Futures and Frosting (Chocolate Lovers #2)(8)

“Leave the gun. Take the cannoli!”

A few people in the row in front of us turn around to look at me quizzically and I just shrug. They won’t judge me if they know my future father-in-law is a mobster who wants me dead for not going through the proper channels to marry his one and only daughter.

Claire is too busy arguing with Gavin about how a third bag of cotton candy will not, in fact, give him superpowers no matter what he saw on television so she has no idea about the minor freak-out I had going on. Not that I would talk to her about it anyway. This is supposed to be a surprise—a huge, life-changing surprise that could make or break our future. Or my kneecaps if George decides he really does hate me.

I continue my manic foot tapping as Jose Cabrera goes up to the plate and repeat the words I plan to say to Claire in my head.

I never thought I’d find you again…you are my heart and soul and my reason for living…every moment I spend with you is like-

Claire’s laughter breaks my concentration, and I glance over to see her pointing to the outfield and snickering with a few people sitting around her.

“Oh my God, would you look at that!” she exclaims.

I glance out beyond third base to see what has caught her interest. When I see what everyone else is staring at, my stomach plummets all the way to my toes and the eight hotdogs I just consumed threaten to make a reappearance in a totally unflattering way that won’t be near as much fun as dancing meat singing the Oscar Mayer wiener song.

There, televised on the jumbotron for all of Progressive Field to see, is a guy down on one knee somewhere by the first base line holding up a ring box to a hysterically sobbing woman with her hands over her mouth in shock. In big, jumbotron-sized, blinking red letters below their picture are the words, “Crystal, will you marry me? Love Rob!”

Claire snorts and shakes her head. “What a tool that guy is. How cheesy can you be? Proposing at a baseball game in front of tens of thousands of strangers and putting it up on the scoreboard? That’s got to be the most clichéd thing ever.

“REALLY ORIGINAL THERE, MORON!” she yells as everyone around us claps and cheers when the woman on the screen nods her head up and down emphatically and the pair embrace.

Oh sweet Jesus. Sweet mother f*cking f*ckery of f*cks.

I am going to win the 'Tool of the Year' award if my proposal shows up on that screen in the next five minutes like it’s scheduled to. I don’t even know if there is a 'Tool of the Year' award. There must be. It’s probably a huge, gold penis trophy with an arrow pointing to it that reads, “This is you! A giant dick! Congratulations.” There’s probably even a 'Tool of the Year' book they print every year like that 'Darwin Awards' book that really has nothing to do with winning an esteemed award and everything to do with the fact that people are pointing and laughing because you died from trying to slow dance with an ostrich that would rather peck out your eyes than learn the Cha Cha.

Claire is going to peck out my eyes if I propose to her right now!

“Carter, are you okay? You look like you’re going to throw up. I told you no one should ever eat more than six hotdogs. That’s just asking for pig snout disease or whatever the hell they make those things out of,” Claire scolds as she looked me over worriedly.

“I ate a pig snout?!” Gavin asks elatedly. “What’s a pig snout?

Claire turns to the other side of her to try and explain to Gavin that hotdogs are, in fact, not made out of dogs, and I take that moment to jump up from my seat, mumbling something about throwing up before I race up the stairs to the concierge desk to cancel my Cleveland Indian’s Proposal Package before I die a slow, horrible eye-pecking death.





4. He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not


“I think he’s going to break up with me.”

Liz’s sigh through the phone line is loud and clear. I know she's irritated with me. I am irritated with me. It's getting to the point where I can’t even stand the sound of my own voice and yet I can’t shut up about this.

“He’s been acting really weird ever since the Indian’s game last week,” I explain as I pull my car into the driveway and let the engine idle.

“Carter isn’t going to break up with you. Will you shut up about this already? Maybe he’s just stressed about work or the fact that his parents are finally coming for a visit. Did you try out that move on him I told you about the other night? The one where you take your fingers and put them in his-”

“LA-LA-LA, I’M NOT LISTENING TO YOU!” I yell over her voice and try to block out the words “prostate” and “gentle massage”.

“Fine, but I’m telling you – it will totally relax him,” she says matter-of-factly.

I turn off the ignition and rested my head against the steering wheel.

“Have you tried, oh I don’t know, asking him what’s wrong?” Liz continues.

“You’re rolling your eyes at me right now, aren’t you?” I reply. “No, I haven’t asked him. I’ve done what every other woman in a new relationship does when her boyfriend is acting all twitchy and nervous. I completely ignore the situation and pretend like it isn’t happening while making a list of possible responses and comebacks I can lob at him when he finally decides to give me the brush-off. I am NOT going to be one of those people who clam up when he tells me, ‘It’s not you, it’s me,’ and then six hours later when I’m sitting alone in the dark with a bottle of vodka scream, ‘OH IT’S TOTALLY YOU AND YOUR SMALL PENIS!’. I’m going to have viable retorts ready to go so I don’t come up with them later when I’m drunk and alone, and they do no one any good.”