1. The Wedding-Adjacent Proposal

1

THE WEDDING-ADJACENT PROPOSAL

FULTON

“ N o, Fulton, I will not show you my boobs.”

“Gage, I wouldn’t ask her to do that! And she doesn’t sound like that.”

“Uh-huh. Fine then,” Gage says. “What does she sound like?”

“Um…like sunshine and rainbows and butterflies?”

Gage—my best friend—and I are staking out the local café a few minutes down the street from our house, huddled behind the steering wheel to stay out of sight. Though there’s really no need seeing as we’re parked a respectable distance away, and I’ll never muster the courage to step inside. No amount of dairy-free cold brew or addictively delicious pastries will entice me—and certainly not now with the ulterior motive Gage has been trying to sell to me for the past half hour.

Every time I catch a flicker of movement beyond those frosted windows, tendrils of hope sweep through the scant spaces between my ribs, coupled with the unfettered, love-drunk trumpeting of my heart. I haven’t even breached the danger zone and a swelter’s already lapping at my nape. The corrosive acid in my belly gnaws one nauseating hole, and my legs threaten to puddle against Gage’s leather car seat.

The girl of my dreams works as a full-time barista at Deja Brew, and I’ve only ever interacted with her on a customer-server basis. Even then, ordering is an indomitable feat that I have yet to conquer, and I’ve grown accustomed to expecting the three P’s to take place: panic, puke, and prattle. Not necessarily in that order. I have a nervous stomach, okay?

I realize how that sounds. I’m a pro hockey player who can’t get past the talking stage with a woman who gets paid to talk to him. I’m thankful that I’m self-aware of my, um, embarrassingly unbelievable lack of social skills—which is usually an amalgamation of unmedicated anxiety, a bottomless basin of self-deprecating thoughts, and the fact that I have the charisma of a pet rock.

But that’s not even the worst part. The worst part is lugging around the title of your hockey team’s only virgin. I choose to withhold this information—for obvious reasons—but the reminder that my dong hasn’t been dinged by anybody is pretty debilitating, especially in a hookup-based culture.

I wish I was picking up chicks after every game. I wish I could talk to women without stuttering over my words and coming across like a complete weirdo. I wish I had the charm and confidence that all my teammates have. I’m the odd one out. I’m lucky I can say that I’ve even been kissed—though it was more of a pity peck on my lips by Renata Pulminer in sixth grade, and it was an obvious dare by a group of her “popular” friends. So I’m pretty much a first kiss fraud!

Gage is on a completely different level than I am—he’s a level twenty paladin and I’m a level one ranger. Before he fell in love with his current girlfriend, Calista, he was entertaining flocks of adoring women wherever he went. Dude unlocked some endless charisma spell that had women fighting over him like feral female cats in heat. I once saw him flirt his way out of a ticket, and not only did he evade the law, but he got the police officer’s number . Then he proceeded to tell me about the handcuffs that he “appropriately” used later that night.

Gage follows my line of sight, clapping me on the back sympathetically. “Ful, you know I love you, right?” he asks, his tone soft, understanding—a complete one-eighty from the coach-like authority he was previously using to instill cold-blooded fear into my very weak body.

My throat flutters with a gulp. “Y-yes…?”

And on a dime, it’s as if I’m thrown onto an active battlefield, cowering from zipping bullets, incessant artillery fire, and unimpressed shouts from my superior that get me shot about fifteen times in the back in rapid succession.

“You need to get off your ass, walk into that café, and sweet-talk this chick.”

I open my mouth to rebut—with what, I’m not sure—but am abruptly cut off by Gage’s don’t-give-me-bullshit hand. “Nope. No. You can do this. I’ve heard you hyping yourself up in the bathroom mirror about a hundred times. You’ve had a crush on this girl for four years, and you haven’t made a move on her. Hell, you’ve barely gotten past casual pleasantries. I don’t think you’d even know her name if it wasn’t on a tag.”

WOW. RUDE. Of course…of course I would know her name. I would be like “Someone as beautiful as you has to have a name, right?” And then she’d probably throw a hot latte in my face and yell for security.

I shrink in my seat as embarrassment blooms across the tip of my tongue, and the hard truth bludgeons me with a force so strong I’m surprised my ego doesn’t suffer multiple fractures. “I was…I was waiting for the right time…”

The excuse sounds pitiful to my own ears, trust me.

“ Now is the right time, dude! Our teammate’s getting married in a few weeks, and everyone wants you to bring a plus one. We all want to see you get the girl. You never stop talking about her. It’s clear you want to pursue something, but you’re just a little scared.”

Oh, a little is putting it nicely. If I humiliate myself and say the wrong thing to her, she’ll never want to see me again—which will be hard because my teammates and I frequent this café a lot. Plus, this is the only place in the tri-state area that serves brown butter raspberry tarts. I have an unhealthy attachment to them, and I’m not ready to live without them.

Hayes—the scariest and most penalized player on our team—is getting married to the sweetest girl I’ve ever met, Aeris, who’s somehow convinced him to trade his playboy days for a lifetime of calm, peaceful domestication. They couldn’t be more opposite from each other, and they couldn’t be more in love. He’s the biggest softie in the world when he’s with her. I once saw him gluing together a thousand-piece puzzle for her because she mentioned that she “liked” the sunflower on it. He’s all scars and trauma and temper, and she’s pretty much the embodiment of a sparkly unicorn.

None of the guys are forcing me to find a date. I think they just want to support me and help me go after what I want. And, I mean, they’re probably tired of hearing about how this girl’s hair is the equivalent of midnight and as soft-looking as silk, how her skin’s this shimmery brown like she’s been brushed in caramelized sugar, how her eyes lighten in the sunlight and turn to amber. And God, she smells incredible. Granted, that fresh bread and butter undertone is probably the baking supplies I’m smelling, but I can’t have a croissant without thinking about her.

She’s burrowed so far beneath my skin that I can feel her in my veins—a paralytic agent I can’t shake, a thought I can’t bury beneath power plays, an overwhelming craving I can’t satiate with your run-of-the-mill sugar fix .

If I didn’t give her my name for my drink order, I bet she wouldn’t even know it. And fuck, she’s so out of my league, you know? Like, it’s laughable. I don’t have a shot with this girl, and I’d rather not have my first experience in the dating pool start off with a rejection of epic proportions. I’m content with not bringing a plus one. Yeah, that’s…I’m cool. I’m used to being, uh, the eleventh wheel all the time. I’m used to seeing all my teammates in happy relationships. I’m used to the pitying looks and the soul-killing shoulder pats.

Tremors wring my limbs, nausea simmers on low in the back of my throat, and I discreetly wipe my clammy palms on the sides of my legs. “I can’t…I can’t do this, Gage,” I whisper.

While I appreciate Gage’s belief in me, it’s sorely misplaced. I’m not like him, and I’ll probably never be like him, no matter how many Fuckboy 101 classes he teaches me.

Gage’s lips flatline into a supportive grimace. “What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

Death. Death is the worst thing that could happen, because right now, my pulse is a battering ram against the side of my neck, and I’ll probably drop dead from a heart attack by the time I make it up to the counter.

The heady scent of coffee grounds meanders through my nostrils. Deja Brew is a cozy coffee shop slash café that has a rustic and old-fashioned ambience to it. Cedar-wood tables pepper the quaint space, ceiling-high bookshelves tower from behind display cases overflowing with oven-fresh pastries, copper sconces line the exposed walls, and the furthermost back wall is home to a configuration of weather-beaten bricks slathered together with mortar. But my favorite part is the circular fixture attached to the ceiling, decorated in bright green vines that ribbon down like gnarled ringlets. Sunlight spills in from the floor-to-ceiling windows, draping the black-and-white checkered tiles in a dusting of gilded gold.

I steal admiring glances while she’s not looking, watching as she floats effortlessly through her work area with the experience of a seasoned veteran, her nightshade ponytail flicking behind her. She’s bobbing her head to a track of the latest pop hits, and when a patch of ochre sunlight hits her just right, her entire silhouette glows with an ethereal quality, little dust motes dancing in the coffee-shrouded air. The mechanical whir of a frothing machine and the backtrack of hushed chatter all compete fruitlessly for my attention, but I can’t tear my eyes away from her beauty…which smolders like a newly birthed ember. She isn’t just drop-dead gorgeous on the outside. Whenever I see her serving other customers, there’s always this bigger-than-life smile beaming on her face, and her laugh, well…her laugh could cure a lifetime of loneliness.

There’s only one person ahead of me in line, so I have two minutes to come up with a script, practice that script in my head, and hold down the heavy lunch doing one hell of an anxiety-induced churn in my stomach.

Be cool, Fulton. Just…make small talk. Don’t be creepy. She’s just a girl. There’s no pressure to ask her to be your plus one to your friend’s wedding. If the question happens to arise, then so be it. Your teammates aren’t going to look at you any differently if you show up dateless.

Every nervous thought rolls around in my head like billiard balls, and my feverish equilibrium spins into a death-defying drop, nearly making my knees buckle underneath me. But then, as the broad frame of the customer in front of me moves aside, there’s a direct, sun-drenched spot between me and my possible future wife. Her thick lashes flick up in slow motion, making way for big, irresistible doe eyes to pull me under with a single look.

I don’t know how, but my legs move of their own accord, lured to that wood-grain countertop by her siren call. My nerves are pleading with me to retreat, but my heart is practically crawling to her, needing her attention to revitalize its now-sluggish beats.

“Hi, Fulton,” Shiloh says, and the airy tone of her voice wraps me in a powder-soft cloud, immediately liquefying my muscles and unraveling the fear that’s been knotted like a cherry stem in my gut. She’s a work of art, chiseled from my very dreams and desires, stunning enough to be immortalized in marble. She’s got a small, heart-shaped face, a button nose, and big, plush lips that glisten with a thin sheen of pink gloss. She’s a foot shorter than me with a petite body, and she has to tip her head up to address me.

I lose the ability to speak—it feels like she’s plucked my vocal cords from my throat with her dainty, manicured fingers (in the least violent way possible). My legs may have led me to my demise, but now that I’m grappling for a foothold on the side of a precarious ledge, a calamitous freefall looks like my only option. The fan spinning lazily above us does nothing to cool the molten heat blazing a trail through my body.

“Uh, hi, Shiloh,” I greet with deliberate and slow syllables, careful not to butcher anything that comes out of my mouth in the next three minutes and forty-two seconds.

Shiloh lights up brighter than a Broadway sign, her lips curling into one cheek-plumping smile that manages to crinkle her cinnamon-colored eyes. “Uh, just your usual today?” she asks, enforcing a rather nerve-racking amount of eye contact.

Oh, shit. What do I say? I wasn’t expecting her to ask me that. Why wasn’t I expecting her to ask me that? It’s her job. Come on, Fulton! Get it together !

Judging by the way my belly’s rumbling ominously, food probably isn’t the smartest idea right now. Fuck, I’ve never been this nervous before. Not about any game, not about any interview, not about anything. Do you think she notices how nervous I am? Oh my God, do I smell? Do I have pit stains? What if I’m freaking her out right now because I’m doing a long-ass internal monologue in my head and not responding to her?

Eventually—when I remember to function like a regular human being—I shake my head, a lock of sweat-slicked hair tumbling down my forehead. “No…thanks. I, uh, well…”

Shiloh leans against the counter a bit, inadvertently bridging the distance between us, the delicate arch of her collarbone rising when she sucks in a breath. “You know, I caught you playing in the game last night,” she tells me.

She’s going off script! SHE’S GOING OFF SCRIPT!

I blink a few times, confused beyond belief because there’s no way in hell that someone like her was watching someone like me .

“Y-you did?” I stammer, trying to camouflage my very obvious surprise.

Pearly teeth drag against a pillowy bottom lip, a coy twinkle kindling in the dark pits of her eyes—tantalizing and tempting and a whole lot of trouble. “Yeah! You did really well. Like, you were amazing out there.”

Is this real life? Did she just…give me a compliment? My brain’s short-circuiting, and there’s no saying if my whole body will experience a total-program shut down as well. She tends to give me compliments here and there when I come in, but I—I’m just amazed by her kindness.

I pantomime my best mask of confidence, hoping that she can’t hear the loud bellowing of my heart or see my face burst into a sunset of pinks and reds. “Oh. Um, thank you very much. I really like your…eyes? ”

She bristles, as if she wasn’t expecting a compliment back. “Oh?—”

“Yeah, they’re not too dark. They’re the perfect shade of brown, you know? Some people’s eyes are the color of chocolate. Some people’s eyes are almost black. Some people’s eyes are poop brown, and that’s…uh…unfortunate. For them. But you don’t have poop eyes! You have pretty brown eyes that are way too light to be poop-colored…unless you have diarrhea.”

Kill. Me. Now.

Why, Fulton, would you say the dreaded D-word to the girl that you’ve had a crush on for four years? Are you trying to ruin your chance with her? (Not that you really had one in the first place.)

I want the floor to swallow me whole, and then I want my body to never be recovered by the paramedics.

I’m expecting Shiloh to cringe in disgust or pity or whatever the hell is going on in her head right now, but instead, she breaks into a flurry of giggles, her small shoulders shaking with each harmonious chuckle that spills from her lips. “Thank you. I, uh, I guess I wouldn’t want to have poop-colored eyes.”

That laugh…God, I’m so fucked.

I’m not sure what changes, but for a fleeting moment, confidence rallies inside me, and some deep, dark, depraved—and deprived—part of me needs to listen to the sound of her laugh for as long as I can, because just remembering it won’t do it justice. The way her voice pitches up slightly before each giggle, the way it cocoons my eardrums like the most beautiful piece of classical music, the way it hovers at the base of her throat instead of being a dredged-up rumble. I need the essence of her injected into my very veins.

With nothing to lose—except my dignity—I lean one of my hands on the counter, start to feel it slide because of the accumulation of sweat, and then quickly catch myself before tripping over my feet. “Shiloh, will you…” I start rockily.

Her eyes go cartoonishly wide, and maybe it’s because I’m barely whispering, but she eagerly leans in to listen to me.

There’s an unrelenting din of noise all around me—like a forest of trees screaming after being enveloped by the licking flames of a raging wildfire. This borrowed confidence isn’t going to last long, and neither will the state of my pathetic, loose-limbed body.

A lot of things can happen when I pop the big question—I might shower her workspace in chunks of undigested food, hightail it out of the door and push some elderly lady down in doing so, or decide at last-minute not to invite her and slink back to Gage with my tail between my legs. So I take it as a win when a string of unintelligible gibberish comes out of my mouth instead.

“Willyoubemyplusonetomyfriend’sweddingplease?”

I think it takes Shiloh a moment to decode whatever it is I just said, and when she finally does, another smile is waiting for me—one I haven’t seen before, and one I hope she’ll grace me with for our three-week-long, could-be-romantic adventure.

“Let me see if I can get time off work, but that sounds…that sounds amazing, Fulton.”