And then it hits me.
I can call this off.
Not the marriage itself, but this ill-fated proposal. In business meetings I’m never afraid to hit the pause button or withdraw a proposal altogether to go back to the drawing board and regroup. Maybe—just maybe—that’s the best approach here.
Whatever choice I make needs to happen fast if I’m stopping all this, because the gears are in motion. Musicians, tiramisu, ring, Champagne...
Little breathy sounds are coming out of Shannon. She takes two bites of her fish and sighs. Not being a mind reader, all I can do is reach for her hand and take it in both of mine, caressing the soft skin, hoping she’ll let me make all of this right.
“I’m sorry,” she finally says.
Wasn’t expecting that. But never look an unsolicited gift apology in the mouth.
“Okay,” I say, not sure where this is going.
“I’m just so stressed with work, and I know you hate doing mystery shops with me, and—”
The waiter arrives with the tiramisu and a bottle of Champagne.
Chandra’s nowhere to be seen.
Guess calling it off isn’t an option now, is it?
Shannon’s eyes light up, then die, like a Blue tip match being struck and snuffed out. “What’s all this? I didn’t order dessert yet.”
“Compliments of the house,” the server explains.
She gives me a look that says Have I been busted? Part of her pride with mystery shopping is that she’s undetectable to staff. Being skillful with her evaluations is critical. She looks crestfallen as the piece of tiramisu bigger than my brother’s ego is plated in front of her.
Just what every man wants when he’s proposing—for his beloved to look like her childhood pet got hit by a car.
Two Champagne flutes come out from behind a server and a cork pops.
Hold on.
SCREECH. Slam on the brakes.
The ring is supposed to be in the Champagne before they serve it.
The glug glug glug of alcohol pouring from the bottle into the glasses echoes in my mind as I search visually for my mother’s ring. It’s not exactly a small bauble, so it should be here.
It should be here.
“Enjoy your dessert,” the server says, giving me a wink when Shannon’s head is tipped down.
Where is the ring?
Where is the fucking ring?
“Do you think they’ve guessed?” she says in a panicked voice, picking up her fork.
“Guessed what?”
She throws her non-fork hand in the air in frustration. “That I’m evaluating them? No restaurant has ever just spontaneously offered me Champagne and tiramisu!” She pauses to think. “Maybe they recognized you?”
The truth is right there. My mouth is full of it. The authentic, verifiable fact that this is all a set up for her benefit—for our benefit—is crouching on my tongue, ready to be unfurled and explained, described and confessed. It coils, waiting for a signal from my brain, hesitating until I decide it’s time to say what I need to say.
In hindsight, ten seconds could have made the difference between a delightfully tender proposal and one that ends in blood, pain and humiliation.
I’m a decisive guy.
But not this time.
She carves out a large bite from one corner of her piece of tiramisu, the custard and ladyfinger concoction asymmetrical on the fork, a little too suspicious. Because it’s dusk, the only light in the room is candlelight and overhead, dim bulbs designed to give an aesthetic that shouts romance.
Her lips encase the sweet treat and she lifts her full glass of water, taking a big swallow just as her eyes bug out of her head.
I think I just found the ring.
Shannon leaps to her feet, the fork clattering to the ground, her water glass falling as she drops it and clutches her throat.
“Unng! Unng!” is all she can say. A cold wave of horror takes over my body, as if I’ve been flung into the ocean off a cliff and tossed by a thirty-foot wave.
Chandra appears suddenly and shouts in a commanding voice, “Someone call 911! We need a doctor! Heimlich!”
Two busboys pound through the kitchen’s doors but before they can get to us, my arms are around Shannon. I’m behind her, pelvis against her ass, hands forming the carefully folded fist under her sternum.
She’s barely breathing. Her grunts become more frantic, her fingernails clawing at her throat. I can’t see her eyes and frankly, I don’t want to right now. If I see the glow of who she is begin to fade as this unfolds badly, I can’t do what I’m about to do.
In a split second I become two Declans. It’s the third time in my life I’ve had this happen. My second with Shannon. The day she was stung I divided into two distinct realities, each able to watch the other, like viewing a film.
One Declan lifts her into me, ready to thrust up and dislodge the ring. She makes an unholy sound and tenses.
No air.
C’mon c’mon c’mon.
I envision the ring in her throat, willing it to loosen and shoot out of her mouth. Jesus Christ come on come on come ON, and just as I’m about to perform the Heimlich, she stops me.
A thin hiss of air comes out of her but she’s desperate, leaning over the table, hands on the edge as a man my father’s age rushes over, followed by a petite woman with greying hair.
“I’m a doctor and my wife is a nurse,” the man says, looking at Shannon’s face. “I hear air, but the obstruction’s still there. Don’t do the Heimlich yet.”
“Why?” I ask.
“What’s in there? A piece of meat?” the nurse asks.
“No,” I say, the words surreal. “It’s an engagement ring.”