I love her. No more wasting time on boyfriend slash girlfriend bullshit. I have to make it official. Seal the deal. Though, I know she’ll argue about taking on my name. Yeah, she’s one of those women. Fights for her rights but it’s just a charade. She does it to appear ‘cool’ and is quick to complain about how draining it all is and would rather be on the couch watching The Love Boat with a bowl of popcorn.
And that’s if she says yes.
Don’t get ahead of yourself. What if she tells me she needs more time, which, in turn, will bruise my ego making me doubt our relationship and cause another fight between us?
Then again, she’s not one to disguise her desperation to get married. Especially after she made me watch three movies last week that all revolved around weddings. I stopped counting after the tenth time she began a sentence with, “When I get married…”
Impatient.
Obnoxious.
Pain in my ass.
That’s Zoey Richards.
I’ve been sitting on this idea for a while—a long while. It was never a question of whether or not I would do it. I just need the right time, place, and way of asking her to be my wife. After all, this is supposed to be one of the biggest moments in a couple’s relationship.
Fuck. Talk about pressure.
I continue to carry the eight pizza boxes to the kitchen. Despite my healthy eating habits, I’m not immune to the glorious smell of melted cheese. I just have more self-control than Zoey. Placing the boxes on the kitchen table—careful not to tip the stack—I glance at my watch to check how many minutes I have left. There isn’t much time to execute this plan before she comes home.
In a mad rush, I reach for the top kitchen cupboard where I keep a box of candles. Pulling the box down, I quickly take them outside to the balcony and scatter them somewhat evenly on the ground. There’s a strong breeze from the ocean, which I know will hinder my plan to get all romantic. Hence, I’m using battery-operated candles that look like the real deal. Seriously, whoever invented this is genius.
Rushing to the spare bedroom, I remove the brown box from the closet. Zoey never checks in here, so it has become the perfect spot to hide my treasure—eight gold pineapples.
Eight is considered a lucky number and pineapples because Zoey is obsessed with them. She keeps that gold pineapple on the bedside table. Another one of her quirky traits I’ve grown accustomed to.
Carrying the box with the utmost of care, I take them outside and place them exactly where I imagined them to be, positioned with the correct lighting so they can easily be seen. With the sun almost setting and the breeze calming down, it’s a perfect night to propose to the woman I love.
I scurry back into the kitchen grabbing seven empty pizza boxes and moving through the apartment, creating a trail to the balcony. I know it sounds like a crazy idea, but if anyone will follow a trail of empty pizza boxes, it’s Zoey.
I’m almost done. All I need to do is take a quick shower and get dressed. I want this moment to be perfect and I’m torn as to what to wear. I finally decide on my navy suit—her favorite. With my hair styled, I spray the bottle of aftershave against my neck. It leaves a sting as the cut skin from yesterday’s rushed shaving job is still slightly open.
Walking back to the balcony with a portable speaker in my hand, the song is ready to go at the touch of the play button, the moment she walks through that door.
Annoying as it usually seems, Zoey tends to over-text me after work. Usually, she’s complaining about traffic, and sometimes she’ll go on and on about the growls her stomach makes believing it sounds like the tune of a song. Once, she actually put the speaker to her belly and claimed that it sounded like Livin’ on a Prayer. Funnily enough, it did. Just goes to show how she has warped my brain.
On cue, and just like I said she would, a text comes through.
Zoey: Do you think there is some radio god who purposely plays a good song just as you’re about to exit the car? I’m seriously sitting outside our apartment because Heart came on.
I shake my head, holding in my laugh and easily breaking into a smile. I have no clue who Heart is, but no doubt, it’s some eighties group.
Come on, it is Zoey, after all.
I should respond but can’t think of anything witty as the nerves begin to consume me. She thinks I’m at work. So perhaps a little white lie won’t hu
rt for the greater good. At least, to calm me down.
Drew: I think you’re right. When someone dies on the operating table, I swear Knockin’ on Heaven’s door is blaring through the speakers.
I wait for her response, and knowing Zo, she’ll have an opinion on my morbid text.
Zoey: Way to ruin my Heart buzz.
Deeps breaths—she’s here. Amid the excitement and bundled nerves, I forget the most important thing—the ring. Running back into the kitchen, I find the last pizza box sitting on the table where I left it. It contains a freshly cooked pepperoni pizza in the shape of a pineapple. The lengths I had to go through to get this pizza made. Pepe, our local pizza guy, is not the most creative and easiest person to work with. His strong, Italian accent makes it difficult to understand in the easiest of circumstances.
Try explaining to him that I needed a pineapple-shaped pizza.