He checks his watch. I’m no connoisseur, but to my untrained eye, it looks like one of his fancier ones. “We should leave soon,” he says.
I shovel the rest of the food into my mouth and excuse myself from the table. In the bathroom, I flip over my head and run my fingers through the underside of my hair to create volume. I reach for the tube of lipstick in my purse, but I hesitate. It’s cherry red and the formula tends to smear on guys’ faces whenever they kiss me. If Blake proposes, he’ll kiss me, and then there will be photos. I don’t want him to look like a clown in them. I skip the lipstick. My face looks colorless.
When I emerge from the bathroom, Blake is leaning against the doorway. He’s wearing a navy suit jacket that’s unseasonably heavy for mid-September.
“Ready to go?”
Poor thing looks terrified.
“Ready,” I say, slipping my hand into his.
He exits his apartment, and when I turn to close the door, I think he sneaks a feel of his suit jacket pocket, just to make sure that whatever precious cargo he might be carrying is still there. I follow him into the elevator, across his lobby, and onto the street corner. He cranes his neck like he’s looking for a car, but three available taxis with lit-up medallion numbers pass by without him hailing one.
“You don’t want a cab?” I ask tentatively.
“I called us an Uber.”
An Uber meant he could give the address without telling me where we were going.
“Ah,” I say.
Blake has been pretty damn smooth these past few months—and it’s all going out the window now. It’s almost sweet to watch. It’s a good reminder that we’re all only human. I step back and let him look for the right Uber.
A black car pulls up in front of us a few minutes later. Blake opens the door and ushers me in first. He makes nervous eye contact with the driver.
“Hi,” he ekes out.
As the driver heads toward Central Park, crosses over to the Upper West Side, and turns to head downtown, Blake stares out the window. At first, I try to guess where he’s planning to propose: in one of the Central Park rowboats? At the disgustingly beautiful Natural History Museum? On a romantic side street in the West Village? But the car keeps sailing south, and I figure there’s no point in guessing. I’ll find out soon enough.
Ultimately, it slows to a stop by the waterfront, just west of One World Trade Center. I can see the Hudson River, and beyond that, the shoreline of New Jersey, and—wait. Oh. A white yacht is hitched to the pier in front of us. Blake takes my hand and leads me toward it.
“We’re going there?” I ask, swallowing.
“Maybe,” he says, offering that coy grin again.
He looks happier than he has all morning. Maybe the car ride calmed him down.
“Blake, did you know that I get—” I try to tell him.
But I’m cut off by a portly, fifty-something man in a white captain’s uniform.
“Hello there!” he exclaims. “Welcome to Sailaway, New York’s finest yachting experience. I’m Captain Edward Smith, I’ll be taking you out on the water today.”
The captain shakes our hands and we introduce ourselves, though it seems as if the captain has been more than expecting our arrival.
“Isn’t this fun?” Blake asks. “I wanted to surprise you with a boat ride around the tip of Manhattan. The views are gorgeous, and I thought sailing would remind you of home.”
Nobody in Portland walks around in crisp white sailor’s uniforms. This is clearly just for effect. And if he really knew anything about my experiences with sailing—if he really knew me—he’d think twice.
We walk toward the yacht as a trio now. Captain Smith tells us about the history of this particular ship and the weather conditions today, and I start to panic as soon as he describes the water as “a little on the choppy side.” I don’t know if I should tug on Blake’s sleeve, interrupt, and tell him how violently seasick boats make me. If it were just the two of us on a regular day, I might. But there’s already so much pressure on this day, and I don’t want to embarrass him in front of the captain. Before I can make up my mind, it’s too late. We’re already boarding.
We cross a gangway. The captain suggests we enjoy the view from the bow of the boat, while he disappears into the interior, presumably to steer. Even while we’re docked, the gentle bobbing motion of the yacht makes me feel unsteady. When the boat starts to move a minute later, it feels like the waves rock us even harder. I clutch the guardrail. Blake doesn’t seem to pick up on my discomfort. Instead, he comes around behind me, as if we’re a nauseous Kate Winslet and a clueless Leo DiCaprio. I thought Titanic was the most heartbreakingly romantic movie on the planet the first time I watched it back in ninth grade. But I had grown up enough—and gotten cynical enough—by junior year to see that allegedly “falling in love” after three days is kind of a sham. Even saying “I love you” after four weeks, like Blake and I did, is clearly pushing it.
The yacht sails away from Manhattan and starts a wide turn, so the southern tip of the island comes into glorious view. From a distance, the city looks narrower than I’d expect, and jammed with buildings: glossy skyscrapers, mirrored towers, sturdy older buildings, and flashy new architecture press up against one another like rush-hour commuters on the subway. One World Trade Center soars majestically over it all. I try to ignore how queasy I feel so I can stay in the moment.
“This view is really spectacular,” I tell him. I turn to kiss his cheek. “This is a perfect surprise. Thank you.”
“I’m glad you like it,” he says, breaking away from his Titanic pose and joining me along the guardrail. He shoves his hands into his pockets, hesitates, then plunges on. “You know, this view makes me think about when I first moved to New York. I came here for an adventure. To build something great. To become the person I wanted to be.”
“I get that,” I say. “I really do. I used to sit at home with a stack of magazines, reading about powerful, famous, glamorous people in New York, thinking about how big and magical my life could be here.”
It’s the perfect segue for me to drop in why I spent so many hours indoors reading magazines, because I was too seasick to join the rest of my family on our boat. But Blake clears his throat and keeps going.
“There’s this quote from the writer E. B. White,” he says. “I’m probably going to butcher it, but basically, he says there are three versions of New York. There’s the city that’s taken for granted by people who were born and raised here. There’s the city that’s just a nine-to-five destination for people who commute into work here. And then there’s the city for people who come in quest of something. That’s his exact phrase: ‘in quest of something.’ He says those New Yorkers give the city passion. That’s so clearly you, Eliza. I like to think that’s me, too. And that’s one of the reasons we work so well together. We want a life full of quests and passion and ambition.”
Blake looks straight ahead as he speaks and so do I. My gaze is fixed on the rollicking waves below. They’re stormy blue with frothy white caps. The yacht lurches dramatically, and so does my stomach. I’m nauseous to my core.
“We’re a great team, you and I,” he says. He turns to face me now. “I’d never be bored with you by my side. There’s so much I admire about you—your big dreams, your drive to succeed, what a fundamentally good person you are. That’s why it was so easy to fall in love with you. I love you like crazy.”
If only he knew the real me, he wouldn’t think I’m a good person at all. His big eyes loom overhead, but all I can see is how recklessly I had thrust my bejeweled hand out in front of me that boozed-up spring night, snapped a photo, and changed the course of my life forever. The yacht lurches again. I need to tell Blake how seasick I am. I can’t hide this from him, no matter how sentimental and stunning this moment is supposed to be.
“Blake, I—”
I reach out to clutch his arm, hoping to steady myself. But my hand falls short because he’s digging in his pock
et and sinking down onto one knee.
“Eliza Roth, will you marry me?” he asks, voice glittering with hope.
My hand flies to my mouth, not in shock, but out of caution, in case I lose the battle with my stomach. He opens one of the black velvet boxes I’ve sold hundreds of times to reveal the three-carat, round-cut diamond ring I had carelessly chosen months ago. It glints harshly in the sunlight. The first thought that springs to mind is, It’s not too late to say no. Maybe for the first time since I got myself into this whole mess, that truly sinks in. I could say no. I could reject his proposal. I like Blake; I might even love him someday. But I don’t feel the kind of unshakable love in my core that I always expected I’d feel upon my engagement. I don’t love Blake in the unquestioning way he claims to love me. If I were a different sort of person, that would settle the matter—that would be enough to make me walk away. I’d have to be scrappier, savvier, smarter, and maybe I’d lose Brooklyn Jewels for good. True love isn’t certain, but I’m certain this isn’t it.
Click. I hear what must be a photographer snapping away, and I’m reminded what drew me to Blake in the first place: he’s picture perfect for me. He makes sense for me. I like him. Even if my feelings aren’t as strong as I’d hoped, I’m pretty sure I can learn to love him. All good things take time—we just need more of it.
“Yes,” I say, surprising myself with the strength of my own voice. “Yes, of course, yes.”
Blake rises gratefully and picks the ring from its case. His hands shake as he slides it onto my finger. I flex my hand under its familiar weight. It looks so right and so wrong at the same time. He kisses me deeply, squeezing his hands around my hips and pulling me close to him. The boat rocks fiercely under our feet. The white-knuckled control I’ve managed to hang on to thus far evaporates. Nausea rolls through my stomach. I push Blake away just in time to vomit over the boat’s guardrail. I retch and sputter. My throat tastes sour and feels raw.
“Eliza!” Blake yelps. I feel his hands scrape my hair back from my neck, but he’s too late. He misses everything hanging by my face. I gag again at the sight of puke in my hair.
As if this isn’t horrifyingly shameful enough, I hear the photographer continuing to click away. I squeeze my eyes shut as I wipe my mouth and try to catch my breath. It’s not a stretch to imagine these images going viral.
“I should’ve told you I get seasick,” I say. My voice sounds ragged.
“I had no idea,” Blake says, looking slightly green himself. “I swear.”
“I guess it never came up,” I offer weakly.
A man in a white sailor’s uniform comes rushing forward with a bottle of water.
“Ma’am, ma’am, are you feeling all right?” he asks.
I drink as much as I can handle in one sip. “I will be. Can we head back to land?”
“Of course, I’ll tell the captain right away,” he says.
“God, I had no idea,” Blake says, shaking his head. His eyes are still wide with horror. “I just assumed, you know, growing up in a boat shop in Maine . . . this would be your thing.”
“If it were, wouldn’t I have said something?” I ask. There’s a sharp edge to my voice.
I feel myself tense again, and this time, it’s not from nausea. I don’t want this to be our first fight. I don’t want to ruin the moment any more than I already have. I exhale deeply. I can let this go.
“No, you know what? It’s fine. It’s not a big deal. I’m just so happy to be with you, and to be engaged to you.”
“For a second there, I freaked out that you were throwing up because you regretted saying yes,” Blake admits.
I’m mid-sip, so I can’t respond right away. He freezes.
“You don’t regret this, do you?” he asks.
My heart races. The way I play my next line will mean everything. Thankfully, my voice comes out steadier than I feel.
“Blake, I’m madly in love with you and I can’t wait to be your wife. I’d kiss you right now if I didn’t smell like vomit.”
There’s a set of stairs leading up to the roof deck in front of us.
“Let’s get away from the edge of the boat,” I say. “The center rocks less than the sides.”
I climb up and Blake follows. There’s a cocktail table draped in a white tablecloth and sprinkled with red rose petals. On top is an ice bucket chilling a bottle of Dom Pérignon and two crystal champagne flutes. The man in the sailor’s uniform runs up the stairs to the roof deck.
“The captain is heading back now,” he announces. “I don’t know if you still . . . would you, um, like champagne?”
Blake gives me a concerned look. “I don’t know if that’s the best choice for you right now?”
I feel like shit, but the water has washed the foul taste from my mouth. I can’t ruin today for good.
“The bubbles will settle my stomach,” I say, aiming for bravado. “It’s like top-shelf ginger ale. Let’s pop that bottle and celebrate.”
The boat attendant laughs. “You’ve got quite a fiancée there, sir,” he says.
Blake rubs my arm appreciatively. “Don’t I know it.”
Once the Dom is popped and poured, I clink my glass to Blake’s.
“Hey, at least the photos will be unforgettable,” I joke.
“Ugh. I’m sure. Speaking of which, the photographer can get some shots of the ring. That’s a thing, right? I did some research.”
I laugh. “Yes, it’s a thing. I’m sure I look disgusting, but I guess photos of my hand would be all right.”
Blake picks up my hand and studies the ring. “Sophie told me this was your favorite piece Brooklyn Jewels has ever made,” he says, shyly meeting my gaze. “It’s quite a piece of jewelry.”
“I know it’s a little much, but thank you. You have no idea how much this means to me.”
“Don’t even mention it. It’s a special ring for a special woman.”
He ushers over the photographer, who runs me through modeling all the classic shots I know well: my left hand slipped into Blake’s, splayed out against the backdrop of the Manhattan skyline, wrapped gently around my new fiancé’s arm. The photographer works quickly.
“She knows what she’s doing,” Blake brags to him. “She does this for work.”
“Hand model?” the photographer asks.
“Definitely,” Blake deadpans. He shoots me a look and stifles a laugh.
For the rest of the ride, I lie across a row of seats with my head in Blake’s lap. He doesn’t mention the bits of vomit clinging to my hair. Our champagne flutes sit untouched on the floor by his feet. Even up here, on the roof deck, I can feel every lurch and wave. But I don’t think that’s the sole reason my stomach continues to roll.
• Chapter 19 •
A few hours later, I’m nestled under the covers of my own bed with my laptop opened to the Wythe Hotel’s site. Blake had brought me straight home, then went to Duane Reade to pick up saltines and ginger ale to settle my stomach. I take this time when he’s gone to focus. I don’t have time to feel queasy; I need to prepare for a pivotal moment in this months-long plan. If I can’t convince him that a whirlwind trip down the aisle this fall at the Wythe Hotel is a good idea, then I’m stuck. That would mean potentially canceling on the Wythe—with no guarantee that I’ll ever be #blessed enough to be offered a practically free #sponcon wedding ever again. I don’t think I’ve ever had such a high-stakes conversation in my life. Above my laptop, my palms are glossy with sweat.
I hear the click of the lock. Blake is back. I had given him my keys so he could let himself in and out for this errand, and he had simply beamed.
“I guess we’ll have to make each other copies now, won’t we?” he said. “That is, until we’re living under one roof.”
Right, let me just add that to the to-do list: stage a wedding, save my business, find a new apartment in the most competitive housing market in the entire country. I don’t have a shred of mental bandwidth to devote to moving right now. I
can’t even fathom where we’d live. I wouldn’t want to move too far away from the shop, and I also can’t imagine Blake living anywhere but his Upper East Side bachelor pad. I try to picture a compromise, but nothing materializes.
Blake hands me the saltines and ginger ale, then joins me on the bed.
“Looking at venues already?” he says, craning his neck to look at my screen.
“Yup.”
“Should we, I don’t know . . . call our families and tell them the news?”
I turn and blanch. Given the events of the past few months, I can’t guarantee that Mom and Dad will have a sunny reaction over the phone, and I can’t risk letting Blake hear whatever they have to say. I snuggle closer to him and drop a kiss on his temple.
“Why not just enjoy this day together? We can tell people tomorrow,” I suggest.
“Fair enough,” he concedes. “Show me the places you’re looking at.”
I launch into a hastily rehearsed speech about how much I’ve loved the Wythe Hotel ever since I moved to Williamsburg.
“I’ve been there for parties, and I’d just die to get married there,” I say. “The rooftop has the most gorgeous view of the Manhattan skyline.”
I can’t breathe as I watch Blake’s face for flickers of expression. It wouldn’t be surprising, after all, if he preferred a stuffy ballroom uptown somewhere—or worse, a beloved family venue in Massachusetts.
“Hmmm,” he says, tilting his head.
Blake pulls the computer onto his lap and clicks around on the site to see more photos. I try to breathe. Up until this point, I truly hadn’t considered a plan B. I’ve pulled off the impossible again and again: finding a ridiculously eligible boyfriend at the exact moment I needed one, having him fall in love with me, and even proposing with the ring of my choice. I’m a goddamn fantasy machine—if something as mundane as Blake’s taste in wedding venues throws me off course now, god help me.
“It’s nice,” Blake says finally. “I’ve been to the rooftop, actually, for a friend’s birthday. The view is sick. But I guess it’d depend on how much it costs.”
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