Vegas Knot (✔️) | Love Travels #1

Thirty-Three

"Aha! I found them," I call out to no one when I finally pull the dark green shoes out of the closet.

"Found what?" Enrique asks gently.

"Shoes," I answer, turning to face him.

His dark wash jeans and yellow button up shirt rolled up to the elbows make me stop for a second.

"Did I do alright?" he asks, pulling his eyebrows up with a wink.

"I guess it's alright," I answer. But my racing heart disagrees. It's much better than alright.

* * *

The restaurant is dimly lit, but still catching the diamonds in my grandma's ring. As we wait for our food, the waiter brings out glasses of ice water.

"You're wearing a ring," Enrique points out as I reach for my water.

"Felt weird to not be wearing one. We are married."

"We are," he acknowledges. And then he pulls the ring box out of his pocket and opens it on the table between us. "Would you like it back?"

I would very much like it back.

Someone at the next table notices Enrique pulling that rock out of the box and offering it to me. Next thing we know the ring is on my finger and the whole restaurant is roaring in applause. I would not be surprised if a mariachi band or a string quartet popped out of nowhere to celebrate our 'engagement'.

"You had that just sitting in your pocket? You have big plans for tonight?"

He looks down at his lap, a small smile pulling at his lips. "I've never stopped carrying it around, actually. Thought of giving it back that night in the desert but it felt like maybe you weren't ready to have it glaring up at you all the time."

"You've been carrying around a ring box for two weeks?" If I thought my grandmother's ring was sparkling in the light, my engagement ring shines brighter still. Sending a little rainbow across the ceiling every time the candle light flickers.

"I have," he says simply.

"That's it? No explanation?"

"I didn't know I needed one," he laughs and picks up his water to take a sip. "I mean, I just wanted to have it ready if I got the chance to give it back."

"But that's a huge box. You can't have been comfortable."

"It wasn't all bad." His eyes wander to his own lap before daring to look up at me. "Plus, I really wanted to give it back."

"You can't have known that then."

"Maybe not." He shrugs. "I'm just the kind of guy who isn't going to get married twice. And maybe a couple weeks ago I thought I wasn't the kind of guy who wasn't going to get married once. But you fell into my lap and you're amazing. And on top of that, I mean, look at you!"

Now it's my turn to inspect my lap for crumbs.

"You're just amazing, Bianca, and I'm determined to be the husband you deserve. I didn't want to freak you out or anything, but I really just feel like I need to be there for you." He pauses before adding, "If you'll have me, of course."

Once I get over how earnest he is in telling me he loves me without saying those three words, his actual statements register properly in my brain.

The waiter interrupts me by bringing over our pasta and asking if we need anything else, to which we both hastily decline, staring into each other's eyes the whole time.

"Congratulations again," the waiter says, turning and leaving.

Neither of us move to eat. "So, this might be a personal question, but why aren't you the kind of guy to get married twice."

He pulls his lips in between his teeth. "I guess you could call it a personal moral. I'm not the type to divorce, but if that were to happen—which would be completely reasonable when someone wakes up married to me—I think the right call for me would be to not remarry. It's maybe a cultural or religious thing in my family. But I've just never felt like I needed to be married unless it was to the right girl."

"Wow," I breathe. How do I respond to that?

"Another thing I wasn't going to tell you," he chuckles, brushing his hand over his hair again. "I really don't want to freak you out. This wasn't how I was planning to decide to get married but once it was done I guess I just... I guess I thought maybe I could make it work, you know? Make the best of a strange situation."

"Maybe we can," I whisper. Neither of us speaks, then, but a smile crosses his face as he digs his fork into his pasta.

Maybe we can make it work.