Untangled 38: The Marrying Type

My heart sank. This felt like Promise Ring 2.0. I popped open the box, and there lay a short gold rope anklet. I was confused; I hadn’t ever asked for a bracelet of any kind. I wanted to be gracious, so I smiled and said, “Oh, I didn’t know I wanted one.” He didn’t respond, just sighed. It was tight and uncomfortable, but I dared not tell him.

He said, “You ready to go?” grabbed my keys, and walked to the car. I reached in the bag and pulled out a freshly rolled receipt; it was less than two hours old. This meant it was last minute. I was so nervous on the drive over. I was trying to talk to gauge where he was mentally, but there was nothing.

When we got to the restaurant, a girl at the hostess stand said, “Oh, welcome, Kimberly, and happy birthday!” They were expecting me and knew it was my birthday, so this could be a good sign. We were seated at a booth where we immediately ordered after the bread arrived. While we waited, he played on his phone as always and would not engage in any conversation. I was busy scanning the faces of anyone headed our way. In my mind, I thought he planned some big proposal and the staff was in on it.

After we finished eating, he asked if I was going to order dessert. I declined. I wasn’t hungry; I was a bundle of nerves. All the signs pointed to a proposal, but it wasn’t happening. I hadn’t had my hopes this high since I was a kid waiting for my aunt to pick me up for a sleepover, but she never came. That was the worst feeling, and here I was feeling it all over again—waiting for something to happen that I knew deep down wouldn’t and shouldn’t happen. It didn’t matter that we had been off and on for almost five years. None of that mattered because I was never the girl he would marry. I wasn’t the marrying type, obviously. I hated that I did this to myself.

Our waiter came out with a plate of mini desserts for my birthday, put them in front of me, smiled, wished me a happy birthday, and walked away. There was no glass of champagne with a cute little solitaire at the bottom. When the birthday sampler hit the table, he looked at it, grabbed the key lime cheesecake bite, gulped it down, and kept playing the game on his phone. I bit the chocolate cake and was done. There was no ring in this stuff. The bill came, and he said, “I’ll pay the bill; you leave the tip.” I agreed. I was still holding out hope. I sat in that booth until he got up and started walking. I kept a brave face, but I felt the inside of my collar getting hot and my eyes welling with uncontrollable tears.

Maybe there was something in the car, or maybe he wanted to propose at my apartment. As we left the restaurant and the cold night air hit my face, I knew with certainty there was no ring, and there would never be one. He walked ahead of me to the car, got in the driver’s side, and closed the door. Walking to the car felt like I was in a tunnel. I had been made a fool of again. I would continue to hurt myself until I learned my lesson. I couldn’t blame him; he showed me who he was. This was me trying to make him something else. God had been sparing me, but I didn’t want to accept all those words of prophecy. I was told before I got to Texas and when I took him back. I was doing this to myself.

I got in the car and tried to sit really still. I didn’t want him to see me cry. I didn’t want him to see that his stunt didn’t break me. I wanted to be as nonchalant as he had been to me. He didn’t deserve my tears. I didn’t want to ask him anything. I didn’t want to yell, argue, or understand. I wanted to go home and forget the whole day. The drive was thick. He tried to ask questions about random things and joke around because he knew what he did, and this time it was just too far. I can’t be convinced that he didn’t. The whole act with my daughter, booking his favorite steakhouse, having me get my hair done and all—it was all a part of his payback to me for coming to Dallas, for leaving him, for going to Tennessee. Apparently, the hospital and death scare weren’t enough. He sped to my apartment when he sensed my attitude, slammed on the brakes, and sped off before I got inside. I hated him. I hated him more than I ever had.

When I got inside, my daughter came bouncing down, smiling, and asked, “How was dinner?” I said, “It was dinner.” I tried to sound normal, but my voice was cracking, and I didn’t know where to look to hide my tear-filled eyes. I didn’t want her to see me like this, but she knew. She was grown. She said, “Ma, what do you mean? Did anything special happen?” I said, “Nope. I really can’t talk now,” and I went up to my room, closed the door, sat on my closet floor, and cried. Happy birthday to me.