Page 135 of The Reason I Married Him
“No, I don’t, but?—”
“No buts, get in that train.” He gives me one last shove. I’m fighting a losing battle. So I follow the path to the back of the inn only to stop dead in my tracks.
What the actual fuck?
More people.
So many people.
But instead of milling about on the lawn, drinking and eating and having a merry old time, these people are lined up, all wearing green leotards and bonnets in the shape of flowers. They’re stretching, cracking their necks, and practicing dance moves.
This can’t be real.
I tentatively walk forward, taking in every long-sleeved leotard and colorful flower bonnet until I see it, right there, plain as day.
A train.
But not just any train. A kiddie caboose. You know the type of trains that you see in the mall, carting around unruly children? Yeah, that kind of train, and sitting proudly at the engine is none other than Rodney, dressed in a pair of blue-and-white-striped conductor overalls, matching hat, and red bandanna tied around his neck. With the joy in his expression and the pride in his chest, this man is ready to deliver the future groom to his bride.
Jesus Christ, I should have discussed Ethel’s plans with her.
Why are people dressed as flowers?
Why are thereso many people?
Is this a whole Five Six Seven Eight production? Will there be the snapping of thumbs? Possible jazz hands?
Will there be a pas de bourrée?
I don’t even know what that is, but will there be one? Am I required to do one? I can barely do a kickball change.
“You’re here,” Rodney says. “Finally. Get in the back.” He thumbs toward the caboose.
“Uh, I’m a little confused,” I say. “What exactly is happening here?”
“He arrived? Where is he?” Dee Dee spots me and heaves a sigh of relief. “My God, what took you so long?” She’s sporting a clipboard and a headset, looking all kinds of official. “Get in the back of the train. The music is about to start.”
She pushes me toward the back of the train while a few people dressed up as flowers step into the other carts. Will this thing be able to tote all of us? Seems questionable.
“Can I ask what’s going on?” I ask. “I thought Ethel was just going to sing a song, and I’d propose to Aubree, but now there’s a train and people and, wait . . . are those confetti cannons?”
“Yes, with biodegradable confetti. Now sit down.”
“Wait, I don’t understand what’s happening.”
“It’s called the proposal of a lifetime, Wyatt.”
“But—”
She walks off before I can ask more questions.
Leaning forward, I tap a leotard-clad woman on the shoulder and say, “Pardon me, miss, but do you know what’s going on?”
She glances over her shoulder and looks me up and down. “If you don’t know what’s going on, then that’s a big problem.” And then she turns back around.
Helpful.
I drag my hand over my face as I sit in this tiny train, all crouched in together. My knees to my nipples.
