Page 153 of Fumbled Into Love

I nearly tapped out after creeping down the narrow spiraled staircase. Dizzy and disoriented, I was blasted with the scent of tilled earth and stagnant air and I nearly hauled myself back up those stairs.

But Nathalie took hold of my arm and guided us through the beginning of the Catacombs, all void of skeletal remains. I’ve been chasing her the last few minutes, trying not to lose her in the crowd of tourists. I’ve seen the horror movies about the Paris catacombs and I have no intentions of Nathalie or I getting lost in the maze beneath the city.

I have important plans for this trip and they will not be derailed. My hand subtly pats the left pocket of my khakis, ensuring the small pouch I’ve been carrying is still there and not lost to the Catacombs.

Nathalie’s braids fly around as she darts in my direction, intertwining our fingers. The subtle buzz of anxiety fades when she touches me.

“How are you doing?” She whispers, leaning against me as we creep into the next room, more bones neatly stacked on either side.

“Uh…” I trail off. I don’t want to ruin this for her. She was so excited to visit the Catacombs, but all I could think about was the horror movieAs Above, So Below.

“Are you creeped out?”

Her smile is knowing.

I may have her up with a night terror that we were stuck down here and chased by a murderer.

When I imagined our trip to Paris, I saw us at the Louvre, admiring paintings. I saw lunch by the Seine and shopping at old bookstores.

I imagined us beneath the Eiffel Tower, the golden band in my pocket on her finger.

“A little,” I admit, dragging her closer until she’s pressed against my side.

Nathalie responds immediately, clasping her hands around my waist. Her hand slides to my hip and I jerk, her fingers dangerously close to the custom-made engagement ring I hope to give her.

It’s fast and we’ve only been together for the last six months, but I’ve never been so sure about anything in my life. There are no nerves, only giddy excitement about bending down on one knee and asking her to become my wife.

I’m hoping for a long engagement so that Nathalie can have the wedding she deserves, the fairytale one I know she’s planned in her mind.

My girl is a hopeless romantic and, fuck me, but being in love with her has turned me into one too.

Bone-deep contentment sits beneath my diaphragm as I think about the life we’re building together. My home has becomeourhome, full of her knick-knacks and romance novels and shoes.

Our nights are spent with puzzles and tea or dating shows and snack mix. On days that I’m bored, I surprise her at GameChangers and hang out with her and the kids.

Every single day, she tells me she loves me. Without fail. And every day, I’m shocked that I could love her any more than theday before. She is, by far, the most magnificent person I’ve ever met.

She’s held my hand in therapy as I worked through my trauma. We cook dinner every night, with Gordie by our sides, and as I clean up the dishes, she always sits on the barstool and ogles me.

It’s the best part of my day.

There are no words, but I can feel the love and affection she holds for me.

“Thank you for doing this with me,” she says, breaking the embrace, but keeping our hands locked. “Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

I kiss the crown of her head, allowing her to lead me through the rest of the tunnels, taking photos of her to put into our scrapbook.

It’s our love story and as corny as it sounds, I’m proud of that silly scrapbook and I want to fill it with every memory that I can.

She rolls her eyes when she notices my camera is aimed at her and she throws out a hand.

“No paparazzi,” she giggles, sticking out her tongue, before taking the winding steps out of the Catacombs and into the gift shop.

“We have to capture the memory,” I say, grabbing a postcard we can add beside the photos in the scrapbook.

“We have to capture the memory,” Nathalie mocks, but her smile gives her away.

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