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CHAPTER 1
Sunny
This wasn't how I wanted to do this, I thought, staring down into the upturned face of my boyfriend of three years. He knelt on the pretty tile of the upscale restaurant he'd chosen for our date night, the busy room's attention slowly drifting in our direction. I'd been surprised by Harry's suggestion for dinner out. In the three years of our relationship, Harry was rarely the one who wanted to try a new restaurant or activity in our casually arranged routine.
Now, it made sense.
Harry's breaths came quick and nervous, eyes filling up."Sonya, I know you said we should wait, but we're ready. You make me feel like the man I want to become."
That doesn't make any sense, a snarky little voice chimed in my head as my gaze flicked over Harry's head, skirting away from the stares of the diners on us.
Why did people always want to be loved for who they could be? Didn't it make more sense to be loved for who you already were? Was that just a juvenile fantasy I'd been clinging to? Harry loved me for who he thought I was, and while that woman wasn't a lie—productive, cheerful, mild, and agreeable—she wasn't the complete picture, either.
Shit. A bright and glittering tear rolled down from Harry's eye, and a young harpy one table over cooed in response, her feathers rustling.
"Marry me," Harry said, and I tried not to flinch. It sounded more like an order than a request, but maybe that was because it was the third time he'd repeated the phrase.
All around us, the restaurant held its breath, the moment seemingly suspended as Harry and the rest of the room waited for my answer. Except time hadn't stopped.
I had to speak.
It was on the tip of my tongue to just say yes. Everyone was staring. Harry was crying. Yes would be easier. Yes would be nice, cheerful, agreeable.
But yes would be months, years, a lifetime of routine, of continuing to hide the parts of myself that made Harry's eyebrows raise, of coasting on the little concessions he made. In Harry's book, "adventures" included driving somewhere without the GPS, trying a new spice profile on the chicken breast, and watching a television series without him reading comprehensive reviews aloud to me beforehand. Those were the things Harry found daring. Those would be the boundaries I would push gently against for the rest of my life if I said yes.
I wondered what Harry would think of the ideas, the fantasies, that kept me awake at his side while he snored softly next to me—those secrets that helped me finish the job he rarely completed during sex.
I should've told him. Then maybe it wouldn't have come to this.
I opened my lips, not sure what answer would fall out, when I realized that my silence—far too long in the face of his eager proposal—had already answered for me. The hope that had glowed in Harry's pretty blue eyes had vanished, and now he was wearing that soft bruised expression I met sometimes when my mood wore thin and I snapped at him.
"I'm sorry," I whispered as Harry's bottom lip began to tremble.
The words were barely audible, but the restaurant had grown silent. All at once, with my not-quite answer, the restaurant sprang back into life. A slender, scaled waitress gave up her disguise as a statue and rushed back into action, delivering plates of food to a table of human diners. The accidental audience around us now displayed a new and polite determination to ignore the rest of our scene.
"But...it's been three years," Harry said, still kneeling, now frowning.
"Please, please sit," I answered, reaching down to tug at his elbows, careful to avoid his outstretched hands still holding the ring box.
"Do you...not believe in marriage?"
"It's not that, it's—"
"Me? It's me," Harry said, voice growing a little too loud.
He deserves to be angry, I reminded myself. I should've done this earlier. I should've broken up with my comfortable but not satisfying boyfriend of three years... I wasn't sure when.
No, I was. It was as soon as he'd started talking about marriage a few months ago and it had filled me with a clammy, nervous dread. I'd known I was bored for too long, yes, but I hadn't realized I was actually afraid of a future with Harry until that first coy mention.
"It's me too, Harry," I said softly, eyes blinking away the sting that rose. I was the one doing the damage, which meant I was not the one who deserved to cry. "It's us. I'm sorry."
Harry finally rose from the floor, but he didn't take his seat at the table. Gazes were flicking back and forth between us more rapidly again, a new curiosity heightening the tension in the room. Would Harry explode? Would we fight?
Sadly, I already knew the answer to that question. Was it perverse of me to wish my unfailingly sweet boyfriend had more of a temper?
"Do you… Is that going to change?" Harry asked, his brow tangling and an elegant hand going up to push his golden and carefully coiffed hair back from his face. He didn't wait for my answer. "Do you even want to be with me?"
Sometimes, yes. What kind of person would I be if I'd dated someone for three years and had been waiting to leave the whole time? No, Harry was sweet. He was considerate. He was a good—if not varied—cook, and he'd always treated me as his equal. He gave me back rubs when I had cramps, without being prompted, and took time to get to know my tastes in music and books. I did love Harry.
