The Proposal

by Jasmine Guillory

  “No argument here. I love that a pediatrician had Flamin’ Hot Cheetos tucked in the back of his pantry. Makes me feel a lot less guilty about my secret snack drawer.”

  They demolished the Cheetos in about three minutes flat and spent the rest of the risotto cooking time talking about their favorite snack foods.

  “Okay, I think we’re ready.” He took bowls down from the cabinet and nodded over to the living room. “Sorry, I don’t have a dinner table yet. I got rid of my old one when I moved because it didn’t work in this space, but I haven’t had time to get a new one yet. I just mostly eat at the coffee table.”

  “Oh no.” She set her wineglass down and shook her head sadly. “I wish you’d told me that before I came over. I can’t eat a meal at a coffee table! Don’t you know who I am?”

  He grated cheese on top of a bowl of risotto and handed it to her.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, your royal highness, please forgive me?”

  She took the bowl and picked up her wineglass.

  “I’ll make an exception in this case, but I don’t want you to think this is going to be a common occurrence.”

  He waved toward the living room.

  “Go sit down, and I’ll bring everything else over.”

  She padded into the living room and sank down into the couch.

  “What is in this couch?” she asked him, when he came back into the living room, his bowl in one hand and forks for both of them in the other. “Angel wings? Unicorn feathers? Actual clouds from heaven?”

  He set the food down onto the coffee table and handed her a fork before he went back into the kitchen.

  “That couch is super comfortable, right? I got it at a furniture store’s going-out-of-business sale—I always think those sales are fake because, I swear, some of those furniture companies go out of business like twice a year—but I don’t even care if this one was fake because I love this couch and will defend it against all enemies.”

  He came back to the couch with his wineglass, the wine bottle, and a pile of napkins.

  She topped off both of their wineglasses.

  “Does . . . does your couch have a lot of enemies? Forgive me, I don’t have a leather couch made of pillows sewn by a goddess, so I don’t know these things.”

  He picked up his glass, his face serious.

  “Oh yes. It’s one of the hardest things about owning a couch like this. People try to storm your home all the time to destroy it because they think anything this magical must be a sin. They warn you about this at the furniture store before you buy it. They had to put a guard on it in the showroom. It was crazy.” He looked at her with a straight face until her laughter finally made him crack a smile.

  She stuck her fork into the risotto and took a bite.

  “Oh my God.”

  He looked up, his fork halfway to his mouth.

  “What? ‘Oh my God’ what?”

  She was too busy eating to answer at first.

  “Oh my God, this risotto, that’s what ‘Oh my God!’ I had no idea it was going to be this good!”

  His most smug smile spread over his face, but she didn’t even care.

  “Tell me more. What’s so ‘Oh my God’ about it? I want details, please.”

  She waved her finger in his face and retreated to the far corner of the couch.

  “Stop talking to me. I need to concentrate when I eat this.”

  When she was almost done with her bowl, one of the things he’d said about why he liked making risotto came back into her head.

  “So what happened at work today that made you need to make risotto?” she asked.

  He sighed and put his own fork down.

  “It was just a really shitty day, with some of my least favorite parts of this job.”

  She took a sip of her wine and looked at him. He seemed like he wanted to talk, but she wanted to tread lightly. She still didn’t know him that well.

  “Least favorite as a doctor, or least favorite as a person? Not to say that doctors aren’t people, but . . . you know what I mean.”

  He took her bowl without asking and went over to the kitchen to get them both seconds.

  “Yeah, I know what you mean,” he said when he came back. “No wonder you’re such a good writer. You ask good questions. Least favorite as a person. Or rather, least favorite as a person who is also a doctor, and therefore has to be professional when I really just wanted to punch that man in the face. Calling CPS isn’t nearly as satisfying.”

  Child Protective Services.

  “Abuse?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “Yeah. Stepdad. The girl was getting the cast off of her broken arm; I wasn’t there when she came in for the arm, so I don’t know what happened then, but a few things she said when I was taking it off worried me, so I managed to get him out of the room and got the details out of her.” He stared down at his knees and sighed. “It’s not new to me. I’ve seen it before, but it’s a stomach punch every time.”

  She moved closer to him and took his hand. He held on tight but didn’t say anything. She didn’t ask any more questions; she figured now was the time to just be silent and let him talk or not talk as much as he wanted.

  After a few minutes, he looked up at her and shrugged.

  “On top of everything else, it makes me think of my dad. Which sucks, because between Father’s Day this coming weekend and the anniversary of his death next Friday, I try to avoid thinking about my dad as much as possible in June.”

  She squeezed his hand. She hadn’t realized that the anniversary of his father’s death was right around Father’s Day.

  “Why does this make you think of your dad? Because he was so much better than that guy?”

  He laughed and let go of her hand, but only so he could put his arm around her.

  “Well that, too. But also because I remember when something similar happened to one of his students. This was when Angela and I were younger; I think I was around twelve and she was ten, something like that. And he sat us down at the kitchen table and told us that his student had come to him, and how if anyone tried to do anything like that to us, we could come to him, and if any of our friends were dealing with something like that, we could always come to him. My mom tried to stop him at one point, told us we were too young to hear all of that, but he said ‘Susana, they need to know this, it’s important!’” She ran her fingers through his hair, and he leaned his head on her shoulder. “He was right. It was important.”

  After a few minutes, he sat up and looked down at their almost empty dishes.

  “Hey, do you want some ice cream? I went a little wild at the grocery store tonight. I have three flavors.”

  Wine, risotto, and three kinds of ice cream. It’s like the man knew she was coming over.

  “Bring them all out.”

  He stood and picked up her dishes.

  “Will do. I’m sorry if this was too heavy. We can talk about something else.”

  She shook her head.

  “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to talk about it. It’s not too heavy.”

  He came back a few minutes later and set a bowl with three scoops of ice cream in it in front of her.

  “What do we have here?” she asked.

  “Dark chocolate brownie, vanilla, rum raisin,” he said.

  She took the spoon he handed her.

  “I like all of those things.” They sat together, eating ice cream and not talking for the next few minutes.

  “Does Angela remember that? About your dad?” she asked him.

  He shook his head.

  “I have no idea. Angie and I don’t really talk about my dad. Sometimes she brings him up, but it’s too . . . I don’t really want to talk to her about him. Partly it’s because she’s always bugging me to go to the doctor, probably because
she’s scared something will happen to me, too, but I’m too busy to deal with all of that right now. But also, it makes me too sad, I guess, which is stupid. It’ll be five years next Friday. I shouldn’t be sad about this anymore, but I guess I am.”

  There were so many things that she wanted to say to him, but who the hell was she to tell him how to deal with his grief over his dad’s death? She’d never experienced that before. But one thing she knew for sure.

  “It’s not stupid,” she said. “He was your dad. Of course you’re still sad.”

  He wrapped his arms around her.

  “Yeah. He was my dad,” he said. “And he was a pretty great dad.”

  She took a deep breath.

  “I bet Angela is still sad, too. It might make you feel better to talk to her about it. She’s the only one who knows how it feels to have lost your dad.”

  He nodded slowly.

  “That’s true. She is.”

  She rubbed her hand against his stubbly cheek. Would he get mad at her for this?

  “I know you’re busy and I’m sure you’re fine, but maybe think about going to the doctor? Just to make Angela feel better?”

  He stiffened up.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  She maybe shouldn’t have said anything.

  “I’m sorry, it’s probably not my business.”

  He shook his head.

  “No, it’s okay. One of the things I like about you is that you always say what you mean.”

  Huh. That was a thing that most people didn’t like about her. She leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. He turned and kissed her on the lips.

  “Thanks for listening. I’m sorry if I—”

  She held her finger up to his lips to stop him.

  “No apologies. We all need a shoulder to lean on sometimes. I wouldn’t have offered mine if I didn’t want to.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Carlos knew Nik well enough at this point to know that she didn’t do anything she didn’t want to. But he was used to being the one offering his shoulder for people to lean on. He wasn’t sure how he felt about it being the other way around.

  He couldn’t believe he’d talked to her about his dad. He didn’t talk to anyone about his dad. It had been kind of nice, actually, especially since Nik hadn’t pounced on the topic and asked him a million questions. She’d just mostly listened.

  “Oh, hey, Angie is at Jessie’s house tonight for dinner. I should check to see if there have been any updates.”

  She took a spoonful of rum raisin ice cream.

  “No problem. How’s Jessie doing?”

  “Bored, but okay. We just need to keep her there.”

  He pulled his phone out of his pocket to see four texts from Angie. His heart rate sped up, but when he clicked on them, they were four different selfies of her and Jessie together. At least, he thought the fourth one was of the two of them.

  “What the hell is this picture?” He showed Nik the last one, with two faces covered in some white material with holes cut out for eyes and lips.

  She shook her head at him, a disappointed look on her face.

  “For someone with a sister and a cousin who’s like a sister, you should know what a sheet mask is. The best kind of girlfriend activity. You pop them on, relax for ten to twenty minutes, usually take a few selfies, and take them off. You should try them; I bet it would help after a long day at work.”

  He laughed and put his arm around her.

  “That’s what a big-screen TV and basketball were invented for.”

  She handed him the remote from the coffee table and leaned her head on his chest.

  “Speaking of, I’m impressed at your restraint. I know the playoffs are on.”

  So he turned on the game, and they spent the next hour curled up on the couch watching the second half of a pretty exciting game between two teams he couldn’t care less about. His ideal post-work wind down kind of game—he got all the fun of the lead changes and the great shots, but none of the up and down emotions of a true fan of either of those teams.

  “Ahhh, that was excellent,” he said when the buzzer blew. Nik didn’t respond. He pushed her hair back from her face. She was fast asleep, her head still on his chest. He bent down and kissed her forehead.

  “Hey,” he said in a low voice. “Time for bed.”

  Her eyes fluttered open, and she looked confused for a few seconds before she realized where she was. She sat up straight.

  “I fell asleep, didn’t I? I’m sorry.”

  He stood up and held out a hand to her.

  “You missed an amazing game. I bet that breaks your heart. Let’s go to bed.”

  He led her into his bedroom and she looked around.

  “This is nice,” she said. “Very peaceful.”

  He was just glad his clothes were no longer all over the floor and were in the hamper in the closet.

  “Thanks. It is peaceful, but maybe too peaceful? I had no time to paint before I moved in here, and I keep thinking of painting this room, because it feels kind of depressing with all of the gray. Maybe some weekend I’ll try to tackle it, once I figure out what I want instead.”

  She put her arms around him.

  “As long as it isn’t Dodger blue, any color works for me.”

  He leaned down to kiss her.

  “I’ll keep that in mind, though you know, I am a Dodger fan.”

  She ran her fingers through his hair and kissed his stubbly cheek.

  “I know, don’t remind me. I keep trying to forget that,” she said as she unbuckled his belt.

  “And here I was, about to say that if you were too tired for sex tonight, it was okay.” He unbuttoned her jeans and pushed them to the floor. She kicked them to the side.

  “Why did you think I took a little nap? I had to rest up.”

  She wrapped one leg around his waist, and he put his hands under her butt and lifted her. She laughed and wrapped her other leg around him.

  “Well then, we need to make good use of that nap of yours, don’t we?” He dropped her down on his bed. He liked the way she looked there, unsmiling, with her eyes roaming over his body. “You look good in my bed. I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to get you in it.”

  She stretched her arms above her body in a way that accentuated her breasts, almost, but not quite visible in her thin tank top.

  “I can’t believe it, either,” she said. “I think it was because you didn’t want to share this incredible bed with me. First your couch, then your bed—you are incredible at selecting furniture. I could stay here forever.”

  He pulled his clothes off before crawling above her onto the bed.

  “Well then, you’re in luck, because I’m going to keep you here for a damn long time. We have . . .” He glanced at the clock as he pulled her tank top over her head. “Eleven hours until I have to get up in the morning. Eleven and a half, if I push it. You’re going to be very familiar with this bed.”

  She propped herself up so she could unhook her bra and tossed it to the side. Thank God she did—he was agile, but unhooking a woman’s bra from behind her back while he was kneeling over her in bed might have been too much for even him.

  And now those breasts of hers were bare for him. He cupped them with his hands, enjoying their fullness, their hard nipples in the middle of his palms. She stared up at him, her eyes heavy lidded, a smile hovering around the corners of her mouth.

  “Do with me what you will, Dr. Ibarra. Your bed, your rules.”

  Holy shit, did that get him hot. He took a deep breath, and her smile got bigger.

  “Oh, you like that, do you?” She glanced down. “Mmm, I can tell you like that.”

  He bent down to kiss her.

  “If I had known it would be this fun to get you in my
bed, I would have managed it weeks ago.” He looked her naked body over and grinned. “Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do first . . .”

  Chapter Fourteen

  . . . . . . .

  When Nik woke up the next morning, she was alone in Carlos’s big pillowlike bed. She wondered briefly where he was, decided it was either in the bathroom or on a phone call, and abandoned thought to luxuriate in his fluffy blankets against her bare skin.

  That was until she heard him coming back into the room. She stayed right where she was, ready for him to get back under the covers with her.

  Instead, he leaned down and kissed her cheek, the only part of her body that wasn’t covered by his blankets. She pulled down the covers and smiled up at him.

  “Good morning,” she said.

  “Good morning,” he said. “How do you feel about coffee?”

  She smiled and turned over to face him. He had on gray sweatpants and nothing else.

  “I feel great about coffee, but you know that. I always feel great about coffee.”

  He smiled back at her. Her hair probably looked insane right now. She usually tried to at least put it in a ponytail after they’d gone to bed, but last night . . . well, there hadn’t been time.

  “Excellent.” He put a mug of coffee on the bedside table next to her. “Here you go.”

  She looked over at the mug, and then back up at him.

  “Really? You made me coffee?” He nodded at her like the answer was obvious, which she guessed it was. She still couldn’t believe it.

  She sat up in glee. He’d actually made her coffee? He brought it to her in bed? No one had brought her coffee in bed since . . . wait, actually, no one had ever brought her coffee in bed. Other than the room-service waiters at hotels.

  She picked up the mug and breathed in the hot, warm, earthy coffee smell.

  “Now. How do you feel about breakfast?”

  She looked up from her mug. Was this a trick question?

  “I have very strong, positive feelings about breakfast at any given moment. Why . . . why do you ask?”

  He walked toward the bedroom door.

  “Wait here.”

  Seconds later, he was back with a tray in his hands. Okay, no, it wasn’t a tray, it was a cookie sheet, but did she care about that? Not in the slightest. He set the cookie sheet/tray on her knees, and on it was a plate with a pile of golden scrambled eggs, three pieces of bacon, and two slices of generously buttered toast. Oh, and a knife and fork, and a little pot of jam. A little pot of jam? Now she knew this must be a dream.