Butterfly Weeds (23 page)

             
“I’ve never really liked the word
girlfriend
,” Brady confessed then.

             
I looked at him puzzlingly.

             
“What’s wrong with
girlfriend
?” I asked.

             
“I don’t know,” he said. “It’s just a funny word.”

             
I laughed softly.

             
“Okay,” I surrendered.

             
“Can you believe that it’s been four years?” he asked, changing the subject.

             
“Yeah, I’m so glad that law school is only three. I don’t think I could have made it through another year,” I said, looking slightly heavy-burdened.

             
Brady, seemingly puzzled, stared at me.

             
“No,” he said, smirking. “I don’t mean school. I mean us. We’ve been together for more than four years now – well, officially.”

             
I cocked my head and stared into Brady’s warm, brown eyes.

             
“Oh,” I said, smiling again. “Wow, has it really been that long already?” I asked, now with a thought-provoking gaze. “It feels like just yesterday that you asked me to that concert. What was the name of that band again?”

             
“The All-American Saints,” Brady replied, smiling.

             
“That’s right,” I said, nodding my head. “Gosh, it’s crazy, but sometimes, it’s all just a blur.”

             
“It’s called grad school, Honey. It’ll do that to you,” Brady said, laughing.

             
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” I said, starting to smile. “Well, here’s to the beginning of the end,” I said, raising my glass of wine.

             
“Of school, anyway,” he snuck in.

             
“Of school,” I confirmed, smiling.

             
Brady raised his glass also and brought it to mine.

             
The meal came soon after, and we sat under the few stars coming to life in the night’s western sky, eating and catching up on the previous month of our lives. Then, after the meal, Brady subtly motioned for the waiter to come back over to our table.

             
“Can I interest you two in any dessert this lovely evening,” the waiter sputtered off when he reached us.

             
I looked at Brady with big eyes and a wide smile.

             
“Yes, sir,” Brady said in his suave,
New York
accent, while grinning back at me. His accent had yet to take on the Midwestern drawl, despite the fact that he had called
Missouri
his home for quite a few years now.

             
“I think we’ll take the chocolate cake,” he continued.

             
“You know me so well, Honey,” I said, smiling at Brady after the waiter had scurried away again.

             
“I should. I’ve known you for five years,” Brady said, now with a big grin.

             
“That’s right, and exactly why did it take you so long to finally ask me out?” I questioned him playfully.

             
“Well, frankly, you scared me,” Brady said with the most serious look that he could conjure up.

             
“What?” I asked, slightly confused.

             
“You had those huge gloves and that big, puffy coat. You looked like the Abominable Snowwoman. Well, unless it was your perfect 80 degrees,” Brady replied, starting to crack a smile.

             
“Okay, okay,” I said, smirking and shaking my head. “And I see that you haven’t lost that childlike charm either, have you?” I said, now laughing and setting my linen napkin onto the surface of the table.

             
Brady smiled, and then his smile slowly faded as he spoke again.

             
“But seriously, Julia, I don’t know. I don’t know why it took me so long,” he said, looking me in the eyes.

             
The look in his eyes made me somehow uneasy – like he was about to tell me something severely serious.

             
“You were such a good friend and then before I knew it, you had become my best friend,” I listened to him continue.

             
I smiled a soft but slightly uncomfortable smile.

             
“Your dessert,” the waiter chimed in, setting a shiny, silver platter with a rounded covering on top of it in front of me.

             
I sat back in my chair, staring at the covered dish and wondering when, in my absence, had Calvin’s upped the ante and changed its dessert presentation. My piece of cake normally came out on a white, ceramic plate decorated with chocolaty syrup swirls, and while the cake had easily appealed to the eyes in the past, tonight’s staging effortlessly surpassed the normal delivery. Despite the change, however, I waited in anticipation for the waiter to raise his hand, which now held a knob on the top of the silver platter’s covering, and to reveal to me my favorite chocolaty treat and, by far, my favorite part of dinner.

             
“Enjoy,” the waiter said finally, removing the shiny, arched cover from the silver tray.

             
My face flushed white and then quickly turned back to a rosy rouge when I saw what had replaced my piece of cake on the serving dish. Then, a nervous shot of adrenalin sprinted rapidly throughout my body.

             
On the platter where my chocolate piece of cake had always sat in the past, was no chocolate cake at all. And in its place, sat a single, sable-colored, velvet box.

             
Managing to keep my wits about me on the outside, I uncontrollably panicked on the inside, and a feverish smile tumbled off of my lips as I tried as best I could to hide the uneasiness that I felt was seeping through my eyes and lips. It wasn’t my birthday. It wasn’t Christmas. It wasn’t Valentine’s Day. Was there another holiday that you might get little, velvet boxes?

             
Before I could grasp the full intensity of the moment, Brady was down on one knee beside me.

             
Then, I knew. This wasn’t a holiday.

             
Clutching the black, velvet box, he gracefully removed the ring that was inside and gently took my left hand. The scene had, by now, attracted a large following, and before I knew it, I had been transported to a live, reality television show that every eye in the restaurant was thirsting to watch.

             
“Julia, you have been my rock, my joy, my safe place. I love you. Make me the happiest man in the world, and marry me,” I heard Brady recite, with a soft smile on his face.

             
I stared at him with a blank expression and, again, flushed features. I was mad at myself that I had not even anticipated, much less contemplated that something like this could have happened tonight or even in the near future, for that matter. I had been agonizingly caught off-guard, and I knew that it was no one’s fault but my own. Besides, he was right for asking me anyway. This was, after all, the next step in our relationship. I loved him. He loved me. He was brilliant and talented and charming. He was Mr. Perfect. Any girl would kill to have him. I really had nothing else to say but what I should say – what I must say. My mind raced as I spoke softly.

             
“I do,” I stammered. “I will. I, I mean, yes,” I sputtered, forcing a happy smile.

             
Brady smiled back and breathed a sigh of relief as he slipped the beautiful, one-karat diamond ring onto a finger that was attached to the hand in front of me. The crowd broke out into a burst of applause and cheers then, as Brady came off of one knee and kissed my lips as I sat in my chair, smiling, still trying to comprehend the previous few minutes of my life.

             
I wasn’t sure what to do next. I looked at Brady and then at my left hand and at the new, sparkling adornment resting on my ring finger. My own hand looked foreign to me now. My old hand didn’t have this shiny growth on it. My old hand didn’t look as established or put together as this new hand. My old hand didn’t belong to someone who belonged to anyone. I stumbled on the inside – like in a dream when you’re uncontrollably falling but you never hit the ground. On the outside, however, I was a rock – a smiling rock – maintaining my shape even through the
California
earthquake.

             
Moments later, Brady asked for the check, paid the dinner tab and led me out of the restaurant to cheers and another round of applause by the reality TV audience. I felt like I was on some corny game show and a stage hand had just held up the
Applause
sign. I kept smiling nevertheless. In fact, somewhere between the restaurant’s doors and my jeep, I had resolved to keep smiling – to soak it up and take it all in. It was the night of my engagement after all, and I had silently vowed to myself to make it a priority to be happy – at least appear peaceful – despite my hesitations. In the end, I knew that someday I would want to look back on it as an altogether joyful and happy experience – not a sad one. I would get used to the ring on my usually naked finger – that would be the easy part. And eventually I would get used to the idea of ever after as well. I just hadn’t had enough time to think about it yet. There was, however, only one thing – one clear thought – that I just couldn’t shake. For now – maybe because of my state of shock or delirium or denial or something – the only thing I really couldn’t stop thinking about was that I never got my dessert. I never got my chocolate cake.