(Out of all the days I have endured, I did not expect the development that took place today. I'm drained and soon to be drunk so fuck everything and then fuck it some more.)
He threw a legal pad down in front of me and placed a fountain pen on it. The lapis lazuli one. My favorite one.
Write your own proposal.
What? I sat up and put my wine on the table. I'm sticking close to the patient in case he starts choking again. I am assured he's fine but my head has trouble with things like promises and...words. What are you talking about? I was daydreaming, caught between the whitecaps and the clouds somewhere no one could find me. I followed his voice back. I should have stayed where I was.
Write down what you want and I'll do it. I'll either buy it or arrange it or make it or find it.
Caleb, I-
He got down on his knees in front of me. Jesus, Bridget, I'm begging you. Do you know what this does to me? You're so close I can taste you. His thumb is rubbing against the back of my neck, his lips somewhere near my nose because he's still taller on his knees than I am sitting here on his sofa and when he says taste an electric shock kicks into my brain and gives me away.
Please. He closes his eyes. Anything you want. Just tell me and I'll give it to you.
Since I am twelve I want to ask for a baby elephant and a candy apple but since I'm also an adult I marvel in silence at what power feels like and how sad it is in real life and I don't say anything.
He mistakes my helplessness for deep thought and looks so encouraged.
So encouraged.
I get up and scoop up the paper and pen. I write one sentence down on the page and I throw the whole pad at him in some sort of newfound rage. He is so shocked he doesn't duck and it hits him in the chest and lands on the floor. I put the pen gently down on the glass table and I watch him pick up the pad, smoothing out the pages. He orients it and reads my sentence. With incredible satisfaction and more than a little curiosity I watch as all the color drains out of his face.
There's your fucking proposal, Diabhal.
Oh, Neamhchiontach, he says.
With that my hopes are dashed. They weren't so much hopes as they were longshots. Like everyone I love. Like love itself. A fucking longshot.
It was part of the game, he whispers as he closes the distance between us in three strides, I'm so sorry.
I throw myself into his embrace and press my face against his shoulder. I hate you, I tell him as I sag against his arms. I hate you so fucking much for everything you've put me through.
I know you do, Bridget.
