Today, two hours before my flight.
I declined his offer to pick me up from the airport. “I need to finish your surprise, and you know I’ll just tell you what it is if I see you,” I’d said. Which wasn’t a lie—I was (and still am) terrified that I’d just blurt everything out the second the car door closes.
I know I’m going to need the time at my hotel to finish thinking, finish planning—to prepare for what I’m about to do.
I might be insane.
Fifteen years ago, sophomore year, high school.
We were introduced at a mutual friend’s birthday party. I told him that I’d seen him around in the halls before, that I thought of him as “the guy who was always smiling.” He laughed and then gestured at my scarf.
“Lord of the Rings fan, I see.”
I’d looked down, running my hand across the gold fabric, fingering the Elvish script. “Yeah, you could say that.”
“Nice!” he said, smiling that smile. “One scarf to rule them all.”
I smiled back. “One scarf to find them.”
Eventually, it would become impossible to separate us.
Today, two hours before my flight.
This isn’t even what I’m going to wear when I see him, but I can’t stop brushing imaginary lint off the shoulders and arms of my sweater. I smooth my hair, and for the millionth time, I worry that I’m going to rub a bald spot into my temples thanks to this nervous tick.
No one knows that I decided to go through with this—he’s the first person I would’ve told about such a major life decision. Since I can’t tell him yet, since I have to show him, this secret is burning a hole in my chest.
I can’t look at my duffel bag. It’s mocking me.
Thirteen years ago, senior year.
I spent so much time in his bed. I would sprawl across it, dangling my legs off the side and tilting my head to see him when he spoke. I’d sit at the foot of it, wrapping an arm around a short post while he sat at his desk. Often, I was just curled up next to him—a handful of inches away.
Fourteen years ago, junior year.
He’d hug me full bodied, wrapping his arms around my shoulders, chin nestling in my hair. Sometimes, he’d hug me so hard, he’d lift me and my toes would scrape the ground. In these moments, I couldn’t breathe without inhaling his scent—salty, smoky, spice. I could smell him everywhere.
I borrowed a shirt from him. It fell halfway down my thighs when I wore it sleep, and I’d wake up thinking he was with me; that was how powerfully he overtook my senses. I could almost taste him.
Today, ninety minutes before my flight.
The magazine I bought was not enough of a distraction.
I can’t decide what I want to start with.
“Adrian, do you remember your twenty-third birthday? When you came back from Australia?” “I wasn’t sure what to get you, Ade. What do you get someone you know too well, so well that nothing captures your history?” “Adrian, I know this is crazy but . . .”
Twelve years ago, home for Christmas.
We laid on my rooftop, waiting for a shower of shooting stars to pass overhead.
Our breath clouded the air, and our shoulders and hips just barely grazed each other. I looked over, and his eyes were bright, cheeks flushed. I wondered if he was cold or just waiting. He knew I was looking, and his mouth quirked at the corner.
I watched his breathing change, quickening slightly, and when he turned to look back at me, I thought he might say something. But when we heard the cheering from other skygazers, we turned away and watched in awe as the night gave us a show.
Five years ago, Akron, Ohio.
I was sitting across from a guy named Lennon. Normally, I wouldn’t have given a last name–first name guy a chance, but I had to admit his parents got points for their homage. Plus, he had a regal nose, and I was into that kind of thing.
We were laughing, and our hands touched on the table. His was warm—can a hand convey confidence? I wasn’t sure if I would go home with him. But I knew I wouldn’t need the “out” texts from Adrian that I’d asked for, which I could feel as they caused my purse to vibrate ever so slightly against my leg.
Today, one hour before my flight.
New Year’s Day always reminds me of St. Patrick’s Day. Not the actual day—the groggy, regretful aftermath. Everything is slightly sticky or covered in confetti, and people hold onto their coffee cups as if that will correct their balance.
That’s how people look as they shuffle between terminals. Some seem extremely haggard, like they’d fall over if I blew too hard in their direction, or like they’re slightly bewildered about how they ended up here. I really hope the people on my flight are mostly sober. I’m stressed out enough—I hate flying—without having to worry about someone throwing up on me or getting belligerent with a flight attendant.
Not today, I pray to the god of planes. Please, not today.
Fourteen years ago, junior year.
We held hands or linked arms sometimes—when we were on the sidewalk and he chose the side closest to the street, so I wouldn’t get hit by a car; when he took me with him while he shopped for electronics, after my bad breakup, and said he’d be my fake boyfriend if we ran into my ex (who’d never liked him anyway); when we ran through the neighborhood at night, trying to get home before curfew.
He held my hand at my grandfather’s funeral.
Ten years ago, college.
Old and new friends had so many questions. The way he’d casually place his hand on my waist at parties, when we didn’t feel like doing anything but sipping sour, cheap beer in silence. He’d throw his legs over the arm of a couch and lay his head in my lap so I could comb his short curls with my fingers—I always laughed at him for flinching when I caught a tangle. We’d text each other from across a room, laughing to ourselves and shooting knowing glances through the air.
Eight years ago, after graduation.
He was going to Australia for a year. I was moving to DC for a job.
He had a cousin in Melbourne, and he felt like he needed to see the world a little before chaining himself to a desk. I didn’t think he’d have trouble there or when he came back. He had such a way of adjusting to his surroundings—it always seemed like, wherever he was, he’d been there for years.
I gave him a pillow I’d embroidered—“Don’t call me chicken!” it said in bright red and orange and yellow.
He gave me a framed picture from our trip to Rocky Mountain National Park. He’d wanted to go to Denver, and I didn’t want to be that basic. So, we decided to go hiking—which we’d never done before. The picture wasn’t of the two of us; we rarely took those. Instead, it was our first attempt at putting the tent together. It was just so sad, we had to document it. (The father from a family camping nearby took pity and constructed it for us.)
I remember lying awake, listening to the way his breath blended in with sounds of the night around us. Even in his sleep, he fit in perfectly.
Today, thirty minutes before my flight.
The airport staff are on the intercom. Our plane is a little late coming in. They’ll keep us updated.
Seven years ago, January second.
How do you know if you’re in love with the boy from around the corner?
Is it when he moves out of the country, and things keep making you think of his smile and the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed? Is it when you dream that you’re sitting in your car in the parking lot, waiting for a storm to pass, and as he climbs into your passenger seat—out of nowhere—the clouds break? Is it when you sign his birthday card and feel a thump throughout your body as you write “Love, Meg”?
Is it when you look at him, passed out on your couch, and realize how easy it would’ve been—how many opportunities you’d had to close that space?
Seven years ago, January first.
He’d only been back from Australia a few days, but he swore he wasn’t too jetlagged to celebrate his birthday—his twenty-third.
He came to see me in Akron because he wasn’t quite sure what his plans were now that he was back in the States. He’d put some feelers out for jobs around the country, but he wasn’t far enough in the interview process to know what was next.
I didn’t mind. It was nice to share my apartment with someone.
We didn’t go anywhere. He said it was because he just wanted to enjoy my presence uninterrupted after a year of being apart, but I knew he was still too tired. So, we ordered in his favorite—Greek—and planned on marathoning the extended cuts of Lord of the Rings.
He suggested we turn it into a drinking game. I thought that was a terrible idea.
“We’re not in college anymore, Ade!” I’d said. “We’re adults. If we want to get drunk, we just get drunk! We don’t need to make up excuses.”
“Come on! It’ll be fun! For old times’ sake. It’s my birthday!” He made the face he always makes to get me to agree with him. The one that’s already a little self-satisfied because he knows it will work. I rolled my eyes because it did.
By the time we started The Return of the King, we were absolutely shitfaced. My living room floor was a ruin of napkins and takeout containers and crushed beer cans. We were sitting on my couch, heads leaned together, giggling.
“I would marry Aragorn in a heartbeat,” I said, slurring a little. “He’s hot. He could be a king, but he’s worried about how quickly power can corrupt. He has a bad-ass sword that’s bigger than all the other swords. So you know what that means!”
He laughed, throaty and a little hoarse. “You have queen potential.”
“I totally do!” I practically screamed in his face. I pulled my hair into a low, messy bun with my hands and turned my head to the side, elongating my neck. “See, look at how royal I can look. Doesn’t my head deserve a crown? You should get me a crown for my birthday. I will accept one of the ones they give kids at Burger King. Do they still have those?”
He squinted one eye at me, like he was taking stock. “Ok, Meg. I’ll get you a crown.”
“Thank you, my noble squire,” I said, patting his cheek.
“Only knights have squires,” he said, eyebrow quirked in amusement.
“Oh, fuck you!” I reached behind me for a pillow and hit him in the face with it. He was too drunk to fight me off, so I whacked him a few times.
We turned our attention back to the movie, though it was hard to process what scene we’d made it to. I couldn’t focus on anything other than the flush I felt on my cheeks and the heat rising from his body.
Suddenly, he pushed himself upright, swaying a little as he turned to look at me.
“Hey, Meg. I know I’m no Aragorn, but would you marry me?”
I giggled, swatting at his arm. “Ade, how drunk are you?!”
“I’m fine,” he said, catching my hand. “I’ve just been thinking. We should make one of those ‘If neither of us are married before we’re thirty’ deals.”
It was my turn to squint. “Why? We’re celebrating your twenty-third birthday, you lunatic. Why are you thinking about a) marriage or b) being thirty?”
He ran a hand through his hair, searching for words. I sat up, sobering a little.
“I just feel like,” he began, “you get me, and I get you. And we’re great people and friends, right?”
“Right . . .” I couldn’t tell where he was going.
“And, yeah, maybe soulmates are real, and maybe our soulmates could be out there waiting for us to find them, making this conversation utterly pointless. Which, fine. But, no one ever said that soulmates had to be exclusively romantic, you know? And I feel like you and I are best friends on a soulmate level. Do you understand what I mean?”
“Yeeeess?”
“Okay. So my point is those people could be out there, but we might not meet them in time, or at the right time. And I don’t want to wait until I’m in my 40s to find my soulmate, not when I’ve got one right here. So.”
“So,” I parroted back.
“So what do you say? Meg—.” He looked around for a second and then leaned toward my coffee table, plucking an errant twist tie from among the clutter. He shaped it into a loose circle and held it out to me. “Meg. Will you marry me in seven years if, by chance, we’re both single and have no viable prospects?”
There was no possible way he was being serious, but I played along. “Hmm. Well, while I’m proud of you for being able to say ‘viable’ while you’re absolutely plastered, I always imagined that my first ‘Better you than no one’ proposal would be more glamorous.”
He laughed. “When it’s the real deal, I’ll make a big show of it.”
“You’d better! I’m a classy lady—queenlike, if you’ll recall. I deserve, at the very least, a string quartet.”
He laughed, leaning back against the couch. “So, yes then?”
I took the twisted circle from his hand and slid it on my finger, shaking my head at how ridiculous this all was. “Yes, Adrian. I will be your backup wife.”
When I woke up, the twist tie was still on my hand.
Today, ninety minutes before my flight.
I can’t tell if I should be thrilled or horrified that the flight is delayed by an hour. On the one hand, I have some more time to prepare. On the other hand . . . I have more time to prepare. Is there such a thing as too many cooks in the kitchen when it’s your own brain and therefore you’re the only one cooking?
I had a dream, once, where I was making a birthday cake and I put too much salt in the flour. So then I added more flour. But it was too much flour, so I added more salt. And it went on like that for the whole dream, and I woke up stressed out. And hungry for cake.
Point is . . . I feel like I’m going to overthink this.
Six years ago, Akron, Ohio.
I gripped my phone a little too tightly; I hadn’t anticipated his news. “You and Sarah are moving to San Diego? That’s great! But also, wow.”
“I know,” he said. I could practically hear him running his hand through his hair. “You think I’m crazy.”
“I said three sentences!”
“Yeah, in your ‘Adrian, you’re being crazy’ voice.”
“I don’t know what you speak of, sir.”
“You absolutely know what I speak of. And I know, it’s completely nuts. We’ve been together four months. But, I don’t know. It feels like the right call. You remember how much I liked it when my family went there junior year.”
“I do. You wouldn’t shut up about it. As if California isn’t going to break off and float into the sea. Or burn to the fucking ground.”
“Your distrust of California, as always, is noted.” He paused, exhaling a sharp burst of air. “Look, Meg. I just . . . Mom and Dad already gave me a speech. I could really . . .”
I closed my eyes, sighing inwardly. “Ade. You’re a grown man. Kind of. You don’t need my approval, or your parents’, to do something you want to do.”
“I know I don’t,” he said defensively. “But, you know, I’d still like it.”
“You’re ridiculous, did you know this?”
“Yes. I’m well aware. You’ve told me many times.”
“And you never try to make it untrue.”
“Meg.”
“Okay! I give you my seal of approval. You are one hundred percent cleared to move to San Diego with Sarah. What would you like as a housewarming gift?”
“Well, I wouldn’t mind getting back that sweater you borrowed two years ago.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. That became my property after six months. Besides, they don’t even wear sweaters in California. It’s all bikini tops and sandals. Do you want a bikini top?”
“Always.”
“Shall I make it itsy and bitsy?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t have it any other way. But I swear to God, if you get me yellow polka dots, I will consider our friendship canceled.”
“I thought it was yellow WITH polka dots?”
“I’m not having this argument with you again.”
“Fine. But I’m right.”
He chuckled. “So, seriously. Are you okay with this? Or do you still think I’m crazy?”
“I will always think you’re crazy. But I know Sarah makes you happy. I know you’ve been wanting to live in San Diego for a while now. So, your happiness is all I need to sign off on something.”
“Thank you, Meg.” He sighed in relief. “You’re the best, and I love you.”
“I love you too, Ade.”
When I hung up, I thought absentmindedly, Well. That pact idea didn’t last long.
Three years ago, San Diego, California.
“Honestly, it was for the best,” he said as we sipped our drinks. “You were together for two years, and he wouldn’t commit to moving in together.”
I rolled the glass tumbler in my hands. “Yeah . . . I don’t know. I get that Lennon had some trust issues. But, come on. I’m a pretty great roommate. At least, I’ve never had any complaints.”
“You’ve lived alone since college.”
“And I’ve never once complained!”
He grinned at me, and the bar’s low light glinted off his glasses. “See, I can tell you’re not that broken up about it. Your signature wit remains intact.”
“Well, it’s a wonderful deflection tactic,” I said, lifting my glass in a mocking toast before draining it.
“I’m serious, though, Meg. I was kind of surprised that you even considered it an option. Didn’t you say you’d only move in with a guy if you thought he was marriage material?”
“I did say that, but I was young and foolish at the time.”
“Well, doesn’t that prove my point? You didn’t think he was marriage material, and you never acted like it.”
I looked away, sighing. “I didn’t. But, I don’t know. It just seemed like . . . like that’s what couples should be talking about after two years. Even if it’s not marriage serious, isn’t that some beginner level of seriousness? A sort of signifier that you’re willing to take it more seriously?”
He tilted his head. “Did you want to take it more seriously?”
“I don’t know. I guess I felt like I should’ve wanted to.” I shrugged. “He was really nice. And I really liked him.”
“But you didn’t love him.”
“No. I didn’t. But, does that matter? I could have grown to. I mean, you and Sarah moved here after only four months. Did you already love her?”
He looked down at his glass, swirling its meager contents. “I thought I did. And I did, for a while. But, ultimately, we didn’t want the same things. She would’ve been happy if our relationship never changed. I want someone who’ll let me become a new person—someone who’ll become new with me.”
I reached across the table to squeeze his hand. “I’ve always liked every iteration of you.”
He smiled, though it was a little sad. “I know, Meg. Right back at you.”
Today, seventy minutes before my flight.
My phone buzzes. It’s a text: I saw your flight was delayed. Are you sure you don’t want me to pick you up when you get here?
I hover my thumb above the screen. Stalkin my flight, are you?
Three dots. Is it wrong to be excited to see my best friend?
Of course not. But I told you. I need to finish your surprise.
Three dots. Are you really not going to give me a single hint?
No. You’ll find out in a few hours.
Three dots. Tease.
Thirteen years ago, senior year.
I fell asleep in his bed. We were watching a cartoon from the ’90s because nostalgia, and I’d burrowed under the covers—as if I’d always belonged there. I told him to keep watching, that I just wanted to take a nap.
I thought I felt his fingers on my cheek as I drifted off.
I thought I heard him whisper that he loved me.
Six months ago.
“So, it didn’t work out with Sloane either?” he asked during our weekly chat.
“No, it didn’t. I really need to stop giving last name–first name guys a chance.” I was draped across my bed, fiddling with the tassels on a pillow.
“You really do.”
I rolled over and stared at the ceiling. “Adrian, do you think I’ll ever get my life together? I mean, fuck—we’re almost thirty. You’d think I’d be better at dating at this point. I haven’t had a super serious boyfriend since Lennon.”
“And you were barely serious about him.”
“I know! Am I just totally shit at adulting?”
“Meg, you’re the best adult I know. You have a great job, you can afford where you live, and you regularly eat vegetables.”
“I don’t floss regularly.”
“No one does. Dentists wouldn’t have to exist if people did.”
“I don’t know. Shouldn’t I at least have a house and a mortgage at this point?”
“A mortgage is just long-term rent. You’ve had your place for three years. It’s practically the same thing.”
“You have a point.” I sighed. “I just feel like i should’ve had an actual meaningful relationship by now.”
“I think you just haven’t been ready yet. But, trust me. Your soulmate is out there somewhere.”
“Maybe.”
“Definitely.” We sat in silence for a moment. “So, switching lanes abruptly and with wild abandon—what are you getting me for my birthday.”
“Adrian, you greedy bitch. It’s six months away!”
“Yeah, and I’m turning thirty! I just naturally assumed you had something in the works.”
“I don’t plan things that far in advance.”
“You absolutely do. You came up with the idea to take me to Toronto for my twenty-first birthday when we were, like, nineteen.”
“It’s not cute to prove me wrong.”
“Wrong again. I’m always cute.”
I rolled my eyes. “Well, I don’t have an idea yet. To your point, you’re turning thirty! It’s a big deal, and therefore I need to think of the perfect gift.”
“While I’m hurt that you haven’t been planning this birthday for the past five years, I have full confidence in your ability to blow my mind with your amazingly perfect gift.”
“Ah. So there’s no pressure.”
“None whatsoever.”
Six months ago.
What do you do when you realize you’re completely and totally in love with the boy from around the corner?
Today, twenty minutes before my flight.
It’s probably my nerves, but my seat feels impossibly small. I can’t get my seat belt to settle comfortably across my hips, and I think I’m sweating a little bit.
I am certain that I’ve gone insane. I should just forget everything. I’ll just give him his main gift and leave it at that.
Yeah. That’s what I’ll do.
Thirteen years ago, New Year’s Eve.
We were in his backyard, sitting on the porch swing and cradling the small flutes of champagne his parents had given us “because we were basically old enough to celebrate properly.” His mom had put a hand on his cheek, saying that she couldn’t believe he was all grown up now. His dad made the joke that he apparently made every year—that it was Adrian Eve too.
We had settled into a comfortable silence, and I looked at the icy tree branches, the moonlight making them sparkle. His arm was around my shoulder, and I pumped my legs so that the swing rocked back and forth slowly.
Shouts erupted from the living room. “Ten! Nine! Eight!” It was almost time.
They reached one, and I held my breath because I felt him shift against me. My ears rang with the cheers and clinking glasses, and when he turned my face toward his, I was almost afraid to look into his eyes. He hesitated; I didn’t push him because I didn’t know if we could come back from this moment.
He tasted sweeter than I thought he would. It must have been the champagne.
“Happy New Year,” he said as he pulled away.
“Happy birthday,” I said.
Nothing changed. Everything changed.
Today, five minutes before my flight.
My phone buzzes just as I’m about to turn it off. A final text: I hope you have a good flight. And I know I said it already, but I can’t wait to see you. Couldn’t imagine turning 30 with anyone else.
My heart somersaults in my chest. I don’t respond; he wouldn’t mind. As I put my phone in my purse, my fingers graze the little black box. I’d pulled it out of my duffel bag at the last minute.
I take it out and open it. Inside is the twist tie I’d shaped into a loose circle hours ago.
My apprehension is gone.
I’m doing this.
