Charlie careens back to whisper to us, “Who is that?”
To free my hands, I bite onto the cookie I’m eating and flip through the program. Oscar is checking NDAs for her name on his cellphone. Since Beckett works here, the dancers have had background security checks.
Oscar finds her first. He leans forward and whispers, “Roxanne Ruiz. She’s eighteen.”
Charlie just turns forward, but I catch his smile.
Even with that small hiccup in Act 2, the ballet ends with a standing ovation, and pink flowers are tossed onto the stage for Beckett and the other dancers. I hear whistling from the audience, and I’m almost positive it’s Jane Cobalt and Daisy Calloway.
The lobby.
We all wait for Beckett Cobalt in the lobby as the whole theatre begins to clear out. Security ushers some stragglers to the exit. They want to take more selfies with the Calloway sisters.
Oscar stays near Charlie, who loiters in the direct middle. On purpose. I asked him to.
I’m sweating bullets. And I unwrap a lime-flavored sucker and stick it in my mouth.
“Love that shirt,” Oscar says, motioning to the white button-down I wear. His button-down. Everyone is in formal attire. “How many more are you going to steal from me, Long Beach?”
“Probably all of them,” I smile widely, sucker up against my cheek. “You want it back?”
“I have a feeling that even if I say yes, I won’t see it again.”
“That’s not true,” I say with a bigger breath. I pull the sucker out of my mouth, and Oscar takes it. He slips the sucker between his lips.
I smile more. That was hot. Nerves start to subside.
“Why is that not true?”
“We’re together, Oscar. You’ll see your clothes again.”
His grin softens to something more serious. Which is funny because he has a sucker in his mouth, and suckers aren’t really an Oscar Oliveira thing.
I add, “They’re just half-mine now.”
Oscar laughs.
The lobby is really empty now. Just familiar faces, everyone chatting quietly. SFO laughs in the corner. Not needing to be as vigilant, no strangers in sight.
Popcorn machines rumble to a stop. Donnelly hops on the counter to start filling up a bag.
Jesse waves to me from one of the emerald couches. My mom already removes her tissues from her Louis Vuitton purse. The Oliveira family turns more to view us in the middle. Farrow, Maximoff, Ripley, and Jane and Thatcher have stopped talking, programs in their hands as they face us.
Even the Calloway sisters and their husbands watch.
Oscar’s brows furrow. He notices.
He’s too observant for this charade to last long.
And when his confused eyes land on me, I tell him, “Oscar.”
“Jack?” The sucker is still in his mouth.
I smile like the next words exist deep inside me and have wanted to be set free for so, so long. “I was never rewriting my life when I met you. There was no rewrite, Oscar, because this is how it was always supposed to be written. I am supposed to be with you. You are supposed to be with me. Nothing else makes sense.”
His eyes glass.
I continue on, “I love you. I love run-around-the-world Oscar. I love flirty Oscar, tactical bodyguard Oscar, snack monster Oscar”—everyone laughs, but I hold onto his laughter, his joyful tears that stream like mine—“my number one fan Oscar, sexy Oscar, intelligent as a motherfucker Oscar, a ride-or-die friend Oscar, a good brother Oscar, kiss me when the sun rises Oscar, my one and only Oscar…the love of my life Oscar.”
He’s nodding, overwhelmed, our cheeks wet with emotion.
“You’re my everything Oscar.”
He expels a, “Fuck, Highland.” He takes out the sucker, about to bring me closer, but I drop to my knee. I hear sniffling from our family and friends.
“Oscar Felipe Highland-Oliveira. I love every part of who you are.” I take his hand in mine and pull out a ring from my pocket. “Will you do me the honor of staying married to me?”
A collection of whispers sweeps the lobby, but I’m lost in Oscar’s reaction. He falls to his knees, throws the sucker over his shoulder, and takes my face in his hands. “Yes,” he says. “You’re my everything Jack.”
It balloons inside me. Like I’m floating in the air, sun shining down on us.
We kiss in a soulful force, cementing this marriage together.
Everyone claps around us, even if they’re probably confused as hell. I didn’t tell them we were already married, but I did invite them to the afternoon performance of Romeo & Juliet under the pretense of proposing.
Oscar pulls away and whispers to me, “Now I’m gonna need the details on how you made this happen.”
I’m looking forward to the two-hour ride back to Philly where I can tell him all about it. It is hard to surprise the guy who’s rarely surprised, but not impossible.
“I’m still holding your ring, Os.” He’s not letting me slip it on his finger.