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JADE MONROE
Today is my twenty-sixth birthday. Picture it: we’re at Chuck E. Cheese (yes, because I’m still ten years old deep down), with its video games, ball pits, lights, sirens, prizes, a human hamster cage I stay well away from as a kid always pukes in it, and a life-size dancing rat. It’s the best knock-off Disneyland I’ve ever been to. I’ve had every birthday party I can remember at this place, so I wasn’t about to stop as an adult. My dad even booked the party room, and Chuck himself is due to make an appearance at any moment. Are we getting some ‘you’re weird’ glances from the parents in the joint, considering we brought no children at all? Yes. Do I care? Nope. This place makes me smile and brings back many memories I never want to forget.
For the first time ever, a man is sitting next to me who wants to be here – not just the boy in whatever school class my mom invited – but the man of my dreams. God, that’s a big statement. Conner, the guy to my left, pursued me hesitantly, but sweetly. Would I have preferred a guy to knock the wind out of me or stop my heart mid-beat like romantic comedies on the big screen are always suggesting? Uh, yeah. But in my ten years of dating history, no one has done that, and thus far, Conner has marked all my ‘man of my dreams’ boxes.
I glance over at him, sitting nervously, picking the label off his beer, attempting to remove it in one piece while avoiding my father’s stare from across the table. I’d probably be nervous, too, knowing exactly two people in the room.
He looks up, catching my gaze and flashing that dashing smile I’ve fallen for. He’s so freaking adorable with his perfectly manicured dark hair swept to one side, dazzling hazel eyes, and astonishingly straight teeth only an orthodontist could be responsible for. I could stare at the man all day long.
Patients will be so lucky to have him as their doctor one day. Not because of his looks (I mean, who doesn’t love a Dr McDreamy type?), but because he’s intelligent, caring, a great listener, and just all the things you want the person in charge of your health to be.
He successfully lays the beer label on the table in front of him, then taps the neck of the bottle with his spoon, earning my family’s attention. Once everyone has stopped chattering, Conner stands and turns my way.
‘Jade, today is your birthday—’
‘Yesterday,’ I remind him softly. Dad wanted the party on the weekend so more people could come.
Conner shakes his head, now flustered. ‘That’s right; yesterday was your birthday.’
I don’t know how he forgot, considering he showed up at my apartment at midnight to give me my ‘gift’. Himself, which he had topped with a bow on the tip of his—
‘Until now…’ He interrupts my trip down memory lane.
The man is making a speech, Jade. Perhaps you should focus on more than his tip.
‘I wasn’t sure when the best day of my life would be, but after two months of you, I’m pretty sure it was the day you were born,’ he says, nodding his head my way, his adorably crooked smile a little more hesitant than when we’re alone.
Awe. That’s sweet. ‘Thank y—’
‘I think you’re my person, Jade. My “one”.’ He cuts me off.
My dad mumbles something to Laney through a disbelieving chuckle. He doesn’t love Conner. In true overly-protective-father style, he hasn’t loved any of my boyfriends. He says that’s what dads do, scrutinize boys after their daughters and break them before they break their little girls. He’s good at it, too. Laney had a boyfriend that once dumped her as he pulled out of the driveway after meeting Dad. Who could blame the guy when a scary-looking biker-dude tells him as casually as he can that he owns a shotgun, a shovel, and isn’t afraid of prison, so don’t even think about hurting his daughter. Really, Dad doesn’t love how Conner and I have moved so fast. ‘I was once a twenty-something-year-old dude; trust me, you’re a summer fling to the guy, Jade. Don’t fall so quickly. Make him work for it,’ he’d said when Laney let it slip a couple of weeks ago that he was spending nights with me.
‘I know this is fast, but when it’s right, it’s right.’ Conner continues to talk, turning my attention back to him.
When it’s right, it’s right? What does that mean? Did I miss something he said while I was shooting my father a shut-up stare? I glance around. All eyes are on me. Yep, I missed something. The room is eerily silent, besides the delightful squeal of children in a ball pit outside the party room, as we wait for this man I’ve known for two months to finish telling us what’s so right.
Yes, cat’s out of the bag, we’ve been ‘dating’ for two months. Eight weeks. Fourteen days. Or eighty-six thousand and four hundred minutes, approximately, if it really matters.
Conner and I met online in the comments section of a mutual friend’s Facebook post. That ‘friend’ is my younger by two years sister, Laney. The two of them went to high school together. She had posted a tribute to our mother just after her death from breast cancer, and Conner sent me a private message. If you need to talk, I’m a great listener. It was that simple. And he was right. I did need someone to talk to. An outside source to help me sort through all the ‘why mes’ and ‘what ifs’ going through my head so I didn’t have to lay it on my family who were going through the exact same thing.
Children bury their parents. I know this. But it’s not supposed to happen before your adult milestones do. Yet it did, and because of that, Conner got an earful. Somehow he knew all the right words to say precisely when I needed to hear them. After that, we exchanged numbers, and he would greet me every morning with a ‘hello, beautiful’ text message and send me to sleep with a ‘goodnight, gorgeous’. The man charmed me into meeting him face to face, and after only a few weeks of ‘knowing’ him online, he became a staple in my life. We did everything together. I couldn’t have swooned harder.
Suddenly Conner drops to one knee beside me.
‘Shut the hell up,’ Laney says flatly as the family gasps around her. Her ‘say it, don’t think about it’ personality breaks some of the tension, but family members attempt to shush her so they don’t miss the show.
I glance at Conner, who’s looking up at me with his hazel eyes, thoughts I can’t make out flashing through them.
What is he doing? And why is he down on one knee? Is this some new birthday toast tradition I’m not aware of? He grabs my left hand, pressing his lips against my ring finger.
Oh.
My.
Holy.
