Page 124 of Sing Your Secrets

“What if I was serious?” Sliding down her body, feeling every feminine curve, I drop to my knee. “What if I want to marry you? What if there’s a ring in my pocket?”

She suddenly looks alarmed as she tucks her loose hair out of her face. “I—is there?”

“No,” I say, “but there could be next week if you want.”

“But…” She rubs her lips against each other. Her face is completely devoid of all her usual sass and snark. “You’ve barely scratched the surface. Your career is just about to take off…aren’t you worried what you’ll want could change? We can take our time.”

I reach for her hand and squeeze her fingers one by one. “Every single love song I write is for you. Every time I perform, I’m singing to you. After months on tour, I just want to come home to a hot bowl of ramen noodles in front of Netflix, with you in my arms. One day I want my daughter to have your crazy curly hair and your sassy mouth.”

I smile at the tears welling in her eyes. She’s scrambling for words. “But…sowing…your wild oats and stuff.”

“No need. You’re the only oats I want to sow.”

She snickers as she wipes her face clear of the wet streaks. “Are you sure?”

“I’m so fucking sure.”

Her cheeks bunch into perfect spheres. “Then ask me for real when you have a ring, buddy.” She pulls me back up to my feet and kisses me sweetly.

“How do you know I don’t already have one?”

She narrows her eyes at me. “You don’t have one.”

“What if I’m just making sure you’ll say yes?”

“I’ll say yes,” she says with a nod.

“And you love me?”

“And I love you.”

“And you’ll put Deeper on your precious Usher shelf?”

“Whoa.” She feigns mock horror. “Let’s not push it.”

I laugh, but I’m truly a little wounded. That fucking shelf-shrine to Usher is coming down if it’s the last thing I do.

“What’s left to do tonight?” I look around our place of business. It looks mostly set for shutdown.

“A light sweep and I need to mop the bathroom floors. It’s starting to smell rank in there.”

“Go home, baby. Relax. Take a bath. I’ll close up here.”

“I love you,” she says. She takes a few paces towards the door and doubles back. “You don’t have one,” she says again, her forehead scrunched and her eyes wide with puzzlement.

I shrug. “Keep your schedule open. Just saying.” I wrap my hand around hers and lead her to the entrance of The Garage.

“No. No way…” She studies me, trying to see through my poker face. “Wait—seriously. Do you? Because I can’t get married without my friends. And my parents. And your parents. I mean…the Vegas show is next week.”

I give her an innocent look. “Then you better make some calls.”

Her jaw falls open as she scoffs. “He doesn’t have one,” she mumbles to herself as she finally exits.

I spin around and face the empty open floor. I collect the few plastic cups scattered on the ground while dodging a few sticky spots—the aftermath of the rock concert that wrapped up a few hours ago.

Hopping up on stage, I kick a few loose cords aside the band left behind and decide against sweeping tonight. No one’s going to die from a little dust. I find the spot where I etched my name into the wooden board in the back when I sold out my first show at The Garage, six months ago. I find the second etched signature, then the third. By the fourth time I got to carve my name into the wood, I drew a heart, instead. With new initials. RR and ML has a much better ring to it in my opinion. I reach down to trace my finger over the heart and the small black box falls out of my sweatpants pocket. Shit.

I scoop it up and tuck it back into my pocket, making sure it’s secure against my thigh. This ring cost me half a car—I really can’t afford to lose it.

---