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He breathes, a little shaky, and waits for the song to start. It’s an awkward pause, mostly because we’re basically the only people in the room, other than a few people who’ve wandered to the bar at the opposite end.
Really? I mouth to him, certain my eyes are about to pop out of my head, just as the intro kicks in.
He gives a half grin, shrugs, and raises the mic. And then I’m impressed by what he brings to a fun Bruno Mars song: he’s a showman, not at all shy, with a great voice. And the lyrics are a little absurd, sure, but he’s drawing a crowd into the room. I hear them, feel the energy swell, but I can’t take my eyes off this ridiculous man in front of me, owning the mic. I lose myself in the memories from that first week together: Sawyer propped against the doorframe while I sang at karaoke, unwilling to sing himself; Sawyer on stage during The Couples’ Game Show, coming out of his shell; Sawyer splashing me with water in a kayak; Sawyer racing me to a sliding board over the ocean; Sawyer trusting me with his secrets. But never Sawyer the showman.
“Where did this come from?” I wonder aloud, and Nancy looks up at me through wet eyes.
“From you, dear.”
Mel dabs at her own eyes with a tissue from the pack in Gram’s outstretched hand, and I catch a glimpse of a familiar face in my periphery. It’s not that Mom and Dad don’t like Sawyer, it’s just that they wouldn’t fly halfway across the country to watch him finish a marathon. And if they did, why am I just now seeing them for the first time today?
And why is my agent here?
And who are all these other people, cocktail dress- and suit-clad, watching him, watching me?
The last verse starts and the music shifts, the sound of bells replacing the steady drum beat, and he sings, turns serious, the room’s atmosphere altogether different as he approaches me, takes my hand, and draws me to him.
“What are you doing?” I whisper, tightening my grip around his hand as he lowers himself to his knee, crooning the end of the song, making it very obvious what he’s doing. The showmanship fades and it’s just the two of us, eyes locked, alone in front of so many people. He smooths his thumb over the back of my hand and the crowd erupts with quiet excitement. His skin flushes and he swallows against the knot of his tie.
The devilish grin I love on him flashes on his lips, and he holds up a finger to the waiting masses—a surprising number of friends and family, I’ve determined—before rising and pulling me outside onto the deserted deck, away from the ears of everyone inside.
“Feeling better out here?” I ask, as he gulps in the salty air.
“So much,” he says. He cups my cheek in his hand and plants a kiss on the other. He takes a step back and holds my hand again, picking up right where he left off inside. “I never thought I’d get to a place where I could do that.”
“What, kick ass at karaoke?” I grin up at him, but he doesn’t laugh.
“Tell a room full of people how madly in love I am,” he says. Then he shakes his head and his brows furrow. “Hell, Gwen, I never thought I’d get to a place where I could love anyone the way I love you.”
Maybe I should stop him. Maybe I should tell him that it’s too soon—far too soon—to take this step. This is the stuff of romance novels and fairy tales, not of real life. But I feel it, too. It is real: all of it, good and bad, from that first awful meeting to the tears we’ve shared and the ones we know we still have yet to cry together; from finding ourselves sharing a kayak to finding ourselves sharing a bed, and now, as he proposes, sharing a life.
“I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I’m crazy for asking you to marry me when we’ve known each other less than four months.”
“I don’t think you’re crazy for asking.” The words come out a whisper. “Do you think I’m crazy for saying yes?”
He swallows hard. “You might want to hear the whole question first.”
I’m shaking, but he’s visibly trembling as he lowers himself onto one knee again. “Gwendolyn Grace Pierce, will you continue to fill my life with joy? With love? Will you put up with me forever, whether I’m dripping on your laptop, or freaking out about snakes, or trying to rip your clothes off in elevators?” He turns the black box over in his hand and exhales. “Gwendolyn Grace Pierce,” he repeats, his eyes moving to mine from the box, “will you marry me?”
“Yes, of—” I start, but he shakes his head again, opening the box, looking up at me with hope dancing in his eyes.
“Tonight?” he adds.
It feels like the wind was just knocked out of me. “Tonight?” I squeak. I clear my throat, and now my voice is a normal octave. “Tonight?”
“Tonight,” he echoes. “I hear you were looking for something unexpected. Does this not fit the bill, Gwen?”
“Unexpected? Where did you—” He flicks his gaze through the window and I follow. Inside, Nancy and Gram are huddled together, watching like the rest of the attendees at whatever this event ends up being. “Oh. Right. And the black glitter and hot pink.”
“All Maggie’s doing.”
“Of course it is.”
“I’m cramping up down here, Gwen,” he deadpans, and it launches me into laughter, which is the last of the convincing I need.
“Yes.” I answer. I want to say so much more, but I’m already dangerously close to ugly crying in front of everybody watching through the windows. I clear away the tears that have already landed on my cheeks and steady my breathing. “Yes, Sawyer Victor Dawson. I will marry you. Tonight.”
He rises and slips the ring on my finger, kissing me firmly before turning to the window and throwing his arms in the air. “She said yes!” he cries, and the sound of the cheering from inside fills the air around us.
