I’d never seen Michael as animated as he was on the short ride home. It was a little unnerving. Michael was not typically an animated kind of guy; he was typically relaxed, steady. He wasn’t emotional or showy, he was calm, quietly intelligent and reliable. But I could only describe what he was doing as chattering, and Michael was by no means a chatterer. He was fifty-nine years old, for god’s sake. Definitely not a chatterer. But now he went on and on about how he’d researched jewelers before shopping for the ring, the other rings he’d considered, how he’d learned about the four Cs of diamond buying. “Cut, clarity, color, carat,” he told me proudly.
I couldn’t help asking, “So how many carats,” even though I didn’t want to encourage him.
“Three.” He smiled. “I would have gone bigger,” he said, “but the jeweler convinced me that since your hands are small a larger diamond would overwhelm them.”
I was already overwhelmed.
He continued the chatter. I would have been amused if I didn’t hate the whole situation so much. I sat silent, cowed by his enthusiasm, feeling backed into a corner. How could I tell him I didn’t want to marry him, that I didn’t want to get married at all? I’d already been married, twice, and it hadn’t worked for me. Michael always said he understood that and was fine with it. What the hell happened here? Now, amazingly, he was under the impression I’d said I would marry him and he was excited, as excited as I’d ever seen him. How could I break it to him? It felt cruel to throw cold water on such unbridled and uncharacteristic enthusiasm.
At my house he pulled me into his arms and told me again how happy I’d made him.
“Michael…,” I began, feeling the walls closing in.
“I know, I know,” he said laughing. “I’m acting like a school kid, aren’t I? But I can’t help myself, Lib, I’m so happy.”
Oh god. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t bring myself to be the dasher of his dreams. I couldn’t bear the thought of his disappointment. I’ll tell him tomorrow, I thought, in the light of a new day, once his excitement has ebbed and he was back to his normal, rational, sensible self.
I woke the next morning remembering I’d gotten engaged, and lay still hoping for a feeling of euphoria. All I felt was a slight dread. I didn’t open my eyes for fear I would see Michael’s face, all eager and elated, wanting to talk about a wedding; who we’d invite, what we’d serve, how much an open bar would cost, and I didn’t want to discuss all that. I pictured a room full of smiling friends and relatives and then I pictured my middle-aged self in a tea-length dress trying to remember to keep my stomach sucked in and picking up reading glasses from a chain around my neck to read my vows.
When I finally worked up the courage to look I was relieved to find the bed empty except for Rufus, my cat, who ambled over when he saw I was awake and plopped his considerable mass down next to me for his morning scratch. I lay for a moment lavishing attention on Rufus before getting up to see what Michael was up to. But he wasn’t there. He’d left a note on the kitchen counter.
To my fiancée,
He’d drawn a smiley face here. A smiley face.
I went to play racquetball, then I have a couple of showings, then a meeting this afternoon at the office. I might be a little late - might have to meet you at your parents’ house as close to six as I can. I’ll call you later.
I love you.
I immediately did what I always do in times of crisis: called Sophie, who’d been my best friend since we were fourteen.
“I was just going to call you,” she said. “Happy birthday. I’m so glad you’re older than me. So how does it feel to be fifty?”
“You’ll find out for yourself in three months and you’re not going to like it.”
She laughed. “Three long months.”
“So, Michael proposed last night and gave me a three carat diamond.”
“Holy shit,” she said. “Well, that’s great. I’m excited. Just don’t make me wear a pink dress with puffy sleeves again.”
She’d been my maid of honor twice, but only once in pink. Both times in puffy sleeves, though.
“I don’t think I want to get married, Soph.”
“You said no to three carats?”
“Not exactly.” I told her about the evening, how I’d felt railroaded into saying yes.
“Well, give it some more thought before you do anything. Don’t get hung up on the way he did it. He was just being romantic.”
“Michael’s not exactly a romantic guy.”
“I’ve always thought he had it in him. Think about it a little, Lib. Maybe the third time’s the charm.”
“Or not. Maybe it’s three strikes and you’re out.”
“You can’t count the first two,” she said. “You married Jason when you were twenty, too young to know what you were doing.”
“You were twenty-one when you married Pete and you’re still married,” I pointed out.
“I was always more mature,” she said. “Besides, we’re not talking about me. So, scratch Jason. And then you married Wally on the rebound so he doesn’t count either. Michael counts. He’s not like either of them. He’ll be a great husband.”
“How so?”
“He’s solid, responsible, nice looking, kind. Should I go on?” She didn’t wait for my reply. “Generous, sweet, smart, everyone loves him...”
“Okay, so I’ll manage his political campaign.”
“He’s a good guy and he’d do anything for you and you get along great. What more do you want?”
“Shining armor? A white horse?”
“Oh, hon, that’s for kids. And that stuff doesn’t last anyway.”
“So now I don’t get passion, I get peace instead, is that the idea? Security instead of excitement? Comfort instead of romance?”
“Something like that.”
“Is that what happens when you’re fifty?”
“It’s what happens, period. It’s what you end up with anyway, if you’re lucky. It’s nice, Lib.”
“Nice? It sounds pretty boring to me.”
“This doesn’t sound like you. What’s this all about? You’re crazy about Michael.”
“I am,” I said. “I think Michael’s great. We have a nice relationship. And it’s nice the way it is. But for marriage? I don’t know. I don’t exactly have that can’t-live-without-him kind of feeling.”
“Think about it, is there anything you can’t live without at this stage in your life? Or any one? We’re not kids any more. Think about your future. Think about having someone to share your life and grow old with.”
“I do think about that.” I pictured me and Rufus sitting in a rocking chair in a dim room that smelled of peppermint and cat food. “I haven’t said no,” I told her. “You’re right, I do need to give it more thought. I will. Just don’t tell anyone yet, okay? Not even Pete.”
“I won’t,” she said.
Yeah, right.
