I’m so wrapped up in what went wrong with my date tonight that I barely hear what Linden is saying. And that’s saying a lot because he usually has my rapt attention no matter what’s going on. I guess tonight’s dinner with Mr. Assface was just too much for me. I mean, what kind of guy wears an ascot and picks his nose in front of you?
“Steph,” he repeats in his light Scottish brogue and I finally tear my eyes off the bubbles in my beer to look at him. Sometimes he makes me wonder why I even bother looking at anyone else, he’s just that fucking handsome.
He’s also my best friend. And I’m pretty sure he just asked me to marry him.
“What?” I ask, trying to make sure I heard him right.
He grins at me. I wish he wouldn’t. Sometimes his smile rips the air from my lungs. It’s not an exaggeration. It’s messy, violent and abrupt and I wish it wouldn’t happen because, fuck it, I like breathing.
“I said, do you want to get married?” he says and I realize that perhaps some extremely important conversation has gone on without me knowing about it. Also, Linden…marriage…these things don’t exactly gel together.
“Uh,” I say, and I wish I didn’t feel the heat creep onto my cheeks. “Get married? To you?”
He shrugs and takes a sip of his beer in his easy-going fashion. The bar is dead quiet at this time of night except the music, Faith No More’s aggressive King for a Day that James always puts on when the night is over and he wants people to leave.
James Dupres, the owner of The Burgundy Lion, my ex-boyfriend and Linden’s best friend, is puttering about, cleaning up the tables and shooting passive-aggressive looks at the group of four who is gathered in the corner, the only other people left in the bar at ten minutes to closing.
“Yeah, to me,” Linden eventually says, casually, as if we are deciding which movies to see this weekend. “But I also meant in general.”
I stare at him for a few beats. He looks self-assured as always, rubbing his fingers along the length of his beard as he stares at me right back. Linden and I are close – as close as you can be for a purely platonic man and woman scenario. But even so, we’d never really discussed topics like this. Our shitty dating lives, yes. But marriage and the future, what we really wanted from life? No.
“Let me get this straight,” I say but I can’t find the words to continue. I take in a deep breath. “You’re asking me to marry you?”
He sighs and sits back in his chair, one strong forearm hung over the back, his fingers toying with the ends of my newly dyed jet-black hair.
“Baby Blue,” he says, his own personal nickname for me stemming from the fact that when we first met, I had blue hair the color of Caribbean waters. “Tell me about your date again.”
I give him a look. “I’d rather not, cowboy.” My nickname for him since he has the chiseled looks and furrowed brow of a young Clint Eastwood. Also, sometimes he’s a bit of a chauvinistic asshole as most stereotypical gunslingers can be.
“Right. And I’d rather not get into why the last five dates of mine ended with me jerking it in the shower.”
Pleeeeeease don’t make me think of you jerking it in the shower, I think, or things are going to get really inappropriate, really fast. At least in my head. Then again, my head is usually always inappropriate. It’s like a Pinterest page of hot, barely dressed men 24/7 up in there.
“And so,” he goes on, forcing my attention back to his words and not naughty images, “don’t you start wondering if this is going to get any easier? You’re beautiful, smart, I’m beautiful, smart…” he pauses and smiles to himself, “obviously. We’re turning twenty-five this year…what if we have to keep dealing with this? All this shit, never going anywhere.”