Page 82 of Deviant
Something moves across his face. “There was never anything wrong with the ice machine, was there.”
“There was not.”
I had Halle hold him off from coming home by trying to “fix the ice machine” at The Bar for over forty minutes, demanding that he not call her back or do anything until she was done fixing it—a.k.a. when I was successfully in his apartment.
He drops his backpack on the floor and crosses his arms. His hair is longer than it was the last time I saw him—three weeks ago, when I drove down for the weekend. There are shadows under his eyes that mean he’s been in finals mode, and he’s wearing a Mizzou sweatshirt that he claims is ironic and wears approximately four times a week. I know because of FaceTime.
He looks like everything I want in my future.
“You’re not supposed to be here until tomorrow,” he says.
“I know.”
“It’s Tuesday.”
“I’m aware.”
“Rhett.” He tilts his head. “What are you doing here?”
He watches me cross the apartment toward him, his eyes tracking me and his arms uncrossing.
“Rhett—”
I get down on one knee, in the middle of his apartment, between the textbooks and the empty coffee cups, and I look up at him.
He stares at me.
“Oh my god,” he says.
“I had a speech—I wrote it down and everything. Halle proofread it,” I say.
“Of course she did.”
“I left it in the truck.”
He makes a sound that’s not quite a laugh as his hand comes up to cover his mouth.
“So, I’m going to wing it, which is probably more accurate to us anyway.”
“Rhett—”
“Let me get through this.”
I pull the box out of my jacket pocket and open it. The ring is black metal with a matte finish—simple and solid, with a small inlay of rose gold that the jeweler in Cedarbrook suggested when I told him what I wanted. Clean and dark and a little bit country. I thought it was right. I’ve been second-guessing that thought, though, since the moment I left the jeweler’s shop. “I had it made. The black is tungsten. The line in the middle is rose gold, and I know that sounds?—”
“It’s perfect,” Colt says.
I look up at him.
His eyes are bright, he’s still got his hand over his mouth, and he looks completely undone.
“I drove down here on a Tuesday,” I say, “because I didn’t want to wait until we got back home. I’ve been waiting for things my whole life and I’m done with it.” I hold the box up. “I know Cedarbrook is Cedarbrook and it’s always going to be a small town, and people are always going to talk, and I know I spent a long time being someone who would have let all of that be a reason not to do this. But I’m not that person anymore. I want you to come home to Thornwood Ranch. I want to argue about where the dog sleeps and whose turn it is to call your mother and whether the truck needs new tires, even though it clearly needs new tires?—”
“It clearly needs new tires,” he says.
“I know. I just wanted to hear you say it.” I take a breath. “Colton Lee Dawson, you have been the most aggravating, the most honest, and the most completely essential person in my life since the second you walked into that bonfire and decided I was your favorite problem to solve. I love you. Will you marry me?”
Silence.
