by Hale, Mandy
We were a little past Baltimore when my phone rang. It was Mr. E. Butterflies had been swooping around in my stomach all day, so the sight of that familiar name calling lit up not just my phone’s screen but my heart.
“Hey! Where are you?” the voice that never failed to make me weak in the knees asked.
“Probably about three hours away,” I answered. “What’s up?”
“Okay, so, I’ve made you a salon appointment for tomorrow at a really upscale salon,” he replied. “I thought you would want to look like a princess for tomorrow night.”
My heart started beating faster.
“O-kaaay. Wow! I’m pretty stoked to go to an NYC salon! And what happens tomorrow night?”
He chuckled.
“I can’t tell you. It’s a surprise. But. Prepare. For. Your. Mind. To. Be. Blown.” He spaced out his words for emphasis, as though it was needed. My mind was already blown, and I hadn’t even seen him yet.
“Oh my gosh! Wow. Wow. Okay, I’m excited! Call you when I get there?”
“Sounds good! Can’t wait to see you!”
“Me too!” I said, unable to keep the big, goofy grin from spreading across my face as I tossed my phone back into my purse.
Whitney’s smile matched mine as I conveyed the conversation to her.
“I’m so excited for you! He’s finally stepping up for you!” she said. “What do you think your surprise could be?”
“I have no idea,” I replied. “He asked me for locations where Mr. Big and Carrie went on Sex and the City, and the only date of theirs that I could remember was the one where they rode in the carriage through Central Park. Maybe he’s planning to do that?”
Whitney and I giggled and chattered our way through the rest of the bus ride, wondering what was awaiting us in the city. And we didn’t have long before we would find out. In no time at all, we were crossing the giant bridge into New York, the city lights glittering all around us, our exhaustion from the full day of travel forgotten as we both bounced in our seats with excitement.
The next hour flew by in a flurry of arriving at Whitney’s aunt’s fabulous apartment, freshening up after our long day, and figuring out our plan of attack for the evening. Whitney was going one way, and I was going the other. We hadn’t realized it, but we wouldn’t see much of each other from this point forward in the trip. She was meeting her friends and I was meeting Mr. E, and though we arrived in the city together, we would be like two ships passing for the rest of the trip.
Which brings me to an interesting point.
When it comes to traveling, I tend to be a bit on the cautious side. Though I have a bit of a free spirit, because of my struggles with panic attacks, I haven’t had nearly as much of an opportunity to explore that side of myself as I would like. In other words, until this trip, the idea of wandering around New York City alone would have seemed like a foreign concept to me—even a little scary. But I wanted to step out of my comfort zone, and step out of my comfort zone I did, more during those three days in New York than ever before in my life.
Starting with meeting up with Mr. E. He was rushing around to meet a deadline on the story he was working on so he could devote the next twenty-four hours to me. I asked him for an address of a diner near his apartment so I could wait for him there. (Obviously I didn’t really want to have a cab deposit me in front of a dark apartment building at eleven at night in New York City. Taking risks, I was ready to do. Taking stupid risks, I was not.)
Mr. E directed me to go somewhere called the Neptune Diner, so I innocently told the driver the address, expecting a short cab ride since Mr. E had told me the apartment where Whitney and I were staying on Lexington Avenue was just “a couple of train stops down” from his place.
Twenty minutes, thirty dollars, and a jaunt across the Queensboro Bridge later (did I mention my phobia of bridges?), the cabbie attempted to drop me off on a dark street corner in Queens, no Neptune Diner in sight.
I tapped out a frantic text message to Mr. E.
“Are you in Queens and neglected to tell me, or is my cab driver attempting to kidnap me?”
He wrote back, “I’m in Queens.” (Information that would have been nice to know before I spent my life savings on a cab to a different borough.)
“Umm . . .” I cleared my throat, trying to figure out how to convey to my cab driver that I would not be exiting his cab until the words Neptune Diner were blazing down on me in neon lighting. “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m from Tennessee. I don’t get out of cars on dark street corners even there, let alone in New York City. Is there any way we can find Neptune Diner?” I repeated the address again, and the frustrated cabbie gestured that we were, in fact, at 3105 Astoria Blvd.
I stared harder into the dark, seeing nothing but a couple of bags of garbage and two alley cats looking as if they were either about to fight or mate passionately. Either way, this was clearly not the Neptune Diner.
The next fifteen minutes were spent with me GPSing the irritated NYC cab driver around Astoria, while he was probably ruing the day I ever got into the back of his cab, and I was wondering when Ashton Kutcher was going to jump out from behind a bush, yelling that I had been “Punk’d!” (And, honestly, don’t even get me started on the fact that a clueless girl from Tennessee was having to direct a streetwise cabbie from the city around the streets of New York.)
Then, suddenly, there it was, looming above me, as beautiful as the North Star must have been to the three wise men (okay, that’s probably a tad overdramatic), the Neptune Diner! I was ready to kiss my cabbie in relief, but he peeled off the moment my boots hit the pavement, probably heading back to headquarters to turn in his keys and go into early retirement.
Nevertheless, I was there! Somehow, some way, I was sitting in a diner in Queens, packed with New Yorkers even at 11:30 at night, surrounded by strangers, waiting on the boy I hadn’t seen in almost a year and a half but had loved for as long as I could remember. My heart beats faster just writing these words as I recall how nervous and excited I was, waiting for my prince to swoop in and sweep me off my feet. After all, it was almost midnight, and though I was wearing black boots instead of glass slippers, never had I felt more like Cinderella.
Every time the diner door would open, I would glance up from my menu, eyeing the door in search of that familiar face. A few minutes went by, a few more, then a text:
“Don’t order food! I have a surprise for you.”
A couple of minutes later the diner door swung open, and there he was.
He came galloping through the door in his usual cloud of excitement, vitality, and energy, his golden hair and skin lighting up the room and causing several waitresses to stop mid-order and stare. He had a Cheshire-cat grin on his face when his eyes met mine, and as cheesy as it might sound, for a moment, everything else fell away.
Then he was by my side, swooping me up into his arms, and everything else was forgotten: the year and a half of distance, the seventeen hours of travel, the crazy cab ride, the numerous bridges and tunnels and miles I had journeyed to be here with him in this moment.
None of it mattered. None of it mattered a bit.
I was in a city of over eight million people where I knew exactly two, in a strange diner, and in a funny little borough I had never actually been to before, but somehow, I was home.
That’s how I found myself on a breezy September night in New York City being pulled along excitedly by Mr. E as he grabbed my hand eagerly and hauled me out of the Neptune Diner and into the next chapter of my life. We were both as joyful as children as we walked along, arm in arm, talking a mile a minute as we tried to catch up on a year and a half’s worth of absence in the space of five minutes.
A few minutes later we were passing through a small, wrought-iron gate and climbing the stairs to the Queens apartment that Mr. E called home when he was in NYC on a story. A delicious-looking feast of chicken and vegetables awaited us, two glasses of wine already poured. He had enlisted his room-mate’s help w
ith preparing a beautiful dinner for us. My stomach rumbled in hunger as we sat down to eat, but the butterflies flapping around and E’s smile across the table made it hard to concentrate on my food. Something about this night felt different. I soon discovered why.
“So I was talking to my parents about you earlier,” Mr. E said with a curious look on his face. Half mischievous, half trepidatious—like he had a secret that he wasn’t sure he wanted to tell.
“Oh, your parents! I love them! What about?” I asked.
“Well.” He paused. “I wanted to tell them about my surprise for you and get their advice.”
“And? What did they say?”
He looked at me seriously. “They said I shouldn’t do it unless I’m really, really sure.”
My heart flipped over in my chest. “Oh?” I asked. “Well, whatever it is, are you sure?”
“Mandy, you know how busy I am with work right now,” he began.
“Yes,” I agreed. Having been in his life for five years, I knew how single-minded he could be when it came to his career. Everything else tended to fall away in the presence of his extreme tunnel vision.
“And I’m going to be really, really busy through the rest of the winter. They’ve been giving me more and more responsibilities at work, and I’m really starting to climb the ladder. I probably won’t even get to go home for Christmas,” he continued.
“Okay?” I said, not sure where this was leading.
“Things probably aren’t going to slow down for me at all until the spring. I really won’t have time for much of anything besides work,” he went on. “And you know how my life is going to be. I’m going to always be moving around, never staying in the same place very long.”
As a former news writer, I understood, perhaps better than anybody, what the life of someone in the news world was like. But why did it sound like he was breaking up with me?
He grabbed both my hands suddenly, looking at me very intently. “You said you would marry me tomorrow if I asked. Knowing how hectic and unsettled my life is going to be, is that still true?”
I awoke with a start, momentarily confused by my surroundings. One glance out the window at the fire escapes across the way and the city skyline in the distance reminded me of where I was; and the strange, intense conversation that had gone on with Mr. E until the wee hours of the morning ran through my mind.
Mr. E’s talk of marriage had shocked me. The M-word had never really been a part of his vocabulary before, and I had to wonder what it all meant.
Still, I was in the city I loved and adored, with the man I loved and adored, and though I was going on about three hours of sleep, the sunlight filtering through the window brought joy to my heart and a smile to my face.
I couldn’t find Whitney anywhere in the apartment, so I assumed she had already left for the day with her friends. My hair appointment was at two; it was already eleven thirty, so after meeting up with Mr. E at Dunkin’ Donuts for a chocolate donut with sprinkles (me), and coffee (him), we headed toward the subway. This was only my second subway ride in my entire life, and I think fate must have been conspiring to make this the perfect day, because a musical quartet boarded the train behind us and immediately broke into a roof-raising rendition of “My Girl.”
A couple of hours later I arrived for my first-ever NYC fancy salon experience. They rolled out the red carpet for us, and Mr. E made sure I was fussed over, with two or three stylists at my beck and call. When I walked out an hour and a half later, I truly did feel like Cinderella on her way to the ball, and we spent the afternoon walking hand in hand through the streets of New York, the promise of my big “surprise” still lingering in the air for later. I felt like I was walking through the pages of my own fairy tale come to life. But, like every fairy tale, there was a plot twist up ahead that I never in a million years saw coming.
Mr. E’s phone rang around 5:00 p.m., and he looked at me with a knowing smile. He chatted with whoever was on the other end for a few minutes, then turned to me with a wink. “Did you know that today is Rosh Hashanah? As in, Jewish New Year?” he asked me.
“Um, no,” I replied in confusion. “But what does that have to do with anything?”
“My friend we’re going to go see is Jewish, so he’s off work today for the holiday,” Mr. E explained.
“Oh! Okay, cool. Are we just going to his place to hang out?” I asked.
Mr. E laughed. “You could say that.”
We made our way to a fancy apartment building a few blocks away from Times Square. A few minutes later we were standing on the street corner with who I can only describe as the most authentic New Yorker I have ever seen. Short and stocky, with his hair pulled back into a brief ponytail, Mr. E’s friend also had a Sopranos-worthy Jersey accent. (We’ll call him Tony.)
“How you doin’, dahlin?” Tony asked. “Ready to go look at some stuff?”
I looked over at Mr. E in confusion. He just grinned.
“Yeah—sure?”
We walked several blocks in the typical New York hustle that natives favor, quickly and briskly with little conversation, headed for destinations unknown. I had to struggle to keep up in my not-so-street-friendly four-inch wedges. Mr. E and Tony walked a little ahead of me, their heads together, conspiring about something that I wasn’t within earshot to hear.
Then, suddenly, we were at a glass door of what looked like the back of a business. Mr. E kept looking back at me with a grin the size of Texas. I still had absolutely no idea where we were or what we were doing, but I continued to follow along as we wound our way through a back hallway, up an elevator, and into what I was guessing were Tony’s offices.
“Even though it’s Rosh Hashanah today, I talked Tony into opening up his store just for us,” Mr. E explained, taking my hand and leading me to a chair in front of Tony’s desk. I noticed Tony behind him, unlocking a large safe. This was starting to get really weird. The only time I had seen something like this was in the grand proposal scene in Sweet Home—
Wait a minute.
“And in case you haven’t figured it out yet,” Mr. E continued, “he sells engagement rings.”
“What?!” I exclaimed in shock and disbelief as Tony brought out ring after ring for my review. Eight carats, one carat, five carats, princess cut, teardrop, canary yellow, pink, platinum, silver, gold, Titanic-sized boulders—they were all there, sitting in front of me, just waiting for me to place on my unpolished finger. Yes, my lack of a proper manicure to try on engagement rings caused me much anxiety that day, but how was a girl to know that a guy who treats commitment like it’s a communicable disease was going to do a complete 360 and . . . propose?
Yet there was E, sitting there with a huge grin on his face, very much looking like the cat who swallowed the canary-yellow diamond. “Try them on,” he said, pulling out his phone and snapping a picture of the stunned look on my face.
I had so many questions. My head was spinning, but I wasn’t sure if it was from my confusion or the array of bling laid out before me. With shaking hands, I tried on one ring, then another, then another, as Mr. E snapped photo after photo. He noted the ones that I liked the best, taking careful pictures, even texting Crawford a shot of me holding up my ring-laden hand. Finally I reached the end and looked over at him with questions in my eyes, wondering what could be coming next.
“Let me go out and talk to Tony for a moment,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
He left the room, and I could hear him and Tony out in the hall, whispering back and forth. I scooped up my BlackBerry and tapped out a frantic text message to Alli: “Alli, we’re at a diamond store, looking at engagement rings. This is my surprise!”
She responded within seconds. “What does this mean?! Did he propose?”
I was just starting to text back when Mr. E and Tony came back into the room.
“Hey, there’s a great rooftop restaurant near here,” Tony said. “You guys should check it out. Awesome view of the city.”
Mr. E looked at me. “Do you wanna go there and talk about everything?”
I hadn’t seen a money exchange or a ring hand over, so I was more confused than ever.
“Yes, that’s a good idea,” I replied. It looked like it was going to be a beautiful evening.
“Let’s go then.”
We said good-bye to Tony and walked almost silently the few blocks to the bar. It was a very New York rooftop lounge, overlooking the city and filled with young professionals who were dressed to impress and obviously there for after-work mingling. We found a seat near the ledge so I could gaze out at the lights surrounding us. It was then that my feelings of elation from the past two days started to settle into something very close to sadness. I had just experienced one of the most important moments in a woman’s life, hadn’t I? Yet I had walked away without a ring on my finger. What did it all mean?
I turned to him and posed the question, “What does this all mean?” I asked directly. “I mean, it was so exciting, and I appreciate immensely that you went to all the trouble that you did to make this day special, but I’m not sure I understand.”
“Mandy, I wanted to see how it felt to look at rings with you,” he explained. “I needed to know if it felt right.”
“And . . . ?”
“I liked it,” he said with a smile. “I think it felt right.”
“You think?” I paused. “So, does this mean . . . we’re in a relationship?” I asked hesitantly. We had never really been “in a relationship,” at least not one that warranted a Facebook status update, so this would be a really huge, really welcome change for us.
He looked away without responding. I waited. He wouldn’t meet my gaze. His silence said everything that his words wouldn’t.
“Does it mean we’re in a relationship?” I asked again. “Like boyfriend, girlfriend?”
“Mandy, I see what we are as so far beyond boyfriend and girlfriend,” he finally responded, shifting in his seat. “Can’t we just leave things as they are until I put that ring on your finger?”