Читать книгу Escape From Bridezillia - Jacqueline deMontravel - Страница 6

“Let’s do it.”

This was how Henry said it to me. Delivered from behind the screen of the Times travel section as we finished our Sunday morning just-used-up-my-calorie-count-for-the-month brunch at Silver Spurs diner. I wore sweats, glorified by the trendy label branded on my butt, while Henry had on the same sweater as the captain on a fish box.

This was how Henry said it to me? The most recounted story of your lifetime. Sitting, surrounded by a moat of grandchildren, the first stitch to crochet their impressions of love and romance I’d have to narrate would be this? I’d lie. Already thinking of stories to deceive my unborn progeny.

“Do what?” I asked, my tone pressuring Henry to take an alternative route.

“Get married!”

This was when it became a bit problematic.

“Is this some kind of joke? Are you asking me to marry you over frittatas and coffee with free refills at Silver Spurs? What? Were you just inspired from some godforsaken Nike ad? You did get a new pair of sneakers yesterday. Were you like ‘I’ll take the Air Icarus and, now that I think about it, just go ahead and ask Emily to marry me!’”

The Times slipped from his grasp, now jumbled in peaks and clefts from draping the used tableware. Henry’s body slumped against the window; the lighting swayed from the late morning shadows punched by traffic activity outside; a curious reflection worked upon him.

Impassive. Perhaps he had a trace of curiosity. I couldn’t quite tell, nor did I really care to know. The important fact being that this was standard Henry Philips to Emily Briggs freak-out behavior. His ability to remain composed when I had one of my minor outbursts, how he never found the need to scold me on these occasional overreactions, or to offer a few pointers on how to better control my soft lapses of verbalized irritation, something others have unsuccessfully attempted, may be why Henry had made it to this point.

It had proven to be a valuable skill of his, this facility to tune me out, which pleased me immensely. Gave me the license to be as ridiculous as I was able and not crucified as a result. That I never had to give some schmaltzy apology with promises of sexual favors later. (He’d get those regardless.)

Henry also had the good sense not to ask me as I took a swig from my decaf hazelnut, saving him and our neighboring diners from being pelted by my coffee-tainted spit. That would have been very rude of me, not to mention gross.

Exhaustedly, I took a ladylike sip from my decaf hazelnut.

“Sure, why not? I’ll marry you.”

I couldn’t be happier, though I had no idea how Henry took it.