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But the thought of asking Lindsay to marry me makes me overheat.
Yeah, marry.
“I have an idea.”
“Bring it on,” she says, her good arm waving with encouragement before she picks up her coffee and drinks some.
“Your parents keep holding the fact that they are your next of kin over your head.” I start to fidget. I hate fidgeting. My right leg bounces up and down like an eager puppy with a fetch stick in its mouth.
“Right.”
“What if you could change that?”
“Like, pick someone to have medical power of attorney over me? I think Daddy and Mom would -- ”
“No, I mean change your next of kin.”
“Drew, I don’t understand.” Her eyes are wide and searching my face. I haven’t connected the dots for her. My heart crawls into my throat, resting there, needing a short pause before making the final journey to the summit of Mount Ask Lindsay to Marry Me.
Fortifying myself with a few gulps of coffee, I drain my cup, set it on the table, then take her good hand in mine.
“I think you should marry me, Lindsay.”
Lindsay
“Did you just propose?” I did not hear that. I didn’t.
“Yes.”
I did hear it.
He did.
He said that. He said he wants to marry me.
“No,” I blurt out. Moving my hand breaks contact with him. I feel a wide wedge between us, getting bigger.
“No?”
“I mean, yes!”
“No or yes, Lindsay? There are two options and you’ve used them both within seconds of each other.” Is that sweat on his forehead? Drew doesn’t get nervous. Oh, my God is he nervous?
“No! I mean, yes! No, I mean, I don’t want you to marry me out of pity or because you want to win.”
“Win? Marrying you would be the best kind of win.”
“I’m not some trophy! Or a prize you get for outsmarting my parents!”
He’s stunned. “You think that’s why I proposed?” Drew’s arms cross over his chest, his chin tipped down, looking up at me under thick lashes, giving me a questioning look so smoldering, all I want to do is kiss him.
I shrug instead.
This really befuddled look pours through his face like a rainfall of emotion. Drew is so stoic most of the time – hell, all of the time – that it’s almost comical.
I laugh, anyhow, and then I start to cry softly. Salt in my tears makes all the cuts on my face sting.
“Let me do this properly,” he announces, reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket. What’s he doing? He couldn’t possibly have a --
