Page 71 of We Drank the Dawn

The smile on my face drooped as we left the fancy restaurant and went out to the car. I felt so foolish now—the way I’d primped extra and wore my slinkiest dress. I even got my nails done because I was so sure he was going to ask me again.

And it was easy to convince myself of such when Peter was staring at me like that—like I held the key to happiness in his life. Gosh, he was the perfect boyfriend, truly.

Except for one major thing.

One glaring thing that made every passing month more difficult than the one before.

I had been patient. I had.

When we were nineteen, I eventually gave the stupid ring back because he wasn’t ready.

A part of my heart died, slipping it off my finger. What else could I do though? Anxiety was tearing Peter to pieces, and I knew he’d feel a little better if we weren’t in the “next phase” of our relationship while he went through chemo. But even though he’d repeatedly tried to explain himself, he couldn’t make his fears make sense to me.

I was with him, come hell or high water, so what difference did our terminology make?

Wife, fiancee, girlfriend.

He was stuck with me so it didn’t matter.

All I could figure is that slowing us down granted him a bit of control in his life. Since he had no say about his health and future anymore, he obsessed over ways he could make it better and easier for everyone else. And somehow that included not making commitments to me.

It stung, but whatever.

The problem was, after he went into remission, he didn’t pop the question again. He fell an entire year behind in college and thought we should wait until after college to move forward in our relationship. I agreed.

But then, he wanted to get established in his career.

And then he wanted to make sure he had a little nest egg.

And then he wanted to save for a downpayment on a house because, “Sarah, a fifteen year mortgage is way smarter than a thirty-year.” By this point in our relationship, I was twenty-six years old, and I’d heard every damn excuse in the book.

A few friends told me to give him an ultimatum or dump him. Part of me wanted to lay down the law and threaten him to marry me or else. But the other part of me ached to have Peter choose me in spite of his fear. What was he even afraid of anymore? He seemed to be permanently stuck in a state of preparation, and I didn’t know why.

And I could dump him, I guessed. But what would happen to me if I did? My life was so integrated with Peter’s that I knew I would fly off the rails and splinter into a million pieces if there wasn’t an us anymore.

The crazy part was we’d had this conversation so many times.

I told him I was ready. Beyond ready.

For all the adventures we had together, he refused to take me on the only one I ever truly wanted.

“Man, I’m stuffed.” Peter sat in the driver’s seat, gazing in his rearview as he pulled out of our parking spot. “What did you think of that place?”

The steak restaurant had been on our list of places to try for a couple years.

“It was good,” I said. But my voice sounded hollow.

Pausing, he brushed his fingers down the back of my arm. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.” I pulled my arm out of his reach.

Peter gave a soft exhale. “I’m very convinced.”

Turning my face toward the window, I rolled my eyes at his sarcasm. Heat billowed into my cheeks and my eyes stung with tears. I bit down on my lip.

“Talk to me, Sarah.”

“I said I’m fine.” My words came out like daggers.