She’s not shivering. The shaking I’m feeling is laughter. It’s the raw, bony laughter that comes from bitterness and surrender.
“The phones are in the car. The keys are in the water,” she says.
The engagement ring is at the bottom of the pond.
“And we were about to have sex in the bushes,” she adds.
I groan.
A long sigh, and then she adds, “We have to accept the facts. Let’s start walking.”
I look down at my historically-accurate shoes, which are about as comfortable as a pair of drag-queen stilettos.
She’s right, though. As dusk settles in, the mosquitoes kick up. My pants are soaked through, though my coat’s still dry, hanging on a bush branch. I ease my wet shirt into it and shake like a wet dog.
“I can’t believe you did something so impulsive. So ridiculous.”
Ridiculous.
That damn word.
“You’re never going to live this one down, Andrew.”
She’s right.
And then she kisses me.
Costumes be damned. I’m half wet, have lost my keys and the carefully-chosen engagement ring that was handmade and inscribed with the words, There’s a pair of us on the inside. We are stuck in the middle of nowhere, looking like historical re-enactors from a film set, and it’s at least a mile to walk to Route 2, where we might find a gas station.
And Amanda is kissing me.
“This is the most romantic gesture any man has ever made for me.”
“It damn well better be!”
Her laugh is almost painful to hear, the melodious chords of her voice strummed by amusement, frustration, disbelief and a charming sense that, for as much as I screwed this up, we’re in it together.
Fate.
She’s being fatalistic about the next few hours.
I’m being fatalistic about the rest of my life.
I open my mouth, feeling my knee bend just enough, the movement hard to resist. Propose now, a part of me hisses, the echo in my chest making my heart vibrate.
And yet I don’t. I can’t. It needs to be better than this.
I can do better than this.
I sling my arm around her shoulders and we begin the arduous walk up the dirt shore, to the path that takes us to Route 126. I don’t know what we face if we head south, and Route 2 is a busy road to the north.
“Route 2?”
“Hopefully someone will give us a ride. Or just let us use a phone before we have to walk that far,” I say with a sigh. This is befuddling. I haven’t been this—yeah, I’ll say it—helpless in years.
Not since I woke up in a hospital bed thirteen years ago.
“No phone. No car. No direction.”
No engagement ring.
“This’ll be one hell of a story to tell our kids,” she says under her breath as we continue, turning left.
Kids.
My right knee starts to bend again, and my hand drifts to her waist. If I just stop right now and ask, she’ll say yes, right? She just mentioned kids. Our kids.
Instead, I stall.
“You really want four kids?” I ask, remembering Josh’s comment back in Vegas.
“I did.”
“You did? As in past tense?”
“I’m an only child. I always thought having a big family would be the answer to all my problems.”
“You have problems? You’re the most with-it person I know.”
She quirks an eyebrow. “You must not know many functional people, then.”
I mull that one over as I smack a mosquito on my neck. “No. I don’t.”
A car whizzes by. We wave. The driver ignores us.
“Damn,” I shout.
“It’s Boston. What do you expect, Andrew? Would you pull over for some guy dressed like Napoleon and a woman with him who looks like she belongs in a Mormon split-off cult?”
I give her a long look.
She’s right.
The sepia-toned daylight peeks through the woods, giving dusk an eerie look. We walk on the pavement, next to each other, footsteps smaller than normal because of our strange shoes.
This is not going well.
“What about you?”
“I’m pretty with-it.”
She bumps me with her elbow. “I meant kids.”
“I want them. Not yet, but some day.”
“How many?”
“Nine.”
She begins coughing uncontrollably.
“Nine?”
“That’s right. I like my women barefoot and pregnant.”
“You can’t even say that with a straight face.”
“I’m not smiling. That’s me grimacing from these tight breeches.”
She takes a peek behind me, pulling up the tails of my coat. “Damn fine breeches they are, too.”
“For someone who doesn’t want nine kids, don’t make comments like that.”
“Good thing kids come out one at a time. Mostly.”
This conversation makes me want to pull her into the bushes and have sex.
“Amanda, I—” We stop and I reach for her left hand, rubbing her knuckles, worrying the finger that was supposed to have my ring on it by now. We should be back on shore, kissing and whispering words of love and commitment. We should be on the phone, telling our families and friends, making plans for celebration, racing back to my apartment in my car and making love with wild abandon on my bed.
Or couch.
Or kitchen counter.
I’m not picky.
Instead, we’re walking in the worst shoes ever on a messily-paved state route, hoping for a good samaritan or cop to come along and rescue us from my courting madness.
“You what?” she asks, picking up where I began.