She’s centered by her convictions, by her sense of self, and her passion for life.
But on the outside, she’s an elaborate mixture of laughter, intelligence, and beauty.
When I walk out of the store, little blue bag in hand, I feel like I could conquer the world.
Only Jade’s words bring me crashing back down. “You ran this past her dad, right?”
“I will.”
“And you know how you’re going to ask her?”
“I don’t. Not yet anyway.”
“Do you have anything figured out?”
A calm feeling settles over me. “Everything that matters.”
Jade rambles on with more suggestions about getting her father’s permission, about the most perfect proposal ever. But all I can think about is the look on Grace’s face when she says yes.
After walking her back to her office, I enjoy some peace and quiet as I ride the train back to my apartment. I decide to call her father and ask him if I can take him and Meredith out for dinner on Friday night. He agrees, calling me son as he ends the call. I’m left with a fairly good feeling that they won’t say no. Covering my bases, I shoot Jade a text asking her to make plans with Grace for the night. I’m not one for lying, but in this case it obviously needs to happen.
And as far as how I’ll actually propose, the words I’ll actually say, and the place in which I’ll say them—it’s safe to say I have more than a few ideas rolling around in my head.
But none of it matters, really.
Because all of those details aside, only one fact is important: The fact that I’m lucky enough to spend the rest of my life with the woman who I spent my entire life trying to find.
“You’ve been acting strange the last week or so.” All too casually, I drop that out there, hoping he’ll take the bait. We’re curled up on the couch, watching some random sitcom.
“Have I?” He strokes his chin, pretending as if he’s actually considering my statement. “I don’t think so, but if you say so.” The off quality of his usual sly-as-a-fox look lets me know something is definitely up.
“Whatever,” I huff with about as much maturity as some of my students. We finish out the rest of the show in easy silence. My legs rest in his lap and his fingers dance over my skin. When he starts rubbing my feet, I can’t help but groan my appreciation. “That feels so good.”
“You just love me for my hands.”
“Yep,” I agree. He stops his movements as my laughter fills the air. Nudging his arm with my toe, I wait for him to get back to work. “Ahem,” I prod “You forgot the other foot.”
“You’re impossible.” After making me wait for another few seconds, he picks up my left foot, giving it the same attention he paid the right.
“It should be illegal to have to wear real shoes all day. My poor feet are so used to flip flops. This is like some kind of medieval torture.” Stretching my toes in his strong hands is pretty much second only to sex.
“I can only imagine,” he adds, his words heavy with sarcasm. “I know when I’m at work, lugging a hundred pounds of gear up flights of stairs, in a burning building, all I can think about is how much I want to slide my feet into a nice comfy pair of flip flops.”
“Always one-upping me. Not cool.” He shoots down the finger I point at him with a stuck-out tongue. Clearly maturity is not on the menu tonight, but laughter is always more important. “I love you. And this.”
“The foot rub?” His attention is on the television, where he’s just changed the channel to a baseball game.
“Yeah.” I wiggle my toes again, making sure to nudge his body in a very suggestive way. And now the attention is back to me. “But I mean all of this. You here all the time. Coming home and seeing you here. Just knowing you’re part of my life. I know it all sounds so cheesy, but I can honestly say I’ve never been so happy ever. And I have you to thank for it all.” Sliding up next to him, I tuck myself under his arm, letting his warmth seep into my body.
“What’s got into you?” Pressing his lips to the top of my head, his question is spoken into my hair as his arm wraps around my shoulder.
Shrugging, I go with the lame, “Hopefully you later.” It at least gets a snicker out of him, but the change in my body language, or the way my arm is curled around his waist, anchoring my body to his, it all gives me away.
Angling his body back from mine a touch, he leans against the arm of the couch. When he looks down at me, his brows are knotted together in concern. “Aside from that.” He leans in, offering me a seductive kiss that leaves my head spinning. “What’s wrong?”
“You’ll laugh.” My attempt to dismiss his worry does nothing but amplify it.
Reaching forward, he lifts the remote from the coffee table. After clicking the television off, he twists in his seat, facing me completely. “I promise not to laugh, especially since it’s something that’s clearly bothering you.” The gentle vibrations of his calm voice convince me to share my apprehensions, no matter how he may react to them.
“I’m nervous about tomorrow.” Throwing that out there, I wait for his easy dismissal of my words.
“Why? Something going on at work? An observation already? Isn’t that a little early, even for a new teacher?”
“That’s not what I mean and you know it.” Realization slides over his face, washing away what I mistook for his glossing over the subject.
“Oh.” Scratching a hand over his chin, he moves it through his hair, letting it flop every which way. “I don’t know what to say. I’m not in any more danger tomorrow than any other day. Besides, it’s probably safer for me anyway. I’ll just be down at the memorial all day. It’s not like it’s an actual day of work or anything.” Tipping up my downturned chin with his fingers, he looks deep into my eyes.
Biting back the panic, I swallow hard and nod, but the acceptance he’s looking for isn’t genuinely there. “Then can I ask something without you getting mad?”
“I’d never get mad. Ask away.”
“Then why do you have to go? I mean if you’re not actually scheduled to work, and it’s not a work requirement or anything like that, why do you have to be there?”
Without missing a beat, he says, “Because I have to.” His dark brown eyes shine with something I can’t put my finger on. Respect. Honor. Dedication. Love. He kisses my cheek softly before continuing. “Three hundred and forty-three firefighters died that day. And every year that passes, we meet with the families of the victims from our squad.” Gently squeezing my upper arm, I can tell he’s not mad with me for asking. Even I can admit, the request sounded a lot like something a petulant girlfriend would ask, but when you’re worried about your firefighter boyfriend, whose safety you’re always thinking about, spending his day off at the 9/11 memorial on the anniversary of the tragedy, being whiny or demanding were the least of my concerns.
“Over the years,” he continues, a wistfully sad sound to his words. “Fewer and fewer families come in for the ceremony. I guess they choose to mourn in their own way, so no one can fault them for not being there. I can’t pretend to know what I would do, so I won’t judge them for what they choose.”
Tenderly, he lifts my hands into his. Stroking his thumbs over my wrists, he tells me about one particular family to whom he’s grown close over the years. “There’s this one family. They come year after year. They even stay in a hotel for a day or so before the ceremony to make sure they can get to the site in time.”
“How far do they travel from?”
Dropping one hand, he waves off my question. “Not far at all. Out here on the island. But that’s just how they are. The guy wasn’t married, didn’t have any kids. So year after year, his mom, two brothers and two sisters and their families come into the city, spend the day at the memorial. His father was a firefighter, and he died a month before 9/11. The family had actually postponed celebrating his fortieth birthday because of the funeral. And his brother.” He pauses to chuckle a little. “He’s a firefighter, too. He’s a trip. If you think I’m a dork, you oughta meet this guy. He’s even got that firefighter mustache you’re so fond of in all the old school guys.” For dramatic purposes, he strokes the hairless space above his upper lip. I can’t help but laugh, because seriously, every single older firefighter I’ve ever seen has what I call The Stache.