Chapter 9 - THE RING IN THE DRAWER
Three years after the restaurant, I found the old engagement ring.
Brielle's ring.
Technically.
The ring meant for her.
It had remained inside a locked drawer.
Mara found me holding it.
“That's enormous.”
“Mother chose it.”
“Of course she did.”
“Brielle hated it.”
“I like Brielle.”
“So do I.”
Brielle had married a documentary filmmaker from Brooklyn.
Her father survived.
Barely.
I held up the ring.
“Want it?”
Mara stared.
Then laughed.
“No.”
“Worth trying.”
“Absolutely not.”
I put it away.
Then pulled out another box.
Small.
No giant diamond.
Mara stopped laughing.
“Adrian.”
“Relax.”
“No.”
“I'm not proposing.”
“You're holding a ring.”
“I am asking a preliminary question.”
She covered her face.
“You turned marriage into a board meeting.”
“Trauma response.”
She laughed.
Then cried.
I sat beside her.
“No Central Park conservatory.”
“Good.”
“No press.”
“Better.”
“No family approval.”
“Excellent.”
“No merger.”
“Disappointing.”
I smiled.
“Someday?”
She looked toward the living room.
Four boys were arguing over a video game.
Then at me.
“Someday.”
I kissed her.
Six months later, someday arrived.
She said yes.
---
We married in the restaurant.
The same restaurant.
The manager who once refused Mara temporary shelter no longer worked there.
The new owner offered the space after hearing our story.
Twenty-eight guests.
The boys wore navy suits.
Milo carried rings.
Mason forgot his job.
Micah cried.
Max whispered:
“Don't mess this up again.”
“I'll try.”
“Bad answer.”
“I won't.”
“Better.”
Mara walked toward me.
No corporate merger.
No planned alliance.
No photographers beyond one friend.
No mother choosing the bride.
Just love.
Late.
May you like
Scarred.
Real.
