When we popped out of the metro, we were standing right near Notre Dame Cathedral. “Oh my God!” I said.
“Beautiful, right?” he asked. “But that’s not the surprise. Our apartment is close by. I hope it looks as good in real life as it did in the pictures.”
Darren had found a place online and rented it for us for three nights, which in the days before Airbnb was incredible. When we got there it wasn’t quite like the pictures, but it was still lovely. It had a balcony overlooking the Seine and was decorated exactly like you’d imagine a Parisian apartment would be, all ornate molding and bold colors and quirky accents. It also had a round bed.
“I’ve never seen anything like this before,” Darren said, when he stepped into the bedroom. “This was definitely not in the pictures.”
I stood next to him staring at it. “I didn’t know they made round sheets. And round blankets. Maybe it’s a French thing?”
Darren scratched his head. “I think maybe it’s just a whoever-owns-this-apartment thing.”
I laughed.
“I hope it’s okay,” he said, wrapping an arm around my shoulders.
“Of course it’s okay,” I told him. “It’ll be a sleeping adventure.”
? ? ?
WE HAD TO SLEEP closer to each other that night than we usually did so neither one of us had our feet hanging off the circle. It was kind of nice, sleeping tangled together, like how you and I used to. Is that how you slept with Raina? Or Alina? Or the women I’m sure were in between, even though you never told me about them?
? ? ?
THE NEXT DAY was a whirlwind of sightseeing—Notre Dame, the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, Sainte-Chapelle. We sat outside for dinner and could see the Eiffel Tower shimmer with lights every hour on the hour, as if it were shaking fairy dust down on the whole city.
“Are you happy?” Darren asked me, over a dessert of crème br?lée and Vin Santo.
“Incredibly so,” I told him. “Thank you for this trip.” I looked at the starry night sky, the Parisian buildings, and the cobblestone street. I looked at Darren, smiling at me. And my heart felt full. But then that tiny part of me, the one that would’ve liked to plan this trip together, wondered how much he was doing this for me, and how much he was doing it because he wanted to be the kind of guy who planned surprise trips to Paris for his girlfriend. Darren does these things, makes these grand gestures, all the time, and so many years later I’m still not sure how much of it is for me and how much is for him.
Right before we went to Paris, after he’d told me about the mystery anniversary trip he was planning, I’d bought him a bracelet. The kind with a metal bar that can get engraved. On one side it said his name, and on the other, the side that sat against his wrist, it said, “I love you. XO, Lucy.”
When the last scoop of crème br?lée was eaten, I went to pull the box out of my bag. “I have something for you,” I told him. “An anniversary present.”
“I have something for you, too,” he said.
“I thought this trip was my present,” I told him, playing with the wrapped box in my lap.
“It’s just part of it,” he said. “But I know of a better place to exchange gifts than right here.” He checked his watch. “Do you mind running a little?”
I looked down at my feet. “I’m wearing heels,” I said.
“Just a little bit of running. I’ll keep you balanced.”
So he paid the bill, and then we ran, holding hands, across the cobblestoned streets of Paris until we made it to the middle of the Pont Neuf.
“Perfect timing!” Darren said, looking at the Eiffel Tower as it once again shimmered with light.
Then he got down on one knee and pulled a tiny box out of his pants pocket, and before I could even process what was going on, “Lucy,” he said, “will you marry me?”
I felt my body flush, my stomach flip. Perhaps I should’ve expected this, but I hadn’t. And in that moment, I didn’t think about you at all. Or about the fact that Darren planned this trip without me. And didn’t seem to care about my job. And thought my dreams were cute instead of important. All I thought about was how sweet he was. How much he loved me. How much thought he’d put into this proposal, how much planning. How it felt like he was wholly and completely mine. And how much I loved all of that.
“Of course,” I said. “Absolutely. Yes.”
He stood up and tried to slip the ring on my finger—any finger—grabbing at my right hand until I offered him my left in its place.
And then we kissed, and the Eiffel Tower was still sparkling and it was the kind of romantic moment that belonged in a book or a movie or a fifteen-year-old’s diary.
I’ve wondered, since then, if you would go through that kind of trouble to propose to someone. How did you ask Alina? I don’t think you ever told me how that engagement started, just how it ended.
xlv
A few weekends after we got home, Darren left to go to Montreal for his friend Arjit’s bachelor party and I got a call from Jay that Friday night.
“Lu?” he said, when I picked up. “Any chance you’re free on Sunday?”
I’d taken Darren’s absence as a chance to plan a Saturday morning boozy brunch with Alexis, a Saturday afternoon trip to the Met with Kate, and a Saturday night dinner in Koreatown with Julia, where we planned to cook meat on sticks while she told me about her string of less-than-stellar OkCupid dates. I’d made not one plan on Sunday. I wanted to spend it at home, cuddled on the couch with just Annie for company. I wanted to eat Cheerios out of the box, which Darren thought was uncouth, and watch reruns of 90210, and stay in my pajamas until at least two p.m.
I sighed. “I am, what’s up?” I asked.
I could imagine Jay scratching his scruff of a beard on the other side of the phone. “So . . . would you be able to do me a huge favor?”
Jay wasn’t the kind of person who called in favors. Hardly ever. The fact he was asking actually made me a bit nervous.