Dishing Up Love

The audience laughs around us, but I barely hear it I’m so focused on the video playing before my eyes, even knowing how the airport played out.

“But just in case no one decides to care for the first time like… ever, our good buddy Carlos is meeting me, gonna catch it all for me, and he’s gonna make this cool little video that… well, I guess you’re watching now.” He opens his hand up toward the camera in a gesture showing it dawned on him I’d be watching this after he filmed it. “So, uh… yeah.” He glances at his watch then claps his hands together. “Time to go make you my future wife.” And he reaches toward his phone, turning the camera off, and the screen goes white for another moment.

The next thing I see is me in the distance over Curtis’s shoulder before I got to baggage claim. There’s just a moment of me registering his handsome face before my knees visibly wobble, and then my man takes off like a bolt of lightning, catching me before I hit the floor. The screen goes white.

Curtis’s face fills the screen once more. “Well, that didn’t go as planned.” He chuckles, rubbing the back of his head nervously. “That was not the special moment. Not the right time to ask you to marry me, sugar. But I’ll think of something.” He looks off to the side, and I hear my voice off screen growl out dramatically, “Breadstiiicks!” And then Emmy yells, “Woman, calm your tits! We’re leaving in like two-point-five seconds.” Recorded Curtis shakes his head, chuckling to himself once more. “That’s my woman. That’s my future wife right there. Mark my words.” He winks at the camera then, and the screen goes black.

That’s when I realize real-life Curtis is no longer sitting beside me. When I glance around, trying to spot him, I see he’s kneeling behind me, holding out the ring from the video, and tears fill my eyes once again as I let out a mix of a sob and a laugh.

“Sugar, sugar,” he sing-songs, lifting one brow as he smirks.

I sniffle. “Ah, honey, honey,” I squeak out, wiping my nose with the back of my hand.

“Will you make me the happiest man on this whole damn planet and be my wife?” he asks, his eyes pleading.

I bite my lip, trying to rein in my emotions, my pregnancy hormones adding to the chaotic beat of my heart. I can’t stand the fearful anticipation in his gaze for a second longer, so I let out a cry of happiness. “Yes!”

He stands up then, pulling me out of my chair and onto my feet, and slips the ring onto my finger just as everyone in the audience cheers, a roar of applause erupting around us.

I laugh as he picks me up, spinning me in a circle before kissing the hell out of me, and when he sets me back on my feet…

I wobble a little.

“Ah fuck,” I repeat the first words I ever spoke to him.

I hear the laughter in his voice when he asks, “What is it, sugar?”

I swallow thickly, pulling my lips between my teeth, trying to make the feeling go away, but no luck.

“I’m gonna puke,” I get out, right before I bend over and vomit in front of every fucking person who works at my fiancé’s network.

Epilogue

Erin

Five years later

“DAAAD, DO WE gotta watch it again?” Louis, our twelve-year-old son, whines. “It’s so gross, and not just because Mom barfs. You’re so mushy.” He plops onto the couch between Curtis and me, and I thread my fingers through his, admiring the way our hands look like a work of art as our flesh tones go back and forth between light tan and dark chocolatey brown. We adopted him from Burkina Faso, a West-African country, two years ago after completely falling head-over-heels in love with him when we visited an orphanage during one of Curtis’s fundraising events. All the kids spoke pretty good English thanks to the missionaries who ran the home. And when we looked into those midnight eyes, we knew Louis was meant to be our son.

“It’s not gross, Lou-Lou,” Alexis scolds in her sweet little voice, coming around the couch to hop up in my husband’s lap, their matching light-yellow hair shining beneath the overhead light as two pairs of turquoise eyes turn toward me. “It’s romantic.”

“Hm,” Curtis says to our four-year-old. “That’s quite a big word for such a little nugget.” And he tickles her ribs, making her squeal.

“I learned it on The Aristocats,” she explains when she finally catches her breath.

“Ah, those are smart kitties,” Curtis agrees, and they both nod at each other.

“And the answer is yes, we have to watch it again,” I tell Louis, pulling him closer to me as I wrap my arm around his narrow shoulders and kiss the top of his head.