve got the perfect song.”
Carrying her in my arms, I make my way to the shelf near the television and turn on my iPod. Shuffling quickly, I hit play.
“I love this song.” She beams, resting her head on my shoulder while Bryan Adams’s Heaven plays in the background.
“I’ll be honest,” I tell her. “I’m not a fan of the eighties, but we could meet halfway perhaps? The nineties?”
“The nineties,” she acknowledges, nodding. “I’m down for some Vanilla Ice, MC Hammer. Oh wait, what about Wilson Phillips?”
She breaks out laughing, and it’s so contagious, I laugh along with her as we make way to our bedroom.
Finally, my girl came home.
The End
Chapter One
Drew
Son of a bitch.
My big toe hits the metal bar. It’s followed by empty threats and loud swearing as the pain ricochets throughout my body making me see nothing but stars. Leaning over to the table, I manage to switch on the lamp to see what I ran into—a Thighmaster.
A growl escapes my throat. The urge to grab the useless piece of crap and throw it off the balcony is difficult to control. This isn’t the first time this has happened and probably not the last.
Remember why you love her.
The irony—which strikes me as I writhe in pain—is that Zoey has fantastic thighs. And trust me, I should know. I’ve spent countless hours between them. Yet, her fascination with fitness gimmicks such as the Thighmaster is bordering on obsessive.
With my hands full of pizza boxes, I hobble through the narrow hall and into the living room to be met with dead silence. Zoey has a work dinner that ends in an hour, and this is the only night I could schedule off which coincided with her staying out late.
Why?
I have a plan.
See, Zoey and I have been living together for just over a year. The moment she walked back into my life after living in London and Dubai, I knew I couldn’t let her go. Everything just fell back to normal between us almost as if no time had passed. The only thing that changed was the insanely hot sex which happened whenever we’re within arm’s reach of each other.
It blows my mind to this day how we were roomies for four years and wasted our time screwing other people rather than each other. But I guess, like everything in life, things happen for a reason.
I love her. No more wasting time on boyfriend slash girlfriend bullshit. I have to make it official. Seal the deal. Though, I know she’ll argue about taking on my name. Yeah, she’s one of those women. Fights for her rights but it’s just a charade. She does it to appear ‘cool’ and is quick to complain about how draining it all is and would rather be on the couch watching The Love Boat with a bowl of popcorn.
And that’s if she says yes.
Don’t get ahead of yourself. What if she tells me she needs more time, which, in turn, will bruise my ego making me doubt our relationship and cause another fight between us?
Then again, she’s not one to disguise her desperation to get married. Especially after she made me watch three movies last week that all revolved around weddings. I stopped counting after the tenth time she began a sentence with, “When I get married…”
Impatient.
Obnoxious.
Pain in my ass.
That’s Zoey Richards.
I’ve been sitting on this idea for a while—a long while. It was never a question of whether or not I would do it. I just need the right time, place, and way of asking her to be my wife. After all, this is supposed to be one of the biggest moments in a couple’s relationship.
Fuck. Talk about pressure.
I continue to carry the eight pizza boxes to the kitchen. Despite my healthy eating habits, I’m not immune to the glorious smell of melted cheese. I just have more self-control than Zoey. Placing the boxes on the kitchen table—careful not to tip the stack—I glance at my watch to check how many minutes I have left. There isn’t much time to execute this plan before she comes home.
In a mad rush, I reach for the top kitchen cupboard where I keep a box of candles. Pulling the box down, I quickly take them outside to the balcony and scatter them somewhat evenly on the ground. There’s a strong breeze from the ocean, which I know will hinder my plan to get all romantic. Hence, I’m using battery-operated candles that look like the real deal. Seriously, whoever invented this is genius.
Rushing to the spare bedroom, I remove the brown box from the closet. Zoey never checks in here, so it has become the perfect spot to hide my treasure—eight gold pineapples.
Eight is considered a lucky number and pineapples because Zoey is obsessed with them. She keeps that gold pineapple on the bedside table. Another one of her quirky traits I’ve grown accustomed to.
Carrying the box with the utmost of care, I take them outside and place them exactly where I imagined them to be, positioned with the correct lighting so they can easily be seen. With the sun almost setting and the breeze calming down, it’s a perfect night to propose to the woman I love.
I scurry back into the kitchen grabbing seven empty pizza boxes and moving through the apartment, creating a trail to the balcony. I know it sounds like a crazy idea, but if anyone will follow a trail of empty pizza boxes, it’s Zoey.
I’m almost done. All I need to do is take a quick shower and get dressed. I want this moment to be perfect and I’m torn as to what to wear. I finally decide on my navy suit—her favorite. With my hair styled, I spray the bottle of aftershave against my neck. It leaves a sting as the cut skin from yesterday’s rushed shaving job is still slightly open.
Walking back to the balcony with a portable speaker in my hand, the song is ready to go at the touch of the play button, the moment she walks through that door.
Annoying as it usually seems, Zoey tends to over-text me after work. Usually, she’s complaining about traffic, and sometimes she’ll go on and on about the growls her stomach makes believing it sounds like the tune of a song. Once, she actually put the speaker to her belly and claimed that it sounded like Livin’ on a Prayer. Funnily enough, it did. Just goes to show how she has warped my brain.
On cue, and just like I said she would, a text comes through.
Zoey: Do you think there is some radio god who purposely plays a good song just as you’re about to exit the car? I’m seriously sitting outside our apartment because Heart came on.
I shake my head, holding in my laugh and easily breaking into a smile. I have no clue who Heart is, but no doubt, it’s some eighties group.
Come on, it is Zoey, after all.
I should respond but can’t think of anything witty as the nerves begin to consume me. She thinks I’m at work. So perhaps a little white lie won’t hu
rt for the greater good. At least, to calm me down.
Drew: I think you’re right. When someone dies on the operating table, I swear Knockin’ on Heaven’s door is blaring through the speakers.
I wait for her response, and knowing Zo, she’ll have an opinion on my morbid text.
Zoey: Way to ruin my Heart buzz.
Deeps breaths—she’s here. Amid the excitement and bundled nerves, I forget the most important thing—the ring. Running back into the kitchen, I find the last pizza box sitting on the table where I left it. It contains a freshly cooked pepperoni pizza in the shape of a pineapple. The lengths I had to go through to get this pizza made. Pepe, our local pizza guy, is not the most creative and easiest person to work with. His strong, Italian accent makes it difficult to understand in the easiest of circumstances.
Try explaining to him that I needed a pineapple-shaped pizza.
The look on his face was priceless. Then he proceeded to give me a history lesson on the origin of pizza. I Googled some pictures of different-shaped pizzas which piqued his interest. I wasn’t sure what intrigued him more—the endless number of pictures or the fact he’d never heard of Google.
In the end, he made it work. And it looks damn good.
All I have to do is grab the ring from the vegetable drawer in the refrigerator. A place Zoey never, ever ventures to. My idea is to set the navy box in the center of the pizza. A gesture that seems very personal. Very Zoey.
I’ve got a minute at the most to spare rushing back to the balcony and waiting for her to enter the apartment. My anxiety is really clouding this moment. I’m sure this is normal. I’m doing the right thing. It’s just jitters and cold feet. This moment could be the biggest moment of our lives, and I have to deliver my speech with the utmost care.
Fuck me dead.
I rarely drink, but a bottle of hard liquor would be fantastic right now.
Closing my eyes while taking a deep breath, I drown out all the fear and envision her face. I never expected her to be my soulmate. We are polar opposites. She hates to eat healthy, and I only eat organic. I love modern music, she’s happy to remain in her 1980s’ bubble. She loves to be on top, and I love to fuck her from behind.
Maybe that last one isn’t such a big deal.
The sound of the door banging shut echoes through our small apartment.
A sea of anxiety swirls in the pit of my stomach as I swallow the giant lump in my throat, wringing my hands nervously. You can do this. Why the fuck is this tripping me out so much?
Her pumps—the camel-colored ones with the strap around the ankle—click against the beaten old floorboards. Then, all I hear is silence.
I straighten my posture and wait for her to find me remembering mid-thought to press play on the speaker. With sweaty palms, I almost knock the speaker off the table. Calm the fuck down, will you? When it comes to operating on an almost-dying patient, you’ve got no problem whatsoever.
The instrumental intro of Take My Breath Away plays, soothing my panicked state. She loves this song, and I have to admit that I somewhat do too.
My eyes are fixated on the doorway, heart thumping loud mirroring the beats of the song. The shadow of her body moves closer, and her head is carefully following the trail of pizza boxes creating a path to where I stand. It only takes a split second for her to be in full view, and when her beautiful green eyes meet mine, my heart stops the mad rush and slows down, calming itself.
It’s time.
Eyes wide and with a confused expression, I can almost see the wheels turning inside her head. Then, as the wind slowly brushes past us, her gaze meets mine.
“Drew, what’s all this?” Her voice is shaking. It’s cute. Shouldn’t I be the nervous one here? Yet suddenly, I am the calmest I’ve been in my entire life.
Zoey enjoys rambling most of the time, but now, she’s completely speechless, leaving me even more in love with her. Her eyes scan the balcony, her mouth quietly counting the gold pineapples. With her soft, delicate hand within reach, I extend my hand forward motioning for her to come closer while still balancing the pizza box with my other hand. Our skin touches, and instantly, I see her eyes close with her chest rising and falling. I love watching her like this—dead silent—taking in the moment with every expression easily readable on her beautiful face.
“Zoey.” I smile, grazing her cheek with the tip of my finger. “Six years ago I had pictured a very different life. A life you weren’t part of yet.”
Her big green eyes are boring into me etched with anticipation and curiosity. She doesn’t realize that when lost in thought, she parts her lips slightly with her tongue resting comfortably between her teeth. My gaze moves away from her mouth and focuses back on her eyes.
I tell her slowly, “While that life would have taken me on a different road, it would have been lonely without you by my side. You’re the most frustrating person I’ve ever met.” I continue, “And we couldn’t be more opposite. I mean, seriously, why do you enjoy listening to songs sung by a nerdy redhead who looks like a goddamn geek?”
“Rick Astley…” she interrupts, finding her voice, “… had women falling at his feet. He was never going to give you up or break your heart. And, he was never going to run around or desert you. Hello, why wouldn’t you want a man like that?”
I place my finger on her lips, quieting her rambling. “I love you,” I state, bending down on one knee. I open the pizza box, raising my eyes to meet hers. “Zoey Richards, will you marry me?”
A small breath escapes her mouth, her eyes dancing in delight with clouded vision. I can only assume they’re happy tears, but each second that passes in silence tightens my chest. For someone who’s born with the verbal-diarrhea gene, I beg silently for her to say something. Anything.
The corners of her lips curve into a delicious smile, and she follows with on-the-spot jumping. It could be a reaction to the pizza itself, but then she follows with a “Yes!”
I allow my tight breath to release, steadily removing the ring from the box. Placing the pizza aside, her eyes follow, and then I do what I’ve been wanting to do for such a long time—I slide the ring along her petite finger. Her cute squeals and excited jumps make it hard for me to get it on. But when I do, it looks perfect.
“It’s so beautiful,” she exclaims, staring at it with awe. “Canary diamond. Just like a pineapple. I can’t believe you did this. Oh my gosh, we’re getting married!”
For a split second, it almost seems like she’s having a panic attack. Her breathing is out of control, and her body is shaking unpleasantly. And just as I’m about to ask her if she’s okay, she continues,
“That proposal was more intense than when Emmy was thrown onto the conveyor belt thingy to be shredded into nothing. I mean, yeah okay, I kinda knew that Jonathan would save the day but still. I was on edge the entire time.”
I stand in confusion like I’m being quizzed. Then the light bulb goes off in my brain. “Are you talking about that movie you made me watch with the mannequin coming to life?”
She slaps her hand against my chest, distracted by her ring, then follows with a sarcastic laugh. “How quickly you remember the blonde with the lean legs.”
“The most ridiculous concept for a movie… mannequins coming to life. Give me a break.”
She shakes her head left to right grinning like crazy. Staring back at me is this beautiful woman who’s just agreed to be my wife. Wrapping her arms around my neck, I settle my hands on her hips and bring her in for a long-awaited kiss.
She said yes.
Zoey Richards is going to be my wife.
Chapter Two
Zoey
I’m having that dream again.
I am late for work, and the only item of clothing I can find is my Guns N’ Roses tank. It’s very roomy and shows some major side boob. Not even side boob—just all boob. For some reason, I cannot locate a bra, choosing to let the girls hang loose. And down below, I am completely naked.
I run for the bus o
nly to miss it, watching it drive down the street and around the corner. It doesn’t occur to me to hail a cab, so I wait for the next bus to come along. My watch says it’s ten in the morning, and work started an hour ago.
The bus finally arrives, and it is crammed. Commuters are squished together like sardines. The bus takes off with a jerk flinging my body against others as I hang on for dear life, almost naked.
I’m well aware that people are staring at me. A mixture of amusement, disgust, and sheer concern etched all over their pathetic faces. No one offers me a coat, happy to continue watching me as I carry on like this is normal. My legs cross purposely covering my lady bits as best I can while the bus stops completely and doesn’t move for an hour.
Yes—one hour. And no one says a goddamn thing, continuing to stand in silence.
Oddly, it never occurs to me to call my boss and tell him I’m going to be late. And by the time I reach the office, it’s after lunch, and I am still naked.
I wake up with my skin crawling in sweat. My heart is beating a million miles a minute forcing me to sit up while rubbing my eyes to allow me to take in my surroundings.
It was just a dream—a stupid recurring dream.
I’m in bed with my fiancé.
That never gets old.
Drew crawled into bed at some ridiculous hour. These late shifts are killing him. Okay, not him. He’s used to a changing body clock. They kill me. I hate him doing nights. One, I didn’t like being alone since that creepy dude with the ferrets moved in downstairs. Ferrets—plural. The most annoying and useless pet anyone could have thought of.
And two, I miss him.
I have somewhat gotten used to it. Plus, I guess it has its perks sometimes. Telling people your then ‘boyfriend’ is a doctor generates excitement in women, mainly. Men couldn’t care less. On second thought, I’ll take that back. Gay men care. They care a lot.
