I’m not going to lie, I was snooping through Google+. It’s been two and a half years since our breakup, but a decade’s bad habit (him) is taking its sweet time to break. What I didn’t expect, though, was discovering the inevitable. Floating about in the People You May Know page was a profile picture of him and his new fiancée. As I suspected, he had quickly moved on while I remained in the same place. The image punched me in the stomach, bent me over, and drew me into the bottom right corner of the three-shot collage. It was a close-up of him slipping the rock onto her finger. Stupefied, I zoomed in, wondering, Is it the same ring?
* * *
He proposed to me under a red gazebo overlooking the Pacific in Big Sur. We were eleven years, two breakups, and seven months deep into individual and couple’s counseling when he jumped the gun. He had been adamant for a couple of weeks about moving forward with our seven-year old nuptial plan, or else, but he wasn’t ready to take on that responsibility. He hadn’t consistently exhibited the qualities I wanted in a husband-- honesty, loyalty, devotion-- despite the effort, time, and money we had spent on professional help. I shared these concerns with him up until a month before he popped the question but they did not register. He argued these idealistic spousal attributes would come naturally with the title, like a mother’s instinct developing after childbirth. That was the only justification he supplied for his actions and inactions. Hence my hesitation. He wanted me to build a house with him where the foundation hadn’t yet been laid. That was a risk I was not willing take. But he did.
I should’ve known he was up to no good when, for the first time ever, he suggested visiting my sister in NorCal during Memorial Day weekend. He rented a car and followed the scenic route up PCH, a first for us both. A few hours later, he took a detour, guided inland by his GPS through miles of deserted dry hills without informing me of his surprise destination. I was on the verge of a panic attack, convinced we were going to be murdered in the Land of the Lost, when we arrived at La Purísima Mission, the second in my quest to see all twenty-one. We strolled the historic grounds and then dined at a Mexican restaurant on State Route 1 before heading to Monterey for the night. The window behind our booth gave us a clear view of the sun beginning to set and that’s when he rushed my margarita and abruptly asked for the check. He paid, drove further up the highway, and parked at a shopping or business center that made it seem like we were fifty percent closer to the sun than we were before. We followed the crowd to a railing that deterred us from going any further and it was there I realized we were standing on a cliff. Waves rolled angrily onto the shore below and filled the beach with white spume. Icy winds lashed at my face and loosened strands from my hair buns. Miniature cars crossed a stretch of PCH on an adjacent cliff.
There were some trees along the edge but we had an unobstructed sight of the sunset-- blazing ball of fire hovering above the horizon, painting a rainbow in the clear sky in similar fading hues-- when he insisted on getting someone to capture the moment for us. I hated bothering people so I suggested, against my will, taking a selfie. But he persisted. He led me away from the ledge and quickly stopped a woman. I think she said she was from Brazil, visiting on her honeymoon, although I never caught sight of a husband nearby. He proceeded to show her how to operate his phone when the popular red gazebo located between the parking lot and the cliff cleared out. Like a mother scolding her child, he directed me to seize it. I walked over, ascended its two or three steps, and stood shakily underneath with my hands deep inside the pockets of my puffy white jacket. I watched him give her instructions for what seemed like minutes. Then he rushed to my side where we posed for a couple of pictures with the reddish sky in the background. I thanked the woman for humoring him after she took a few shots but he wasn’t done. And she appeared not to mind.
He turned around to face me and went down on one knee. The last sunrays turned his face orange. I was stunned. He had disregarded my concerns. My opinions had not mattered. He was going through with it. It was a nightmare.
You are everything I want in a woman…
I did not pay attention to the words he said. I couldn’t. I was busy conjuring responses that would respectfully decline the question that was to come. I couldn’t say yes just to save face, his ego, or please his audience. Because that would only stall the truth from being divulged in the car. He knew how I felt. He knew what our goals were. He knew the amount work that needed to be done still. Yet there he was, posed for what was supposed to be the first of a handful of magical moments to occur in my life. And I was loathing it all.
...I want to spend the rest of my life with you…
I didn’t understand why he was proposing a couple of hours after I had made a significant request. During our walk through the mission, I asked him, for the umpteenth time, to cease communication with a specific individual who was detrimental to the success of our relationship, the source of a quarter of our problems. It was the only ultimatum I had ever given him, an easy resolve for someone in love to make, yet he had not complied. I had to assume his lifestyle was more important than me. Postponing an immediate engagement was completely warranted but when he put his mind to something, there was no stopping him. Not even the constant reminder of how far we were from being rudimentary good.
...Will you marry me?
The Brazilian snapped away teary-eyed. I envied her, thinking, That should be me. I should have been the one crying with happiness, feeling giddy and thrilled for the future that awaited me. I should have been jumping up and down, my face hurting, the effect of someone unable to contain her excitement. I should have immediately wrapped my arms around him since that’s how I had long imagined this moment unfolding. But my lack of doting sentiments screamed loud and clear between my ears, This is wrong. The knee, the gazebo, Big Sur, the mission, the car, the trip, this weekend, it was all a mistake. A true and honest declaration of love should have broken down the knight armor I was wearing to deflect his lies and the pain. Instead, I stood unmoved by his words, disappointed in the trajectory of our relationship, and angry for having ridden this emotional roller coaster beyond its expiration date. Because these emotions weren’t unfamiliar.
When we attended a friend's wedding in March, I could no longer envision myself standing next to him at the altar. It was a first in eleven years. Not even a hologram of me in a white dress materialized in my mind. I shared this somber revelation with him, hoping his reaction would change my uncertainty.
When we attended a friend's wedding in March, I could no longer envision myself standing next to him at the altar. It was a first in eleven years. Not even a hologram of me in a white dress materialized in my mind. I shared this somber revelation with him, hoping his reaction would change my uncertainty.
“I cannot picture us up there anymore,” I whispered to him as we faced the enviable pair before the priest.
“Why not,” he asked, a little too casually, less troubled than I desired.
Disappointed, I shrugged unresponsively to push back my tears.
He distracted the ramblings in my head by pulling out a box-- I want to say it was brown but it could have been grey-- out of his coat pocket and opened the lid. He turned the suede-covered cube around and presented the most beautiful ring I had ever laid eyes on, in either display cases or hands. It was, I knew, a one-point-five, princess cut diamond solitaire sitting atop a band of countless stones. He explained he had designed it just for me. It was exactly what I wanted and nothing I had seen before. It proved he had listened to a few things I said throughout the years.
My amazement was interrupted by the memory reel playing in my head twenty-four hours a day. It reminded me of the text messages I discovered in his phone the previous fall that referenced a “she” that was not me. And it continued with the night he lied about going to bed early. It was close to midnight when I drove and parked across the street from his house to make sure he was home. He was not. I hit the lowest point in my life that day-- psycho girlfriend status-- a behavior I am most ashamed of and never care to repeat again.
I looked at the ring and I looked at him. He waited for an answer. The Brazilian did too. The spotlight was on me. I knew I couldn’t say yes but I did not want to say no. Despite everything he had put me through-- the sleepless nights, the tears, the betrayals-- I could not do that to him. If I said no, he’d be gone forever. But there was still hope. We just had to try a little harder. He told me he had gone to confession, after all. Our counselors would help us make our dreams come true.
“You know what I want,” I said. He should have had my wish list memorized by then.
“I know,” he said, smiling hopefully, bringing the boxed ring closer to me.
“I’ll accept under those conditions,” I responded, feeling relieved that I hadn’t agreed to false presumptions.
He stood up and slipped the ring on my finger. It fit a little loose. We hugged and kissed, falling captive to the procedure standardized by romantic comedies and YouTube videos. The Brazilian wiped her tears, congratulated us, returned his phone, and walked away. I, on the other hand, felt ashamed for deceiving her. I wanted to run after her, grab her shoulder, turn her around, and apologize. Because I would have never accepted had she not been present. I was an anxious mess, dreadfully awaiting the circumstances that were to come.
My fiancé put his arm around my shoulders and walked me to the edge of the cliff. We returned to the spot we had originally staked out to finish watching the sunset. I was looking in the direction of the sun but was consumed with too many thoughts and fears to relish in the last sunrays of the day. But then, for a second, maybe two, I was overcome with foreign emotions. I felt relief, safe, trust, comfort, calmness, joy, and peace. I also felt light. It was like an invisible crane had come and lifted a worrisome anvil off my shoulders. And for that moment, he was mine, my fiancé was all mine. I wasn’t worried about sharing or doubting him because he was going to love me and only me. I could envision us travelling the world again and living happily ever after. I felt such an immense love for him that I unconsciously wrapped my arms tightly around his brown bear body, something that did not come easily to me, and rested my head on his chest in the most vulnerable way. My fighting days were over.
As soon as the sun disappeared behind the extremity of the ocean line, so did my tranquility. The waves crashed noisily beneath but not loud enough to muffle the dread of my workplace. I panicked thinking about Tuesday. If I decided to wear the ring, I’d have to lie to my coworkers. I would be obligated to share my supposed good news as soon as one of them noticed. But I was not in the business of feigning happiness, not for a future with a dim probability of ending in success, especially when those ladies had been waiting for this day to happen to me as long as I had. It would be more embarrassing to report a broken engagement later than a phony fairytale engagement now. I didn’t need their pity.
On Monday night, when I got home, I took the ring off, put it back in its little box, and hid it in my closet. I did not know how long I was going to conceal it or have it in my possession. Only time would tell.
* * *
I tried zooming into the picture but my laptop didn’t cooperate. So I drew my face close to the screen instead and squinted at the image, trying to make out the shape of the rock and band design. Even though he told me he had returned it and received partial credit for it months after our breakup-- news that filled me with malicious glee-- I imagined it was the same one so I could say, She is wearing a recycled ring specifically made for me.
I hope he has found in her what I was never able to fulfill for him. Like being able to praise him on the daily for the most mundane things, like taking out the trash. Perhaps she’s the touchy-feely type he always craved. Maybe she has a pet name for him she’s not embarrassed to call out in public. She probably also cooks with love, an ingredient I always forgot to add to my dishes, according to him. I bet she’s also spontaneous and the go-with-the-flow kind he needed to execute his spur-of-the-moment tendencies. And hopefully she laughs at his jokes because God knows I never did.
Whoever she is, whatever her personality, I have but one wish: that he love her the way he was never able to love me. I hope she is his true love, the one woman he craves and wants to come home to until the end of time. I hope she captured his heart and knows how to keep it satisfied. And finally, I hope she only ever knows the honest, loyal, and devoted side of him. That person exists. I know, I witnessed traces of him here and there. That’s why I held on for so long.
“You’ll never find another woman who’ll make you laugh the way I do,” I threatened over and over during our demise.
But I hope he has. I honestly hope he has.
