“I know how to spell your name,” he says as we walk out, his hand steadily on my lower back, and I. Am. Losing. My. Mind.
“Of course you do,” I say. “The skywriter made the typo.”
“That was also a lie,” Rusty points out as she climbs into her booster seat. “You’re lying to people.”
“Think of it as telling stories,” Daniel says, and Rusty considers this all the way to the next bakery.At Francesca’s Cakes, Daniel puts a hand on my knee and tells the lovely older woman who admired my ring that I really, really love sloths, so he took me to the zoo, then disappeared and came back wearing a giant sloth costume and proposed.
At the Magnolia Bakery, we’re standing at a counter, and he slides his arm around my waist while I detail the elaborate treasure hunt that he sent me on, which ultimately culminated in finding him on one knee in his back yard.
None of us is very hungry for lunch, but we get sandwiches and find a park by a river. Daniel teaches Rusty to skip stones, or at least, he tries. I just watch them, shoes off, toes in the grass, and try not to notice that Daniel’s extra-hot right now.
At Sugar Momma, Daniel tells the woman that he organized a flash mob for his proposal, but then joke’s on him because he has to explain what a flash mob is. The whole time he’s got one hand on my back, one thumb stroking the triangle of bare skin right below my shoulder blades.
At Cherry on Top, I tell them that we’re both total adrenaline junkies, and he proposed while bungee jumping off a bridge in West Virginia. When I’m done with the story, including a description of how romantic the bouncing was, I lean over and give him a quick kiss, right on the lips.
It’s a mistake. I want more. I want to climb onto his lap and wrap my legs around him, but we’re in a bakery with plenty of onlookers and a seven-year-old, so I quietly pull away and pretend I’m not clenching my toes.
By the time we get to the Frosted Fig, our last cake stop, we’re all tired. If there’s such a thing as too much cake, we’re approaching it. Even Rusty’s enthusiasm is waning slightly, though she’s still through the door before either of us.
At the Frosted Fig, there’s a counter with stools. We sit. We each take bits of cake from the same tray, and when the inevitable question comes, Daniel quietly laces our fingers together.
“We took a hike to her favorite waterfall,” he says. “When we got there, I asked her to marry me. Then we went skinny dipping.”
I take a bite of cake, waiting for the punchline, but Daniel’s just watching me as I chew and swallow red velvet.
“That’s so sweet,” the woman says. “I always like hearing about the simple proposals. They’re the most heartfelt.”
I nod, Daniel’s hand still in mine. He’s still looking at me, his face oddly serious, thoughtful.
“Yeah,” I say, quietly. “It was really nice.”Dinner is the rest of the sandwiches we got for lunch, eaten on the back porch of Daniel’s mom’s house as the sun sets. It’s early May so it stays light pretty late, and long after we’re done eating, we sit there, carefully reviewing the day’s cakes.
Well, Rusty is doing most of the reviewing. As much as I like cake, they all kind of blended together after a while.
“I liked Sugar Momma,” Rusty is saying. I wonder, briefly, if she has any idea what that means, but I don’t think so. “Their chocolate was good. And they had the best chocolate frosting, too. There should be more chocolate wedding cake.”
“Well, people always want it to be white,” I say, lazily, my feet up on the low glass table, my shoes off, a slight breeze pushing against my hair.
“Why?” Rusty asks.
“White’s the wedding color,” I explain. “Wedding dresses are white, the cakes are usually white. Lots of wedding stuff is white.”
Even as I’m saying it, I’m perfectly aware that this explanation isn’t going to cut it with Rusty.
“But why is white the wedding color?” she asks. “How come everyone wears a white dress?”
I open my mouth, then close it, suddenly aware that I don’t want to be the one who explains the concept of virginity to Rusty, nor do I want to explain the fact that almost everyone wears white, and yet, almost no one is actually a virgin when they get married.
So instead, I look over at Daniel.
“It’s tradition,” he says smoothly. “Like eating ham on Easter.”
“But why is it tradition?”
“Why don’t you research it?” he suggests. “I bet there’s an interesting answer to that question.”
Rusty just looks thoughtful.
The subject changes. Daniel reaches over, takes my hand in his like he’s been doing it for years and it almost feels like he has.