Page 78 of Two Wrongs
Rory smirks, clearly aware of what their audience is imagining, especially as they begin to applaud when he lowers himself to one knee. Through my tears and sniffling, I also can’t help but giggle. History and social custom might suggest Rory’s about to propose, and while that’s not necessarily untrue, it’s not quite the proposal people are imagining.
His right hand feeds into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.
‘Fin,’ he says, that smirk unrestrained and reining free.
‘Oh, Rory.’ She gasps out her admonishment. ‘You’re not—’
‘I’m afraid I am,’ he replies, his eyes sparkling. ‘I’m honoured to be yours,’ he states, more than loud enough for those nearby to hear. ‘And I know you value your independence. I want you to know that I’ll never take that away from you, but darlin’, I’m tired of traipsing between Waterloo and my place. Put me out of my misery, Fin.’ He begins to pull his hand from his pocket. I know what’s in there.Both things.Through tears and smiles, my heart pitter-patters so fast, anyone would think he was about to ask me. ‘I was daft enough to let you go the first time. I’m not risking it again.’
Asking... though not what you might think, yet exactly that because, there, balanced on his index finger is a keychain; silver in colour and sparkling. ‘I’m going to ask you again,’ he utters, one brow cocked. ‘And if you say no, that’s fine. I’ll just ask you another time. And another, until you give me the answer I want to hear. Fin, will you move in with me?’
As a mixture of sniggers and more heartfeltawwsbreak out around us, Fin reaches out with one shaking hand to take the keychain from Rory’s finger. She folds it into her palms, hugging both tight to her chest.
‘I could murder you right now.’ Her voice has a water quality, even as she tries to cover it with a scowl. As Rory opens his mouth to speak, Fin gets there first. ‘Yes, Rory. Yes, I will.’
‘You will?’ He stands abruptly, his hands pressing down on her shoulders as though the weight of them could prevent a change of mind. And the look on his face? It’s profound surprise—ecstatic delight. ‘You make me the happiest—’ He may be looking at her, but she’s no longer looking at him, a small crease between her brows as she pulls the keyring from her chest.
There are no flies on my girl. I knew he wouldn’t be able to sneak that past her.
‘What’s this hanging from it?’ Fin lies the keyring flat against her palm, her expression morphing through a range of expressions; confusion to consternation, consternation to . . . is that tentative joy?
I helped him choose that bauble, and let me tell you, you could buy a car for what he paid for those carats. That bling is enough to make any girl smile.
‘Don’t worry about that,’ he replies, laughing softly. ‘All at your own pace.’
This is his oft-quoted mantra since the pair got back together, allowing Fin to take things slowly after their whirlwind of a beginning. It’s all at her pace, and he’ll follow her lead, at least, up until now. But he told me he didn’t care if she wore the token of his devotion on a ring of keys, only that she was happy. And that she was his.
But happy doesn’t cover the expression on my friend’s face. I’m not sure enough joyous adjectives exist to describe her massive smile. I love that she looks so bloody happy—love that not every whirlwind of a relationship is doomed to fail. Adore that the pair has fought their way to a well-deserved second chance.
I push the back of my hand under my eyes, wiping away tears again, but I don’t care. My friend is in love, and I’m filled to the brim with happiness on her behalf. I giggle, for no other reason than the sight of these two in front. Nat’s arm falls from my shoulder, and I notice her own eyes are also brimming with happy tears.
‘Aw, are you crying?’ I softly taunt.
‘No,’ she responds through a soggy sounding laugh. ‘The glue from my false lashes must’ve leaked.’
False lashes, my bum... not that she isn’t wearing them in some shape or form. Extensions, I think; massively curled and long. To be honest, I’m surprised she can keep her lids open under the weight. The nearby clink of glasses makes me realise my throat is parched. I turn slightly, my gaze searching out one of the wait staff.
‘I think this calls for a wee toast, and maybe a mouthful of champagne because...’
The end of my sentence trails off as the canapes ingested earlier threaten a return. Maybe I don’t need wine; maybe what I need is a lie-down. My mind begins reeling through a slew of explanations as to why I’m seeing things—of why my knees are weak, and my body’s currently shaking. And then it comes to me: I’m a horrible person. What kind of friend am I? Why can’t I just be happy for Fin and Rory without feeling bad for myself? Why must I conjure the phantom of my own failing?
‘A mouthful,’ Nat counters with a snort. ‘What, with a mouth the size of yours? Get a glass like everyone else.’ She chuckles at her own joke. ‘But if you see a waitress, get me a glass, yeah?’ I sense rather than see Natasha’s gaze following the path of mine. ‘Looks like June managed to get away. Ted must’ve managed to persuade her she wasn’t needed this afternoon.’
I shake my head, though not in answer; it’s more an attempt to get my vision to reset.Why can’t I just be happy for my friends? Why must I have to torture myself?
It must be a guilty conscience.
Unless I’m going mad?
Because I’m currently seeing a Dylan doppelganger, though one with a furry face.
My so-called phantom tilts his head, listening to something June has to say, one finger reaching out to scratch the scruff against his cheek. June looks tiny next to his much larger frame. I can see the similarities in build and colouring, but Dylan would never grow a beard. He said they itched. Yet not a moment later, my phantom smiles and my heart pinches in its calcified cage.
No. Definitely not phantom. But could it really be—
My pinched heart grinds to halt, kick-starting itself with one loud thud. All it takes is one tiny action; the familiarity in the tilt of his head, of his smile. Because I remember how he used to look when he was happy, back before our marriage became a thing of hate.
He slides his hand from the pocket of his black jeans, rising slightly as though to acknowledge my gaze, though perhaps deciding not to, if the almost imperceptible waver in the motion is any judge. The nuances are there, but the action isn’t right as he pushes that hand self-consciously through his hair.
