him to be with her again. It’s just… It’s obvious that Mrs. Darling not only knows Shelly and her family very well, but that she’s close to them. She defended Shelly against what her husband said probably because she doesn’t know why David and Shelly really broke up. I wonder if she’d be as kind if she knew.
Would she be this kind to me if she knew about my mental health situation?
I also wonder what Mr. Darling would say. He thought a Harvard degree was nothing unless you make something of yourself. He’d probably say something similar—Who cares about the engagement if she won’t be able to make anything of herself and ends up like her mom?
David takes me to one of the rooms. When he opens the door, I’m surprised at how empty it looks. Doesn’t he have any trophies or albums or photos from his school years? The walls are pale sage green with a few framed art prints. There’s a king-sized bed with cream sheets and lots of pillows on top. Definitely not a typical guy space.
“Your room is”—I struggle for a word—“minimalist.” I just never pictured him throwing everything out when he moved into his own place. And I don’t think he took his old trophies with him, because I haven’t seen them in L.A.
He laughs. “It’s not my room. I mean, it was. But Mom converted it to a guest bedroom. She said she wasn’t keeping teenage boy rooms when she didn’t have actual teenage boys under her roof anymore.”
“What if you want to move back home or something?”
David shudders. “She’d disown us.” He does a surprisingly accurate imitation of his mother’s voice: “Your father and I didn’t send you to Harvard to have you leech off us.” He places the suitcases by the bed and plops down on the ivory leather love seat. “She said if we move back, she’s charging us room and board.”
What a contrast to my dad, who wants me to move back home and marry the guy who will never be able to abandon me for career reasons, so I’ll always be taken care of. Oh, and help my dad’s career along the way.
Will Mrs. Darling take a dim view of my presence in David’s life if she finds out I might not be capable of being independent?
“You look tired,” David says.
“A little.” At least I don’t look worried. “I don’t know why. I slept on the plane.”
“Yeah, but that was just a few hours. I know you probably want to nap for a bit, so we can wait if you want, but…I have something I want to talk to you about.”
I always thought it was the woman who said, “We need to talk,” and the man was the one who felt the prickling sense of anxiety. But now I feel it. Maybe it’s because, in my experience, nothing good usually comes after such a declaration.
“Let’s talk about it now. I don’t think I can relax otherwise.” I’ll obsess about it endlessly.
“Okay.” He moves to the bed and reclines on it. “Come here.”
I do, and we end up cuddling. His arm is around my shoulders and pulling me closer until my palm is resting over his heart. It beats against my hand, and I swear that my entire body pauses and restarts its rhythm to match it.
“I want you to know I was hoping to take you to my favorite spot to do this,” he says. “And with a little bit more romance and a, uh, prepared statement.”
“This is good enough.” I don’t know where his favorite spot is, and I don’t want to wait. And a “prepared statement” is never anything good. Dad always had those when he had to cover his ass, so to speak. My stomach knots. Maybe I shouldn’t have had all that French toast plus four strips of bacon.
“I want to make what we have permanent.”
I blink, not quite processing what he’s saying. Then I push away from him as the words sinks in. “You want to be engaged for real?” I say, swiveling around so I can face him.
He toys with the ruby engagement ring he put on my finger. “Yes.”
“To me?”
“Yes.”
Shock jolts through me. “But why?” I know I’m staring at him, but this doesn’t make any sense. Why would he want to… Why would he want to do this?
“That sounds like a trick question.” David kisses each of my fingers. “Because I want to. I love everything about you, and I respect your quiet strength and curious mind.”
I shake my head. He’s saying this because he doesn’t know the whole story about me. And I can’t let him do this. “But… What if I… What if I get sick? Or become, you know…weird?” I say, not able to bring myself to tell him the full weight of my future, all the fear and doubt my dad sowed for so many years of my life.
David’s eyes soften. “It’s fine. Everyone gets sick from time to time, and everyone has a weird quirk or two.”
He doesn’t get it. “But you deserve somebody perfect,” I say desperately.
He raises both eyebrows. “Define ‘somebody perfect.’”