The Dating Proposal

by Blakely, Lauren

  She rubs her cheek against my chest.

  “I’ll go to The Best Diner in the City. I’ll take a lunch break. All by myself. Good idea, right?” I grab my lucky bag, kiss her goodbye, and hightail it out of my house, driving to the diner.

  I hunt for my usual spot, but the block is packed.

  The next one is too.

  Where the hell is my parking good fortune?

  I spot a free space and jerk my car into it, marching to the diner and cursing karma for screwing me over. For deserting me when what I need is to sit down, order some food, and remind myself that feelings aren’t the devil.

  Even though they are. They so are.

  The hostess greets me by name, shows me to my regular table, and asks if I want a Diet Coke.

  I relax my shoulders and visualize the knots of panic unknotting. I can do this. I can recalibrate to pre-wigging-out.

  “Yes, please. And a house salad with French fries.”

  “Have that out in a jiff.”

  She takes off, and I spread the napkin in my lap. Yup. Fries and a salad. I’m all good. I’m not crazy. I’m completely not freaking out over all the strings.

  I’m fine.

  I can handle strings.

  I just didn’t think our relationship would have them so soon.

  Now that he’s admitted them, there are more leaks in the dam of my feelings than I have fingers to plug them with. But I have to try to dig my nails in and hold on.

  “Oh, hey, McKenna.”

  I look up to see the girl-child, Amber, decked out in her pink sweat suit, smiling and waving.

  The woman my ex-fiancé picked over me.

  The living, breathing manifestation of all that I never was to the man I thought I’d marry.

  My throat tightens, and the walls of the diner close in. They constrict the way I expected them to when I saw her here before.

  I was supposed to be married to her husband. A little more than a year ago, I was ready to walk down the aisle to him. I thought I’d be done with dating forever. I thought Todd and I would be a family.

  Now, he’s her family, and I’m here, trying to figure out what to do with this colossal onslaught of monster-size feelings.

  Oh shit.

  These feelings for Chris are way bigger than the ones I had for Todd. Deeper than what I felt for him. Bigger, crazier, wilder. And so unexpected. So much more than fun. More than games. More than no strings.

  These feelings have all the strings, and the last time I felt even close to this way, I was blindsided, bitch-slapped, and left with two KitchenAid mixers I didn’t need.

  I don’t even know what to do with one.

  “Hi, Amber.” The greeting comes out stilted.

  “You were so right about this place. It’s wonderful. I’ve started coming here since that first time I saw you, and I love, love, love it.”

  “That’s great, great, great,” I say, then I want to slap myself. I don’t mock people, even people who steal grooms.

  But she’s not the one I was mad at a little more than a year ago.

  Todd was.

  Only, I got over him.

  I’ve 100 percent moved on from him.

  But I haven’t moved on from being human.

  I can’t move on from that. And because I’m human, I’m not immune to falling, after all. I’ve fallen hard and big and recklessly.

  Now all I can think is—what if the same thing happens again? What if Chris finds someone funnier, smarter, more interesting? Someone who loves deeper, better, more?

  What if I’m left behind again?

  Fear reopens the wound inside me that had healed but not scarred over, and it’s raw, like insecurity is rubbing salt in it.

  Somehow I swallow past the hurt in my throat. “Glad you like it,” I choke out, walking back my snitty reply so I don’t have to add one more thing to feel awful about today.

  Amber flashes a cordial smile and walks away.

  I eat, and the salad tastes like cardboard, the Diet Coke seems flat, and the fries are anti-orgasmic.

  When I leave, I go to the bakery and decide the only thing that could make me feel better is a cupcake. I order a chocolate buttercream and stuff it in my mouth.

  But it doesn’t remove the self-doubt that’s formed an ulcer in my heart.

  30

  Chris

  The interview is locked in for later this week.

  The surf report for this afternoon appears top-notch.

  And karaoke night is always a good time. Plus, I get to introduce my girl to my friends.

  There’s only one little hiccup.

  The girl has gone radio silent.

  I text her after lunch with the good news regarding Zander.

  No reply.

  I text her that afternoon telling her the ratings are strong for the segments.

  Nada.

  I tap out a third text then decide I’m a wuss. Something is wrong, and I need to man up and call her.

  It rings five times.

  She answers with a muffled hey.

  “Hey,” I say sympathetically, because she must be sick. “Are you okay? Do you have a cold or something?”

  “No.”

  “What's wrong, babe?”

  “Nothing. Just napping.”

  I arch a brow. Don’t get me wrong—naps are awesome. But I have a hard time reconciling the bright and effervescent McKenna with someone who sleeps during the daytime. “I didn't know you were into afternoon naps.”

  “I’m not.”

  My Spidey-sense goes on full alert, and I sit up straight in my desk chair. “What’s wrong?”

  She heaves a sigh. “I don’t think I can go to karaoke tonight.”

  “Okay, that’s fine. But is something else wrong?”

  “I just . . . Everything is happening so fast. I think I need a night to . . . figure it out.”

  I freeze.

  Brace like I’m about to get pounded by a killer wave.

  She’s breaking up with me.

  I swallow hard and try to form words. “What do you need to figure out?”

  “This. Us. Everything. Why fries taste bad, and Diet Coke is flat, and cupcakes made me sick.”

  Ah, maybe she is ill. “So you are sick? Do you need something? Some soup? I can bring you food or crackers or anything you need.”

  She whimpers. “You’re too perfect. This is too good to be true. I like you too much. I have to go.”

  She hangs up.

  I stare at the phone like it’s relaying radio signals in Martian.

  Because that made zero sense.

  I hit redial, but it goes straight to voicemail.

  Now that? That makes sense. That translates to only one thing—she doesn’t want to hear from me.

  31

  McKenna

  So this is what having a meltdown is like. It’s about blankets and dog cuddles and sad music blasting out all the noise in my head. It’s Elvis and Billie Holliday bathing my brain in sad songs, tunes of love that’ll never be. Love gone awry. Love that’s broken.

  Because a little hurt is better than a big hurt.

  And I’ve had the big hurt.

  I simply can’t endure a bigger one, or even the risk of it. And with Chris, the hurt would be a doozy. It’s best to wrap myself in layers of Kevlar now by going through life alone. Solo is way safer.

  After about three hours of burrowing under my covers and feeding the kernel of sadness inside me, I spring out of bed, lit up with an idea.

  Meltdowns need fashion.

  I forage through the new shipment of clothes sent by brands wanting features on my site. For my solo fashion show, I blast a new and old girl-power mélange of Cyndi Lauper and P!nk and Billie Holiday, singing along with the ladies as I try on jeans and skirts and sweaters. With just the right outfit, I am armor-clad. Fashion is a shield. Lift up your chin, hold your head high, and drape yourself in discount designer wear. That’s how you make it through your new life as a
solo act. Or, really, my pre-Chris life. That’s what I’ll be—alone and fabulous, never hurt, always happy.

  I toss a blue silk scarf around my neck and just as I spin around to ask Ms. Pac-Man’s opinion, she launches herself off the bed, skids across the hardwood floor, and fishtails like a bus into the living room. Curiosity gets the better of me, so I follow her. She’s scrabbling at the windowsill, barking her snout off.

  “What is it, girl? A squirrel? Or is it the horny pug?” I make my way to her side, and my eyes pop when I see what’s causing the commotion.

  A devil cat, perched on the railing.

  But a devil cat who belongs to my friend.

  I race to the front door, yank it open, and dart across the stoop. But Chaucer is wily for a reason. He’s possessed.

  He swats a plant off Hayden’s front stoop, knocking the tiny terra-cotta fern to its death, then he leaps off the porch.

  “Oh no, you don’t.”

  I’m not fast. I’m not agile. But I’ve had enough of that cat’s troublemaking.

  He scrambles under the stoop, and I cackle. There’s only one way out, and I’m blocking it. “Ha. You’re cornered, buddy.”

  Crawling under the stoop in my new jeans and silky scarf, I lunge for him, thrusting out an arm and grabbing.

  He slinks back, but he’s cornered. I grab his scruff, tug him out, and then cradle him.

  “It’s okay. Let’s get you inside,” I tell him, switching gears immediately to a soft, cooing tone.

  He remains stiff in my arms, but lets me carry him. I rap on Hayden’s door with my elbow, and seconds later, Lena yanks it open.

  “Chaucer!” She holds out her arms and reaches for him. He slides into her grasp, kicking up the purr-o-meter and rubbing his face against her, as if he’s not the most dastardly animal of all time. I swear, this cat has nine lives and nine personalities.

  “Thank you, McKenna.” Lena bats her eyes at me. “I was worried. I couldn’t find him when I got home from my Spanish lesson, but . . .” She glances around. “I think I might have accidentally let him out. I was just about to go looking for him.”

  “Well, here he is,” I say, releasing a deep breath.

  She kisses the top of his head. “Want to come in?”

  I pretty much already am, so I close the door behind me. “Is your mom around?”

  Lena shakes her head as she coddles the cat, petting his chin. “She’ll be home in a few minutes. Dad is working late. Do you want some rice and sautéed garbanzo beans? I was going to make some for a snack.”

  “That’s what you eat for a snack?”

  “It’s tasty.” She narrows her eyes. “What happened to you? You don’t look good.”

  I sigh. “It’s a long story.”

  “Does it involve the guy you really like?”

  I blink. How is this child so observant? “Why do you say that?”

  “The way you sigh and seem all out of sorts. It makes me wonder if it’s about a boy.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Hmm. I’m not sure I believe that.”

  I shake my head, amused. “You’re your mother’s daughter, you know that, right?”

  She smiles, heads to the couch, pats it, and tells me to sit. Chaucer curls up in her lap. “What’s the deal?”

  “I really like him,” I blurt out, then I correct. “Wait, I think I love him.”

  “That’s good, then.”

  “Why is that good? Love is awful and terrible, and it eats you alive.”

  “You’re just saying that because of your ex, who’s a big turd,” she says.

  I stare at her. “Excuse me?”

  She lowers her voice. “Well, you don’t want me to say what you and my mom really call him.”

  I shake my head vehemently. “You’re right, I don’t.”

  “You can’t let him get you down though. It’d be like if I let myself believe all cats are as crazy as this one.”

  “But this cat is crazy.”

  “Yet I love him, and he loves me, and that’s all that matters.”

  And I might officially be more confused. A door clicks open, and I snap my gaze toward it. Hayden walks in, eyes me, Lena, and my clothes. “Let me guess. You’re wallowing in self-pity and the utter terror of admitting you’re in love again.”

  “My God, are you a witch? Can you read minds?”

  She shakes her head. “No. I heard the last few things you two said as I opened the door.”

  Hayden moves around the couch, sinks down between us, kisses her daughter’s forehead, then turns to me. “Tell me how you’re your own worst enemy.”

  “She thinks not being in love with the guy she likes is better than being in love with him,” Lena says, confidently summing up our brief conversation.

  Hayden arches a brow, studying me. “Is that so?”

  I shrug an admission. “I’ll just get hurt again. Why bother?”

  “Oh, sweetie. Tell me what happened.”

  Hayden asks Lena to leave, and when she’s in her room, I spill all, detailing the phone call and Chris’s words and seeing Amber and the terrible taste of fries and the utter horror that the whole damn day has wrought on me.

  She pulls me in for a hug, pets my hair, then speaks softly. “I love you, and I’m only saying this because I love you, but if you let him get away, you’re going to regret it for the rest of your life.”

  I jerk my head up. “I am?”

  She exhales heavily. “Don’t let him get away. Love is scary and terrifying and wonderful and enchanting all at the same damn time.”

  Worry tugs at me, threatening to lure me down into the blanket cave again. Fear of heartbreak is so damn powerful and paralyzing. “But what if . . .”

  “What if he’s your sailboat in the moonlight?”

  Those words—they hook into me, playing notes and chords inside me, hitting all my hopes and dreams. The ones I keep locked up, but the ones that are so real.

  She shakes her head, squeezes my hand. “Love is one giant what-if. You might get hurt again, but you might also love more, feel more, give more. You might find your capacity to love expands and deepens. There’s never a guarantee you won’t get hurt. There’s never a guarantee about anything. But that’s what makes it so worthwhile. You get up and give it your all because of that chance for joy and happiness and that feeling that only comes from falling in love with someone who loves you back as wildly, as wondrously, and as deeply as you love him.”

  My heart army-crawls up my throat, and tears rim my eyes. “Stop it,” I choke out.

  “Stop what?”

  “Stop being so right all the time.”

  She pulls me in for another hug. “It comes with age. I’m like a good wine.”

  I stay in her embrace for a few minutes, savoring the comfort of friendship. Her friendship, and Erin’s and Julia’s too, as well as Andy’s and even Lena’s—and certainly Ms. Pac-Man’s—got me through a dark, terrible heartbreak.

  I’m on the other side. I’ve been on it for a while now.

  I’m better.

  I’m happier.

  I can either fall back into the familiar and keep my heart on lockdown, wrapped up, insulated, and safe from the world.

  Or I can unlock it and let it free.

  Andy was right when he said I have the key.

  I do.

  All I have to do now is turn it.

  32

  Chris

  Cooper kicks ass crooning Foreigner. Even I have to admit that. I say as much to our friend Violet, who’s cheering him on during the chorus of the rock anthem.

  “The man can sing,” I say.

  “He sure can,” she says, and when she watches him, I swear she has stars in her eyes. Someday those two are going to realize they have it bad for each other.

  When he’s done, I glance at my phone, hopeful that McKenna will have reached out.

  But the screen is empty. No text messages, and no missed calls.

  I sigh he
avily and rake a hand through my hair as Cooper makes his way off the stage, joining the crew at the table. He takes a bow, hamming it up, then flops down in a chair. He chats with Violet for a minute, and I check my phone once more.

  He jerks his head toward me. “Just call her. Or better yet, go see her.”

  I shoot him a look. “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re checking your phone every five minutes. Your woman isn’t here. Something went wrong. Go find her, and sort it out.”

  “It’s not that easy,” I say.

  He moves his chair, pulling it away from the table and staring at me with serious brown eyes. “Isn’t it?”

  I shrug. “It’s . . . complicated. She’s . . .” I don’t want to say more. I feel like I’m violating her trust.

  Cooper waves a hand like he’s a magician and is vanishing all these problems. “She’s worried. She’s freaking out. She’s afraid. Something like that. The point is—do what you two always talk about on your show. Communicate. Be direct. Figure out if she’s going to move forward with you or not. And if you don’t want to do that, I’m going to have to take away your phone so you can’t look at it anymore.”

  I stuff it in my back pocket and hold up my hands. “Fine. I’m done.”

  “Good. Now get your ass out of here, find your woman, and sort out whatever went down.”

  I don’t need to cogitate on his advice. I know he’s right. Hell, if I walked into the lioness den at The Tiki Bar, I can go to McKenna’s goddamn house and find out where she stands. Is she in or out? That’s a simple question. You’re either willing to be in love or you’re not. I need to make sure she’s crystal clear on where I stand and what I want. Telling her I’m over my trust issues wasn’t enough. I need to tell her I’m in love with her, and I want our thing to be the real thing. The one and only thing.

  I stand, ready to head to her place, when someone taps on the microphone and the familiar opening notes of an Elvis tune float through the joint.