Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 96720 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96720 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
“Mr. Ashe is going to propose to you?” Marshall asked, blinking behind his large, round-framed glasses.
My mouth dropped open momentarily. “N-not, no, I mean, that’s not what I—”
“So, that is what you’re talking about,” Marshall said, seeking clarification.
Fuck it. Fine. “If you suspected someone was going to propose to you, but you didn’t know how you would answer the question... what would you do?”
“I would wait until they proposed and ask if they come with dental insurance.” The answer came so quickly, it was definitely something he’d thought about before.
I frowned. “You don’t have dental?”
He shook his head.
“Jesus.” That was going to get fixed, ASAP.
“Are you afraid of him asking you because you can’t say yes?” Marshall steered us back to the matter at hand. “Or because you’ll say yes, and you think it’s a bad idea.”
I considered. “Neither. At least, I think neither. If he asks me to marry him, I’ll probably say yes because it’s a good idea. We’re perfect for each other.”
He shrugged, shook his head with a look of outraged confusion, and asked, “Then what’s the problem? What’s the drama here?”
“There’s no drama.” Other than what I was manufacturing at the moment.
“Oh, good. Because I thought we were wasting time on this for no reason.” He consulted his tablet. “I suppose now is not a good time to remind you that Mr. Ashe has you booked for a table for two at Marseilles at seven-thirty?”
Oh god. That’s a fancy place. He’s totally going to propose. Cold sweat rolled down the back of my neck. I cleared my throat. “Fancy place?”
His eyebrows rose above the rims of his glasses. “Um, yeah.”
“So… cocktail dress?” I asked.
He said nothing for a long moment and blinked at me in silence with his unreadable face. Finally, he said, “With all due respect: I am gay. But I’m not Project Runway gay. You’re going to have to ask someone else.”
“You know, a lot of people would fire their assistant for that kind of back talk,” I warned.
“A lot of bosses wouldn’t fire their assistants after the words, ‘I’m gay,’ came out of their mouths,” he countered. “Go watch Philadelphia a few times and get back to me. I’m going for coffees. Want one?”
“Yeah. White chocolate oat milk latte,” I said in utter defeat. I didn’t wait for him to leave before I put my head down on the table.
Matt was going to propose.
And I had no idea how I was going to respond.
* * * *
My anxiety was too big. I couldn’t stand the thought of seeing Matt before dinner. He would sense whatever was on my mind. I didn’t know if that was because he knew me so well, or because of my face and its constant betrayal whenever I tried to hide my emotions. As far as I knew, he wasn’t aware that I’d overheard his conversation with his mother, or that I knew anything about the family ring.
What if it was ugly?
I texted Matt that I had errands to run and not to wait for me at home. I would meet him at the restaurant at our reservation time. He’d reassured me that he would be working pretty late, anyway, and had already picked up his suit from the apartment. Translation: he’d sent someone else to pick it up. At least, he wouldn’t be there when I headed home to get ready.
I chafed at the mention of the suit and stewed all the way to the apartment. Why had he brought that up? To passive-aggressively remind me of the dress code? Because I still wasn’t fancy and sophisticated enough to even anticipate a dress code? Did he think I would roll up to Marseilles barefoot, in denim cut-offs and a bikini top?
“Don’t borrow trouble,” I heard my dad’s voice in my head. And as always, the dad voice was right. Matt had probably anticipated me asking if he had something to change into, since he’d be going directly from work to the restaurant. That’s how the conversation would have gone, if he hadn’t volunteered the information.
Why was I suddenly thinking the absolute worst of him? He’d done nothing wrong.
My therapist and I had discussed ad nauseum my tendency to ascribe judgment to everything Matt or anyone in his social circle might say to me. Instead of jumping to negative conclusions about what people meant, she’d advised me to look at it from an alternate point of view: what did my belief—that others thought poorly of me by default—say about that individual as a person? I was insulting Matt by assuming that he would be ashamed of me and quick to safeguard himself from embarrassment.
But it didn’t help that I’d heard him arguing with his mother over the distinction between our classes. Elizabeth didn’t want him to propose to me. Her position had been clear from the few sentences I’d overheard before I’d hightailed it out of there. The same sick, rejected feeling that had gripped me all the way back to Matt’s room that night returned with a vengeance.