Page 79 of The Marriage Blunder

The door closed, and the apartment was full of the residue of company—a warm clutter of empty glasses, a half-eaten cheese plate, the sense that, for once, the future was allowed to arrive on its own terms.

Kenneth and I sat there, side by side, not talking. The silence was easy, and I let myself enjoy it. I thought about the story I had just told, and the stories we were going to tell next, and I decided that, for the first time in my life, I was fine with letting the plot unfold at its own pace.

It felt like winning.

After everyone had left, the apartment became a still life: the spread of empty glasses, the cool blue light from the city, the absence of urgent noise.

I rinsed the last plate, left it on the rack, and poured myself a small glass of red—the last in the bottle, which felt like a boundary. Kenneth had drifted to the window, hands in his pockets, the curve of his shoulders outlined by the downtown lights.

He didn’t say anything.

I joined him, wine in hand, and leaned against the counter. The only sound was the distant pulse of traffic, the hum of the fridge, and the slow, even rhythm of two people not needing to fill the air.

I let it ride for as long as I could stand it. Then I set my glass on the counter and said, with a clarity I would not have managed six months ago, “I want to get married again.”

Kenneth did not turn, but I saw the slow-motion flex at his jaw, the almost-smile that never reached his mouth unless he allowed it. “We are married,” he reminded me.

“I know,” I said. “But I want to do it on purpose. Not as a… contingency plan, or a running joke, or something to keep the wolves at bay. I want the real thing.”

Kenneth looked at me then, fully, the kind of attention that could strip paint. “Tell me what you want.”

I thought about it. “Small. No invitations, just the people we want. My mom, if she’s up for it. Kyue—he’s been my person since the first time I needed someone. The rest, if they want to come. Afterward, the back booth at the ballpark, with extra wings and a pitcher of cheap beer. That’s it. No press, no flowers, just a thing that actually belongs to us.”

Kenneth nodded, slow and measured, and said, “Sunday. When we’re at your mother’s, I’ll propose.”

My heart might have fluttered. “That’s in four days.”

He nodded again. “I know.”

I stared at him, trying to calibrate. “You want to propose to your husband at his mother’s house in four days.”

He did the mouth thing again. “I want to ask your mother’s blessing and then propose to my husband at his mother’s house in four days, yes.”

I ran a hand over my face, not to hide, but to process. “She’s going to cry.”

“Good,” Kenneth said.

“I might cry,” I admitted honestly.

He stepped closer, so that there was nothing between us but air and the sum total of every dumb decision that had brought us to this point. “Also good.”

I picked up my wine, took a small, deliberate sip, and looked out at the skyline. “I have been in serious trouble since that stupid engagement dinner,” I said. “I want that on the record.”

Kenneth’s hand landed at the small of my back, steady and sure. “It’s on the record.”

We stood there, side by side, watching the lights change, and I let myself have the quiet.

I was pretty sure I didn’t deserve any of it.

But if the city could keep going, then so could I.

* * * *

Clara’s kitchen was so small you had to decide in advance who got to stand where. The stove dominated the near wall, and the little pine table was jammed against the window, so close to the radiator that the wood always felt sun-warmed. On Sundays, with the soup simmering and Carmen laughing in the next room, the entire place smelled of garlic and whatever else they’d decided to throw in.

Kenneth had shown up with a bottle of wine and a second bottle of Ibuprofen, which made my mother laugh until she coughed, which made her laugh more. We sat at the table, and the conversation was half memory, half what-next, the air so thick with actual, lived-in happiness that I had to check myself more than once to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating.

He ate two bowls, asked for a third, and told Clara it was the best soup he’d had since his grandmother died. He said it plainly, honestly, and my mother looked at him with an expression I had only seen a handful of times in my life: the one that said, I was right about you, and I’m proud of it.