Page 137 of The Reason I Married Him
I look around, taking in the scene unfolding in front of me. A crowd has circled the dance floor. Ryland and Mac are near the stage, right next to Hayes and Hattie. Abel is to the left as well, standing next to Echo. Loads and loads of dancers are lying on the ground, their flower heads acting as a pathway to the one and only red-faced Aubree standing a few feet away, her hands clutched together, her nostrils flared.
When our eyes meet, her eyes narrow, indicating her displeasure. But it’s so brief that I think I’m the only one who catches it before she plasters on a smile. A smile so bright that if I didn’t know any better, I’d be convinced that Aubree is thrilled to see me. Huh, maybe her acting skills aren’t as bad as I thought.
As the music softens, Ethel steps down from the stage and approaches us, holding the microphone.
I look at her.
She looks at me.
And when I don’t move, she slowly mouths, “Get. Out.”
Oh right.
Remove myself from the train.
That’s if I can get out of this thing.
My feet seem to be stuck in the confined space, so I do a little shimmying back and forth. I place my hands on the edges of my seat and lift, popping my rear end out and unfolding my legs to a stand.
There we are.
With a smile on my face, I step out of the train with one leg, and just as I start to step out with the other, Rodney jolts the train forward—most likely assuming that I’ve extracted myself already—and I lose my balance, tumble forward, and land face first onto the dance floor.
The crowd makes a resoundingooooosound as my chin scrapes across the not-so-smooth parquet tiles.
Motherfucker, that hurt.
“Oh God,” Aubree says as she steps forward, but I hold out my hand to stop her.
“I’m . . . I’m fine,” I grunt as I stand quickly, my chin and my ego the only things that are bruised.
“Where’s your shoe?” Ethel asks from the side of her mouth.
“Huh?” I ask.
“Your shoe,” she says, staring down at my foot.
I glance down, and lo and behold, my shoe is not on my foot. I look up to where the train is departing and say, “It must be in the train.”
“Dear God in Heaven,” Ethel murmurs and then says into the microphone, “Rodney, stop the train.”
He stops it and looks at Ethel, confused.
“His shoe is in there. Can someone grab his shoe? He needs his shoe,” Ethel says in an annoyed tone.
One of the flower ladies reaches into the caboose of the train and pulls out my shoe. She tosses it to the girl next to her, who drops it but then picks it up quickly and tosses it to the next person. And like an assembly line of footwear, my shoe is delivered to me.
I hold it close to my side, waiting for what’s to come.
“What on earth are you doing?” Ethel asks. “Put it on.”
“Right,” I say before fumbling to put my shoe on. Once all footwear has been secured, I smile at Ethel, who nods and motions for me to proceed toward Aubree.
This is it.
This is the moment.
Settled and confident—false confidence—I reach into my jeans pocket for the ring and . . .
