“So,” I begin, suddenly overflowing with such incredible happiness that I can’t seem to speak, so I just pull out my hand and show them Saint’s ring.
“Are you telling Mom?” Gina croaks.
“I’m calling her right now to tell her I’m coming over. I want to tell her in person.”
“Rachel!” Wynn screams, and they both hug me and urge me to call my mother.
I suppose that when you’ve been dating a guy for several months and you’ve never dated anyone before, your mother starts getting her hopes up. It seems a natural thing for a mother to want the best for her daughter. Steady job. Friends. Happiness. She watches you struggle, all while she is trying to help and simultaneously letting you spread your wings, but the very moment that your mother spots something that could make you actually happier than you already are—something that seems impossible—she sets her hopes on it.
“Have you ever discussed marriage?” she had asked only recently when I stopped by to see her one weekend.
“No. Mother! I’m twenty-three.”
“I was certain he was going to propose on your birthday,” she’d said.
“Stop dreaming. Plus, things are so perfect.”
I’m a journalist, young still. With so much to learn. I read stories, write stories, and love stories, but I’m not a person in one of my stories. This is me, real, just human and amazed that I found what I did, that the man I’ve fallen in love with actually loves me, but my mother kept asking.
And that’s not the only part of being in your first relationship.
Your friends start asking you about it too. They’ve noticed all the benefits, fund-raisers, movie nights, and they definitely noted the trip to Napa he took you on. They start noticing that the ratio of times he goes out to club with his friends versus the times he goes out with you starts leaning in your favor. And they seem to have a chart measuring all these things, as if that will tell them how serious it is. And it’s serious. It’s very serious. You know it most of all. That you’re in seriously deep, you can’t possibly go deeper. So your friends start to suspect he’s just as serious about you too.
And they keep asking, curiously, if you’ve talked marriage, and they frown when you say, “No, don’t be silly.” As if they just added one plus one in their heads and your answer isn’t two, so it’s not the right one. Not the right answer, it can’t be.
And despite my denials, maybe . . . no, not maybe . . . for sure, I kept hoping too. I kept wondering, after one of his smiles, those piercing, smoldering looks, I kept wondering: Does he sometimes wonder what it would be like to make me his wife?
I kept wondering if that was even in the plans.
I had hoped, and maybe fantasized, but I never expected him to propose.
I hear my friends asking for details and grab my phone to call my mom and tell her the news, and even as I tell them everything and dial her number, I cannot believe that this is me.
I cannot believe that this is us.
My manwhore and me.
At 9:18 a.m. I’m at my mother’s. She didn’t know. Emotions pass through her eyes when I tell her. Surprise. Happiness. Hopefulness. A little bit of natural worry. Then tears. We hug for like ten minutes.
I tell myself I might have not cried so much if she hadn’t started rocking me as we hugged, as if I were still a little girl.
Once we’ve used up a box of Kleenex and have wiped our faces, I spend the rest of the hour telling her all about it.
She wants to know when !
How exactly he proposed!
And she especially loves the history of my engagement ring.
At 10:43 a.m. I’m heading for work, dreamingly staring at the passing buildings as I ride in the back of the Rolls, when I get a call from him.
“Mom’s thrilled,” I say when I pick up, smiling wide. “She says you did good. She especially commends you for your choice in brides.”
“Speaking of my bride. She might want to consider working from home today.”
“Why?”
“We’ve got a couple of campers outside.”
“Press?”
“And their mothers and their pets.”
There’s a trace of annoyance in his voice, which I’m sure is there because he knows how much I hate the attention that he gets.
I exhale as I process the information.
“Security’s taking care of it,” he assures. “Lay low today.”
“Okay,” I agree. Then I lower my voice so that he knows I’m not discussing anyone else but us now. “Laying low but flying high today. I love you.”
“Love you too.”
At eleven, I’m back home to find dozens of floral arrangements. Flowers of all kinds are exploding colorfully out of all sorts of vases. Clear and colored, tall and short. Every arrangement has a card addressed to me in some way or another. Miss Rachel Livingston; Ms. Rachel Livingston. I open the first.
Congratulations from all of us at Flowers and Bouquets, we’d love to do your wedding.
Dear Miss Livingston,
Wishing you and your beloved Malcolm Saint much wedded bliss! Modern Floral has been catering to young couples for three decades . . .
And so on. And on. And on.
It’s like I went to bed a normal girl, and woke up a princess. Engaged to a prince.
I gather all the cards, slip them into a brand-new manila folder I quickly label with the word WEDDING, then I sigh and eye them all. Green tea steaming in a mug, I settle down with my laptop and get some work done, then I google wedding dresses and take a peek and get a little thrill.
I want to be the most stunning bride my groom has ever seen.
White. For Sin. For sure.
ENGAGEMENT PARTY
We have a small engagement party with only our closest friends that night, over at Sin’s penthouse. Wynn and Gina pull out their flashiest outfits because, to Wynn, “it’s at Saint’s place, right? I’ll feel so lowly if I don’t bring our best!” And because they look like exotic birds out of paradise, I pull out a dress, a little too sleepy to doll myself up much.
I know I am underdressed, but when I arrive and Sin looks into my pale gray eyes, outlined by sooty lashes that spike up with the mascara I used, I realize he’s looking at me like there’s not enough material to cover me—a whole new definition of underdressed to him.
He looks at me, checks me out in a quick sweep too, and sends a look to his friends that says don’t even look at her . Of course, his jeans hang low on his waist in a way that I can’t help but notice.
The girls trail me inside with wide eyes, obviously continuing to be stunned by the glamorous luxury of Saint’s apartment. Natural stone floors, dark wood cabinets, pristine glass, shiny chrome, European leather furniture, and endless floor-to-ceiling windows—Sin’s place surpasses anything they’ve seen, even on an Architectural Digest cover.
We settle on one of the lounges with direct access to the terrace and infinity pool. Warm coffee cup in my hands to help me stay awake, I take little sips while everyone else drinks like it’s Friday—because it is .
“Getting kind of hooked on Rachel’s articles,” Tahoe tells Saint.
My head snaps up in surprise.
Saint smoothly answers, “They’re my new religion.” His lips quirk as our eyes connect for several seconds. “Catherine knows the moment I step into the office, I expect my coffee, and Face opened up to your column.”
“Are you telling Mom?” Gina croaks.
“I’m calling her right now to tell her I’m coming over. I want to tell her in person.”
“Rachel!” Wynn screams, and they both hug me and urge me to call my mother.
I suppose that when you’ve been dating a guy for several months and you’ve never dated anyone before, your mother starts getting her hopes up. It seems a natural thing for a mother to want the best for her daughter. Steady job. Friends. Happiness. She watches you struggle, all while she is trying to help and simultaneously letting you spread your wings, but the very moment that your mother spots something that could make you actually happier than you already are—something that seems impossible—she sets her hopes on it.
“Have you ever discussed marriage?” she had asked only recently when I stopped by to see her one weekend.
“No. Mother! I’m twenty-three.”
“I was certain he was going to propose on your birthday,” she’d said.
“Stop dreaming. Plus, things are so perfect.”
I’m a journalist, young still. With so much to learn. I read stories, write stories, and love stories, but I’m not a person in one of my stories. This is me, real, just human and amazed that I found what I did, that the man I’ve fallen in love with actually loves me, but my mother kept asking.
And that’s not the only part of being in your first relationship.
Your friends start asking you about it too. They’ve noticed all the benefits, fund-raisers, movie nights, and they definitely noted the trip to Napa he took you on. They start noticing that the ratio of times he goes out to club with his friends versus the times he goes out with you starts leaning in your favor. And they seem to have a chart measuring all these things, as if that will tell them how serious it is. And it’s serious. It’s very serious. You know it most of all. That you’re in seriously deep, you can’t possibly go deeper. So your friends start to suspect he’s just as serious about you too.
And they keep asking, curiously, if you’ve talked marriage, and they frown when you say, “No, don’t be silly.” As if they just added one plus one in their heads and your answer isn’t two, so it’s not the right one. Not the right answer, it can’t be.
And despite my denials, maybe . . . no, not maybe . . . for sure, I kept hoping too. I kept wondering, after one of his smiles, those piercing, smoldering looks, I kept wondering: Does he sometimes wonder what it would be like to make me his wife?
I kept wondering if that was even in the plans.
I had hoped, and maybe fantasized, but I never expected him to propose.
I hear my friends asking for details and grab my phone to call my mom and tell her the news, and even as I tell them everything and dial her number, I cannot believe that this is me.
I cannot believe that this is us.
My manwhore and me.
At 9:18 a.m. I’m at my mother’s. She didn’t know. Emotions pass through her eyes when I tell her. Surprise. Happiness. Hopefulness. A little bit of natural worry. Then tears. We hug for like ten minutes.
I tell myself I might have not cried so much if she hadn’t started rocking me as we hugged, as if I were still a little girl.
Once we’ve used up a box of Kleenex and have wiped our faces, I spend the rest of the hour telling her all about it.
She wants to know when !
How exactly he proposed!
And she especially loves the history of my engagement ring.
At 10:43 a.m. I’m heading for work, dreamingly staring at the passing buildings as I ride in the back of the Rolls, when I get a call from him.
“Mom’s thrilled,” I say when I pick up, smiling wide. “She says you did good. She especially commends you for your choice in brides.”
“Speaking of my bride. She might want to consider working from home today.”
“Why?”
“We’ve got a couple of campers outside.”
“Press?”
“And their mothers and their pets.”
There’s a trace of annoyance in his voice, which I’m sure is there because he knows how much I hate the attention that he gets.
I exhale as I process the information.
“Security’s taking care of it,” he assures. “Lay low today.”
“Okay,” I agree. Then I lower my voice so that he knows I’m not discussing anyone else but us now. “Laying low but flying high today. I love you.”
“Love you too.”
At eleven, I’m back home to find dozens of floral arrangements. Flowers of all kinds are exploding colorfully out of all sorts of vases. Clear and colored, tall and short. Every arrangement has a card addressed to me in some way or another. Miss Rachel Livingston; Ms. Rachel Livingston. I open the first.
Congratulations from all of us at Flowers and Bouquets, we’d love to do your wedding.
Dear Miss Livingston,
Wishing you and your beloved Malcolm Saint much wedded bliss! Modern Floral has been catering to young couples for three decades . . .
And so on. And on. And on.
It’s like I went to bed a normal girl, and woke up a princess. Engaged to a prince.
I gather all the cards, slip them into a brand-new manila folder I quickly label with the word WEDDING, then I sigh and eye them all. Green tea steaming in a mug, I settle down with my laptop and get some work done, then I google wedding dresses and take a peek and get a little thrill.
I want to be the most stunning bride my groom has ever seen.
White. For Sin. For sure.
ENGAGEMENT PARTY
We have a small engagement party with only our closest friends that night, over at Sin’s penthouse. Wynn and Gina pull out their flashiest outfits because, to Wynn, “it’s at Saint’s place, right? I’ll feel so lowly if I don’t bring our best!” And because they look like exotic birds out of paradise, I pull out a dress, a little too sleepy to doll myself up much.
I know I am underdressed, but when I arrive and Sin looks into my pale gray eyes, outlined by sooty lashes that spike up with the mascara I used, I realize he’s looking at me like there’s not enough material to cover me—a whole new definition of underdressed to him.
He looks at me, checks me out in a quick sweep too, and sends a look to his friends that says don’t even look at her . Of course, his jeans hang low on his waist in a way that I can’t help but notice.
The girls trail me inside with wide eyes, obviously continuing to be stunned by the glamorous luxury of Saint’s apartment. Natural stone floors, dark wood cabinets, pristine glass, shiny chrome, European leather furniture, and endless floor-to-ceiling windows—Sin’s place surpasses anything they’ve seen, even on an Architectural Digest cover.
We settle on one of the lounges with direct access to the terrace and infinity pool. Warm coffee cup in my hands to help me stay awake, I take little sips while everyone else drinks like it’s Friday—because it is .
“Getting kind of hooked on Rachel’s articles,” Tahoe tells Saint.
My head snaps up in surprise.
Saint smoothly answers, “They’re my new religion.” His lips quirk as our eyes connect for several seconds. “Catherine knows the moment I step into the office, I expect my coffee, and Face opened up to your column.”
