Dunkin and Donuts

by Lyons, Daralyse

  “Open up, ma’am. It’s the police.”

  “Be right there!” I shout.

  I throw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt without bothering with a bra or underpants. The cops seem to be hell bent on getting me to open the door—now.

  When I fling open my front door, I recognize officers Heddy and Logue immediately.

  “Oh, hi, officers,” I say. “Did you find the hit-and-run driver? You know insurance paid to have my car fixed, but I really appreciate your coming by.”

  “Is there a man in this house?” Officer Logue demands.

  “Sure. Why?”

  Before he can answer, Dunkin, shirtless in sweatpants, descends the stairs.

  “Hi, officers,” he says. “What seems to be the problem?”

  Officer Heddy turns to me, “Ma’am are you safe? Do you want to file a report? Want us to take this man into custody?”

  “Custody?” I am dumbfounded. “What for?”

  “We’ve had some complaints about abuse. A neighbor heard screaming and called 9-1-1.”

  “Let me guess…” I groan. “Ms. Peg.”

  “Yes. She said she was concerned for your wellbeing.”

  “Well, that’s awfully nice of her,” I say sarcastically. “But, I was fine. We were fine—great, actually. And she should mind her own business and not worry about what I’m doing.”

  “What were you doing?” Officer Logue interjects suspiciously.

  Then, I remember the open windows. Not only did the gentle summer breeze waft in, but, apparently, my sexually satisfied screams drifted out.

  “Oh,” I blush. “Well, we were just…”

  Dunkin steps forward, clears his throat, and finishes my sentence. “We were just making love.”

  “Really?” Officer Logue raises an eyebrow. “Must’ve been some sex.”

  “Actually, it was,” Dunkin says, taking my hand. “And if you gentlemen will excuse us, we’d like to get back to it—this time with the windows closed.”

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  I can’t believe that summer is here and, on the other side of this summer, I won’t be returning to Saint Sebastian to teach. I’m a phenomenal teacher but, I guess, not Saint Sebastian material. I’m too awkward, too bumbling, too incapable of remaining inconspicuous.

  I’m trying not to feel too dejected about being jobless and directionless going into the summer. Just this morning I sat down and made a list of summer resolutions. At the top of the list is my goal to be more put-together, less klutzy, more graceful, and to stop embarrassing myself so often.

  At least, things with Dunkin couldn’t be better. He’s been incredibly supportive and actually took a few days off of work so we can go to the Shore together.

  Dunkin picks me up from my place at 3:00 on Friday afternoon and carries my suitcase to the car.

  “What’ve you got in here, a dead body?”

  “I didn’t know what to pack for. I wanted to be prepared for every possible situation.”

  He laughs. “Babe, we’re going to the beach. If I have my way, you’ll either be naked or in a bikini for the whole trip.”

  I laugh along with him while putting my hand on his thigh suggestively. As long as I’m with Dunkin, I don’t have to think about how, for the second summer in a row, I am going to have to figure things out. Last year, I went on a dating diet. Maybe, this summer, in between Dunkin and donuts, I’ll be able to figure out what I’m going to do about finding a job. Do I even want to go back to teaching?

  I must be pretty exhausted because I close my eyes and don’t open them again until Dunkin shakes me gently awake two hours later.

  “We’re here,” he says.

  I have to pee. My bladder is bursting. I drank a huge glass of water before getting into the car for the two hour ride here. My first priority is going to be finding a bathroom, my second finding the beach. Looking out the window, I take in the gorgeous shoreline and expanse of pristine white sand.

  “It’s beautiful!” I tell Dunkin.

  “You’re beautiful,” he tells me.

  We get out of the car. Dunkin takes my suitcase out of the trunk and, as he’s taking it out, I grab his jacket to speed up the process. I really have to pee. As I sling the coat over my shoulder, something goes flying out of one of the pockets.

  “Crap!” he says bending down.

  I lean over to help him look for whatever it is.

  “What is it?” I ask. “I’m so sorry. What did you lose?”

  “I know what I never want to lose…” He is on one knee suddenly and I am still surveying the ground for whatever I just dropped. “You.” Dunkin picks up the little black box that I just dropped. “I was going to wait until tonight and ask you over dinner, but I guess you forced my hand. Shayla Ross, my lovable klutz, will you marry me?” he asks.

  “What? What do you mean?” I’m dumbfounded.

  He laughs. “I’m proposing.”

  “Proposing what?”

  “Marriage, silly.”

  “Oh.” Oh. Oh! Oh my God, my amazing, incredible, perfect boyfriend is asking me to spend the rest of my life with him! I’m so excited I could wet myself.

  I am holding my breath, unable to breathe, beyond excited at this wonderful (and surprising) turn of events.

  “Yes!” I tell him. “Yes, Dunkin. I will marry you.”

  He stands up, excitedly, grabs me in his arms, and twirls me vigorously around. And, when he puts me down, dazed and disconnected, I exhale and pee my pants.

  Okay, I decide. My self-resolution to embarrass myself less is officially starting tomorrow.

  About the Author

  When Daralyse Lyons isn’t doing splits or jumping out of airplanes, this yoga teacher and adrenaline junkie can be found with pen in hand furiously scribbling her latest novel. She has written seven full-length books to date and loves nothing more than creating stories that engage readers and leave them wanting more. She currently lives in the Mount Airy

  section of Philadelphia.

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