By the time we reach Enrique's house, my feet ache from walking. And it's not just my feet. My legs and back and shoulders are also not fans of the sudden desire to hike.
The sunset is slowly disappearing into a dark, star-laden sky as I shower and get myself ready to go out for supper. The warm water of the shower relaxes me just enough to feel like walking any more might be a good idea.
And then, I realize I have to pick something to wear. What on earth do I own that is both comfortable and fancy enough for this? Probably a fair few dresses I left at home and not a whole lot else.
"Enrique?" I call down the hallway, still wrapped in nothing but a towel.
Silly of me to think he wouldn't be there to see me, really. Should have seen it coming, but nope. Until he pops his head around the doorway to his own room, it barely occurs to me that he could possibly see me like this, hair falling in clumpy curls down the side of my face.
"Yes?" he asks, not pretending to avoid eye contact, but also not staring so long as to make me uncomfortable. "You need some help?"
Instinctively, I grip the towel at the front, making sure it doesn't fall down. We don't need that right now. "I was just wondering where we're going. I'm trying to find some appropriate clothes that don't hurt any of my new injuries."
I have no idea why we're both still standing in the middle of the hallway staring at each other. I also have no idea what he says in response, because I'm thinking too hard about what he must be thinking.
He visibly swallows, running his hand through his hair.
"Could you say that again?" I ask, the heat climbing into my face now. "I didn't catch it."
"I said you could wear what you like. The place doesn't have a dress code besides the fact that you must be, umm, wearing clothes."
"Well, obviously I'm going to wear clothes."
"So just wear what you're comfortable in, then. Go somewhere in the middle?"
What on earth does somewhere in the middle mean? And why does this feel like our first real date?
His advice isn't helpful at all, so I just stare at my dresses, feeling like that is most appropriate for a date night. But not knowing which one to go for.
I can actually hear Carla in my head telling me to go for the one with the plunging neckline. And Lorena suggests the one that shows off my hips. Divya would agree with me on wearing something that was comfortable. But she just does that because she thinks everyone should get to wear what they're comfortable in.
None of my friends' opinions are helpful, so I close my eyes and reach into the closet, pulling out a dress that feels silky against my fingers.
When I open my eyes, it's actually a good choice. Deep green with gold accents. Tight enough to show something off but loose enough to eat a whole meal in. It's actually perfect. And if I can find the only pair of flats I own that won't rub my newly acquired blisters, I'll be ready to go.
Zipping myself into my dress isn't too hard, though it does require a neat trick with a ribbon. And sooner than the song I'm listening to is over, I manage to fix my hair, throw on some light makeup, and adorn my wrist with a nice bracelet. I still don't have my engagement ring back, which I was expecting to have by now. But it feels weird to wear nothing on my left hand when I'm married, so I rifle through my box until I find a small diamond band my grandma left me when she died.
Slipping it on my finger feels like it always belonged there. Like she knew I'd need it.
Tears sting my eyes, but I push them down, racing out of my room and down the stairs, sliding my earrings into my ears while searching the front entrance for my comfortable shoes.
"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.