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Jack doesn’t answer for a moment.
That’s because he’s pretty much hyperventilating.
When he can speak, he chokes out, “Do you know what Manhattan real estate costs?”
“Who said anything about Manhattan? We can always look in the suburbs…or not,” I add hastily, lest he hurtle himself out the nearest window.
“Come on, Trace, you were the one who convinced me that we had to live in Manhattan in the first place. I would have been more than happy to stay in Brooklyn—”
“You wanted to look in Queens.”
“Or Queens,” he says amenably. “But you had your heart set on the Upper East Side. Remember?”
“I do remember. But that was a long time ago, you know? I’ve changed my mind since then.”
“About Queens?”
“Queens. Living there? No.” I suppress a shudder.
It’s not that I’m opposed to the outer boroughs in general. I’m the first one to hop on the subway to Yankee Stadium or the Staten Island Ferry for a weekend outing at my friend Brenda’s.
Maybe not the first one. But I’m generally open to visiting the boroughs, with good reason, advance notice and nothing better to do.
I’m just not open to moving to a borough at this stage of the game. I mean, if I’m going to live in the city, it’s going to be Manhattan. And if I’m priced out of the city…
“I can see us in the suburbs, can’t you?” I ask Jack, who grimaces. “Like Westchester or Long Island, Jersey, maybe…”
For a second he just looks at me. Then his famous dimples reappear in his lower cheeks at long last as he laughs. Hard.
Maybe a little too hard.
Okay, maniacally.
When he stops, he says, “We’ve been engaged less than a half hour, and you’ve already got us buying a house in the suburbs, Trace.”
“Or a condo.” Two bedrooms, two baths and a permanent parking spot for the car we’re going to get the second we move. Nothing fancy. Maybe a little sporty, but not red. Sleek and black might be nice….
“House, condo, whatever.” Jack shakes his head. “Why are you suddenly worrying about moving?”
“Because not only are we running out of room here, but things keep breaking down on a daily basis.”
“That’s an exaggeration.”
“Not really.”
“Name one thing that broke down today.”
You, I think, when you decided to pop the question at last.
Bwa-hahahahahahaha…that’s one quip meant for my personal amusement only. No need to remind Jack that he dragged his feet all the way to the fateful waterlogged gutter where he finally proposed.
“The toaster.”
Jack blinks. “The toaster?”
“It refused to pop after I shoved it down this morning. I scorched three pieces of bread.”
“But the toaster isn’t part of the apartment. That’s ours. Let’s just buy a new one. It’ll be cheaper than a colonial in Scarsdale by, like, one point four mil and change.”
I crack a smile, but also point out, “The toaster wouldn’t be on the blink if there weren’t something wrong with the wiring in the kitchen outlet.”
“Who are you, Bob Vila? How do you know that?”
“I just know. Come on, Jack. There’s a lot of stuff that needs to be fixed around this place, and every time something crashes, we have to wait for other people to do something about it. Wouldn’t you rather have a place of our own?”
He tilts his head. “You mean, would I rather be the one calling the electrician and paying him than the one calling the guy who calls the electrician and pays him? Or, better yet, would I rather be the one who gets a bad shock trying to figure out if an electrician is necessary in the first place?”
“You don’t have to be so negative. You’ve never gotten a shock in your life.”
“I’ve gotten plenty, since I meant you.”
His tone is light and I can’t help but grin. “You mean the little lightning bolts of passion, right?”
“Definitely.” He grins and kisses my forehead affectionately. “Whoa. Sparks.”
I make a face at him.
“Come on, Trace. Do we have to discuss this right now? Don’t you think you should try and live in the moment a little? You know…bask in the glow?”
“I’m glowing,” I protest. “Sparking, too. Remember?”
“Maybe on the outside. Inside, you’re fast-forwarding, scheming real-estate strategies…”
“Scheming makes it sound like I’m doing something wrong.”
“Planning, then. Is planning better?”
“Much. And I can’t help it. I’m excited.”
“So am I. Let’s just enjoy it for a while. This is the only time in our lives we’re going to get engaged. So tonight, let’s bask, dammit.” The Candell dimples deepen charmingly.
“I’m basking. I’m definitely basking,” I say with a laugh, feeling a little sheepish. “Basking, glowing, sparking…”
“Good.” Jack gives me a squeeze, kisses my forehead again and opens the fridge.
What I don’t dare admit aloud is that in my heart, I’ve been engaged to him for months—ever since his mother, Wilma, told me he had the heirloom ring in his possession.
We…will raise…a fa-mily…a boy…for you…a girl…for me…
See, I like to be proactive. Not only have I got our entire future mapped out, but I already picked a wedding date. Which reminds me…
“While we’re basking,” I say to Jack, “what do you think of the third Saturday in October?”
“For what?”
He didn’t really say that, I tell myself, watching him grab an Amstel Light, then head to the living room to fish the remote from beneath the toppled stack of magazines on the coffee table.
What he really said was, I would love to marry you on the third Saturday in October, darling.
And he isn’t really turning on the television and flipping the channel to ESPN.
No, in reality, he’s heading for the shower to wash his stinky feet for the romantic candlelight dinner we’re going to have tonight to celebrate our engagement.
Except, he’s not.
“Jack—” I am incredulous, watching him bend over to unlace his dress shoes, one eye on the television “—are you watching TV?”
His gaze flicks in my direction.
“Yes?” he says tentatively. “Why?”
“It’s just—” I break off and try to think of a way to phrase it. A delicate way. Or at least a way that doesn’t involve any four-letter words.
I settle on, “I thought we were basking.”
“We are. I just wanted to check a couple of scores.”
“But…” The mind boggles. “We just got engaged, remember? For the only time in our lives. Don’t you think we should…celebrate? And maybe…talk about the wedding?”
“You mean, plan it?” he asks, wearing the same expression he might have if I asked him to knock over the Bank of New York branch on the corner to prove his love for me.
“Not the whole thing right this second, but we definitely need to set a date.”
“Okay, the third Saturday in October. That sounds good.” He pries his shoe off his foot, then peels off his black dress sock and sniffs it.
Watching him, I have to remind myself that I am head over heels in love with him. So what if he behaves, on occasion, like a caged primate at the Bronx Zoo?
You find him endearing, faults and all. You really do.
You have to, because the moment his little quirks cease to be endearing, it all goes to hell in a handcart.
“I told you my feet were going to stink,” he tells me before tossing the sock in the general vicinity of the laundry in the corner, which I hope to God is dirty.
I smile to show that I have absolutely no problem with stinky feet. No problem at all.
I’m in love, dammit.
“About the wedding…” I say as he bends over his other shoe.
“Yeah?” The other shoe comes off and he’s sniffing that sock now.
Okay, I’m sorry, but he just crossed the line from endearing to freakish.
“Jack…cut it out.”
“What?”
“Please stop smelling your sock.”
“I’m just seeing if it stinks.”
“The other one did. What are the odds that this one doesn’t?”
He makes a face and it sails through the air after its partner. “Zero.”
Mental Note: you are in love with this man. Quirks others might find unappealing—disgusting, even—are charming to you. Going to hell in a handcart is not an option.
I allow myself a moment to get back into a romantic frame of mind before saying again, “If we do go with the third Saturday in October—”
“I thought we just agreed on it.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Why not?”
“The number-one place we’d want to have it at is booked all the other Saturdays in October, actually, and by now it’s probably booked that day, too. There aren’t that many other decent places to choose from, so…”
Oops.
I said too much, starting with the word booked.
But instead of asking the obvious—how can you possibly know that, if we’ve been engaged less than an hour and we’ve spent every moment of that time together?—Jack asks, “What number-one place is that?”
“Shorewood Country Club. In Brookside,” I add at his blank look.
“We want to have our wedding in Brookside?”
“My hometown,” I clarify, realizing there must be a crack enclave in the South Bronx also called Brookside. No wonder he’s mixed up and wearing that are-you-out-of-your-mind? expression.
“We never said that,” Jack informs me as he sneaks another glance at the television, where an ESPN reporter is animatedly recapping some game.
“I know we didn’t say that. We never said anything because we never talked about it before,” I point out.
I neglect to add, That’s because you once said something along the lines of “getting married is for assholes.”
Pardon his French.
“I just assumed we’d get married in Brookside,” I say instead.
