Chapter 1: Whiskey & Wedding Plans
The city stretched below you like a spilled jewelry box, all glittering sapphire and amber under the bruised purple sky. Up on the rooftop, the air was cooler, washing away the sterile scent of antiseptic that always seemed to linger in your hair and scrubs. You took a deep breath, the hum of traffic twelve stories down a soothing, distant thing.
“Okay, no more stalling.”
Sarah plunked a frosty margarita glass into your hand, the salt gritty against your fingers. She slid into the wrought-iron chair opposite you, her eyes wide with theatrical urgency. The neon sign from the bar’s interior bathed one side of her face in pink, the other in blue.
“Spill it,” she hissed, leaning across the small table. “Nurse Gonzalez from oncology saw Julian talking to the events manager at The Conservatory Room. The Conservatory Room. That place has a six-month waitlist and costs more per plate than our monthly student loan payments. Why is Dr. Perfect suddenly booking venues?”
Your heart did a funny little stutter-step against your ribs. You took a slow sip, the tang of lime and tequila sharp on your tongue. “He didn’t tell me that.”
“See? Secretive. A classic sign.” Sarah pointed a finger at you, triumphant. “Add it to the list. The suspicious phone calls he takes in the other room. The way he’s been weirdly interested in your ring size. That doodle of a diamond you found on his prescription pad.”
“It was a flowchart for a gallbladder,” you’d said at the time, laughing it off.
It hadn’t really looked like a gallbladder.
A warm evening breeze swept across the rooftop, carrying the faint scent of rain and diesel. You looked out at the skyline, the place where you and Julian had built a life over three years. It was easy, comfortable. He was your best friend before he was anything else. The proposal idea wasn’t frightening; it was a quiet, hopeful thrum in your veins. You wanted it. You thought he did, too.
But the secrecy felt new. Julian was transparent to a fault—the man had once presented you with a color-coded spreadsheet to decide what brand of coffee beans to buy.
“Maybe he’s planning a surprise birthday thing,” you offered, though your birthday was four months away.
Sarah gave you a look that said please. “For you? He knows you hate surprise parties. You lectured him for twenty minutes on anticipatory anxiety after he tried to surprise you with a puppy.”
“It was a valid point! You can’t just spring a living creature on someone.”
“The point,” Sarah said, tapping the table for emphasis, “is that he learns. He remembers. So, a big, public, surprise proposal? Not his style. Not for you.” She grinned, her excitement softening into something warmer. “Which means he’s planning something perfectly Julian. Which means it’s going to be disgustingly sweet and you will cry and I will need photos immediately.”
You smiled, running your finger through the condensation on your glass. The possibility settled over you, soft as the twilight. A secret, just for you. The thought made your chest feel tight and full.
Later, walking into the apartment you shared, the familiar smell of old books and his sandalwood cologne wrapped around you. Julian was in the kitchen, his back to you, humming off-key to a jazz record. He was making your favorite—his famously bad, weirdly delicious carbonara. Pancetta sizzled in the cast-iron pan.
“Long day?” he asked without turning, a simple phrase that meant I love you, I’m here, tell me everything.
“The usual. Mrs. Keaton in 302 tried to bribe me with jello cups for an extra blanket.”
He chuckled, the sound low and warm. You came up behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist and resting your cheek against his back. You felt him relax into you. This was your center. This was home.
“How was your day?” you asked, your voice muffled against his cotton shirt.
“Good. Productive. Saw a lot of… colons.”
You pinched his side. “Liar. You’re a cardiologist.”
“Fine. A lot of hearts, then.” He turned in your arms, his hands coming to rest on your hips. He had flour smudged on his cheek. His glasses were slightly askew. He looked so endearingly rumpled, so yours, that the suspicion from the rooftop felt silly for a second.
You went to change, the conversation with Sarah still buzzing in the back of your mind. Passing his desk in the living room, the leather-bound planner he was never without lay open. You never looked. Boundaries were important.
But a flash of a familiar, elegant logo caught your eye—The Conservatory Room. Your breath hitched. There it was, in his meticulous script. A date, three weeks from Saturday. And below it, just one word: Ask.
The world narrowed to that single, three-letter word.
Ask.
A jolt, pure and electric, shot from your sternum to your fingertips. You snapped the planner shut, as if you’d seen something naked and private. Your face felt hot. A dizzying cocktail of joy and panic fizzed in your blood. He was really doing it. He had a date. He had a plan.
You heard him clattering in the kitchen, oblivious. The record had reached its end, leaving a soft, vinyl hiss in the quiet apartment.
For the rest of the evening, you watched him. You saw the secret now, a subtle new layer on top of the man you knew. The way his gaze lingered on you while you told a story about Sarah. The slight, absent-minded smile that played on his lips when he thought you weren’t looking. The careful way he steered conversation away from future plans for that specific weekend.
You played along. You let him have his secret. But it was there, now, a tangible thread between you in the quiet of your shared home. When he kissed you goodnight later, his lips soft and familiar, the knowledge thrummed beneath your skin.
He was going to ask.
And you, lying in the dark, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, began the delicious, agonizing, wonderful wait.