Page 110 of Her Goal
“I don’t like crust, anyway.”
“In that case, I did this on purpose. Burning it makes it easier to remove.”
She giggles, sending a rush of relief through me. Maybe dinner will be salvageable.
After we sit down and dish up, Leah bows her head and slides her hand across the table, palm up and open. She wants to say grace. This wasn’t anything we ever did in my household, but if I’m going to be part of the Smith family, I’d better take her hand in mine and say a few words. Whatever thoughts populated my brain drain out of my toes. I’ve got nothing.
Leah clears her throat as if prompting me.
I offer a clumsy blessing, but she squeezes my hand, jumpstarting that electric current inside me.
We slide into casual conversation, mostly discussing the permitting process for the Happy Hockey Days event. I had no idea it was so involved. I figured she could just set the date, make an announcement, and people would show up in the town square. There are letters of intent, insurance requirements, and so much more.
She seems slightly stressed about it, so before dessert, I say, “I have a present for you.”
Leah stiffens. “Um, yeah. About that …”
“Not the ring. A different one that was supposed to come first. I had an order I was going to do things in tonight. When we were outside, I figured we’d already gone off the traditionalscript, so why not fully embrace it?” I think I moved too fast because her blue eyes are still big like a cornered kitten.
I pass her the gift wrapped in brown paper and tied with a piece of twine.
“You were busy today.” She tears into it and then bursts into laughter at the two of us framed in the faux old-time wedding photo. “We look?—”
“Like ghosts?” I ask because that was my first thought. Granted, we’d seen the photos already and had a good laugh, but out from the carnival lights and in a frame, it’s a haunting image.
She shivers. “I was going to say we look like we’d pass as a couple on our way to pan for gold in the Old West.”
“You think so?” However, that doesn’t answer whether we pass for a couple now. Does she even want to be?
My voice is timid when I say, “I figured we could hang it—” Am I being an absolute idiot, thinking we have a chance?
“You know how this works, right? We have to be engaged first.”
The velvet box in my pocket goes up in flames. Changing tack, I joke, “Who made these rules?”
“It just makes sense. Two people spend time together, enjoy each other’s company, and then they decide to spend the rest of their lives together.”
“Or their parents do,” I add.
“What about yours?”
I shrug because it doesn’t matter. “It’s just me, Leah.” She knows that.
Her expression changes.
“I don’t want pity. I’m fine. Used to it.” My words are clipped.
As if she didn’t hear me, she says, “I was at my parents’ before I came here and it looks like a wedding planner barfed all over their house.”
“Is Margo sick?” I ask with concern.
She shakes her head. “You know when people go all out for Christmas and cover every available surface inside and out, then they joke that Santa vomited all over everything? That’s my family.”
“As you may have noticed, I’m not into clutter. I’ve always wanted to—” Feeling vulnerable, I let the sentence dangle.
She goes on to describe the house on Stowells Street. As her words tighten, I realize she’s stressed out. Possibly overwhelmed. Again, she bows her head, but I don’t think it’s because she’s praying. Her shoulders shake a little.
I’m here and I’m not going anywhere unless she tells me to.
