Flirting. Lindsay is flirting.
She’s not even close to being one hundred percent, but then again, neither am I. We have to heal – inside and out -- and time is our best form of medicine.
Time together, that is.
As we get to the elevators for the parking garage, I press the lobby button. Her face screws up in confusion.
“I thought we were leaving.”
“Let’s walk down the street to a bakery.”
She smiles shyly and says nothing, stepping onto the elevator as the doors open. We’re alone on the ride down. I hold her close, mind churning, careful not to hurt her shoulder.
My coat contains something special, right in the same inner breast pocket where the crown of her head touches.
But she doesn’t know.
We’re both deep in our own thoughts, the elevator bell ding! startling us, making Lindsay smile and shake her head. The sun is blinding, like always. It’s good to know the world goes on, even as our own individual worlds seemed to fall apart for a little while.
Time to put life back together, better than ever.
“Are you okay?” Lindsay asks, pausing. I stop walking and look at her, my gut clenching.
In the sunlight, she’s more beaten up. Hospital lighting is harsh, but sunlight is the great equalizer. She must see something in my face, some part of my reaction I can’t hide, because she reaches up and touches her hair.
“I’m fine.” I mimic her, except instead of touching my hair, I pat my pocket. The little velvet box is in there, along with an important envelope.
Last night was a long night at Lindsay’s place. While she slept, insomnia gripped me. A man can do a lot of thinking in his girlfriend’s bed, her light breath warming his arm, her gorgeous self in a state of total trust.
A lot of thinking.
I have a plan.
A harmless little plan of my own.
We find a small café. I guide her to a private table, then go to the counter and return with two coffees and a box of assorted pastries. Lindsay peeks in the box and laughs.
“Planning a party? Who do you expect to eat all this, Drew? There’s enough for a dozen people.”
I admire the curve of her arm as she reaches up to brush her hair back from her face. She grabs an apple pastry and takes a bite, groaning with culinary pleasure.
I enjoy that, too.
As we steal these peaceful moments from the rest of our tumultuous lives, I wait. I know she’ll bring it up.
And finally, she does.
“Do you really think they’ll try to send me to the Island?”
“Yes.”
“I won’t go.”
“Then don’t.”
“They have so much power, Drew. You know them. They’ll find a way if they really want me gone.”
My body goes tight with a protective streak I’ve had since the day I met her. “We can stop them.”
“How?”
It’s suddenly very warm in this little café. Sweat breaks out where my collar meets my neck. I rub my palms on the tops of my thighs.
You can do this, Foster.
I can take out an Afghan warlord from hundreds of yards away, cool as a cucumber and steady as can be with a rifle and not break a sweat.
But the thought of asking Lindsay to marry me makes me overheat.
Yeah, marry.
“I have an idea.”
“Bring it on,” she says, her good arm waving with encouragement before she picks up her coffee and drinks some.
“Your parents keep holding the fact that they are your next of kin over your head.” I start to fidget. I hate fidgeting. My right leg bounces up and down like an eager puppy with a fetch stick in its mouth.
“Right.”
“What if you could change that?”
“Like, pick someone to have medical power of attorney over me? I think Daddy and Mom would -- ”
“No, I mean change your next of kin.”
“Drew, I don’t understand.” Her eyes are wide and searching my face. I haven’t connected the dots for her. My heart crawls into my throat, resting there, needing a short pause before making the final journey to the summit of Mount Ask Lindsay to Marry Me.
Fortifying myself with a few gulps of coffee, I drain my cup, set it on the table, then take her good hand in mine.
“I think you should marry me, Lindsay.”
Lindsay
“Did you just propose?” I did not hear that. I didn’t.
“Yes.”
I did hear it.
He did.
He said that. He said he wants to marry me.
“No,” I blurt out. Moving my hand breaks contact with him. I feel a wide wedge between us, getting bigger.
“No?”
“I mean, yes!”
“No or yes, Lindsay? There are two options and you’ve used them both within seconds of each other.” Is that sweat on his forehead? Drew doesn’t get nervous. Oh, my God is he nervous?
“No! I mean, yes! No, I mean, I don’t want you to marry me out of pity or because you want to win.”
“Win? Marrying you would be the best kind of win.”
“I’m not some trophy! Or a prize you get for outsmarting my parents!”
He’s stunned. “You think that’s why I proposed?” Drew’s arms cross over his chest, his chin tipped down, looking up at me under thick lashes, giving me a questioning look so smoldering, all I want to do is kiss him.
I shrug instead.
This really befuddled look pours through his face like a rainfall of emotion. Drew is so stoic most of the time – hell, all of the time – that it’s almost comical.
I laugh, anyhow, and then I start to cry softly. Salt in my tears makes all the cuts on my face sting.
“Let me do this properly,” he announces, reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket. What’s he doing? He couldn’t possibly have a --
A ring?
A tiny gray velvet box is in his hand, and he flicks it open with his thumb like it’s a lighter and he’s starting a flame.
Which he is.
Only with a diamond.
My mouth drops open. “Drew!” I gasp. “I saw this on your nightstand table that day. I remember. It was next to that ridiculous book about airplanes -- ” I clap both hands over my own mouth to stop the stupid from pouring out of me.
He drops to one knee.
Oh, my GOD.
“I said I needed to do this properly.”