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“Arugula,” I answer, keeping my mouth covered in case either of the green leafy toppings is in my teeth. “It’s like a peppery kind of leafy green.”
“Gross. You’re basically eating salad pizza.”
“And you’ve got meatza,” I shoot back. “Is there a kind of meat youdidn’task for?”
“Canadian bacon. Not a fan.” When I start to laugh, he says, “What?”
“Oh, the irony. The Canadian doesn’t like Canadian bacon.”
“I don’t claim Canadian bacon. It’s a poor representative of both bacon and Canada. It has no taste!”
“Funnily enough, if I’m getting meat, that’s the one Iwouldget,” I tell him.
Eli shakes his head. “Bailey, Bailey, Bailey—how is this marriage going to work when we can’t even agree on pizza toppings?”
I finally finish the bite I’ve been chewing and wipe my mouth, considering the question. Which I know he meant as a joke, but it’s got me thinking about marriage. You know, the thing we’re about to do together, for better or for worse, fraudulent or not.
“Maybe that’s what marriage is,” I suggest. “Arguing over pizza toppings.” Eli’s brow furrows, so I continue. “I mean, no two people automatically start agreeing on everything once they say ‘I do.’ So, they learn their differences and how to navigate them. What things are fine to disagree on—like pizza toppings—and where they need to come to a consensus. That’s marriage.”
My parents seemed to me like the very definition of two peas in a pod, which left me feeling a little bit like the third wheel. But when I said as much one time, Mom told me she and Dad had tons of things they disagreed on. And okay, all of them were kind of nerdy, like whetherBattlestar GalacticaorFireflywas the better show. She said that over time, they learned whicharguments needed resolution and which ones were healthy to keep in the name of individual autonomy within a marriage. Her words.
“Speaking of marriage, I had a thought. You seemed a little overwhelmed when I brought it up in the car.”
I smile weakly, placing my palms on the countertop to steady myself. “Overwhelmed is an understatement.”
“How about this: you let me know if there are specific things you want, and I’ll handle all the details,” Eli suggests.
The relief at this suggestion is palpable. And yet, I don’t want to put this all on him. It feels wrong. “You don’t need to plan the whole wedding, Eli.”
“I don’t mind. Actually …” His smile is a little sheepish, and his cheeks flush the lightest pink as he says, “I kind of want to do it. If that’s okay. I know I screwed up the proposal?—”
“Eli. Stop. You didn’t.”
“Bailey, I did,” he insists, leaning closer. “Don’t try to make me feel better about it. I didn’t think it through. But I promise to do better with this. If you trust me, that is.”
“I trust you.”
I gently tap his shin with my foot, and he traps it between both of his, giving it a gentle squeeze before releasing me. I smile, feeling a sudden satisfaction that has less to do with the pizza I just ate and more to do with the man whose sweetness keeps surprising me.
“We should also talk about expectations,” he says, shattering the sense of calm I’d just been relishing, replacing it with jittery nerves.
“Expectations,” I repeat.
“Not for the wedding, but after. Like, what this will look like between us in practical terms. I made a list,” he says, clearing his throat and shifting his weight to pull something out of hisback pocket. A pink sticky note, just like the ones he used on his volunteer application.
What is it with the pink sticky notes?
I want to ask but quickly forget my question altogether when Eli reads the first item on his list. “As far as sleeping together …” I’m not sure what expression my face makes, but he quickly adds, “We don’t need to sleep together. Uh, as in, there are two bedrooms upstairs. Two beds. Mom doesn’t usually come up there because stairs are hard on her knees. So she won’t know that we’re not sleeping together. In the literalsleepingsense.”
I may be an adult, capable of talking about adult things, but right now, I’m blushing like a schoolgirl. “Sounds good,” I manage.
“Wow.” Eli chuckles, dropping his gaze to the sticky note in his hand, which is quickly becoming rumpled as his fingers flex. “I thought having a list would help me.”
“Awkward together, remember?” I say gently, knowing my cheeks are burning. “What’s next?”
It’s not a long list, and after the whole sleeping conversation, we move a little quicker. With fewer double meanings. But no less blushing on my part as we decide when I’ll move in—as soon as possible to get me out of what Eli calls my “unsafe living situation”—and how finances will work—despite my protests, Eli insists he’s going to cover costs of just about everything, from the wedding to vet school to groceries.
“I do make money,” I tell him, more than a little defensively.
