Not So Nice Guy(47)

I slurp down my ice cream, and by the time my blood sugar hovers in the pre-diabetic range, I’m not even a little bit worried.

I turn to Ian and smile.

“So what’s the plan? I mean, I’ll be honest, during that meeting, I was convinced one of us would have to move to another school or something, or we’d have to go back to being just friends and pen some bizarre-o apology letter to the entire school.” I sigh dramatically. “Ugh, please tell me we aren’t going to have to do that.”

He swallows the last of his milkshake, sets the cup down, and turns to me. He dabs his mouth with a napkin and smiles. He looks thoughtful and adorable. His brown hair is mussed up and the setting sun is shining in, brightening his blue eyes.

“There’s only one option, and I thought you would have figured it out by now.”

I breathe in deeply and nod with a steady seriousness. “Yes.” I exhale. “We kidnap her.”

“What? No,” he says, nonchalantly reaching out the window and pushing the order button again.

“Yes, may I take your order,” crackles the speaker.

“Small order of onion rings for the road, please.”

When he’s done paying, I demand answers.

“If we’re not going to kidnap that crazy lady, what’s your big plan?”

“Why do you think I ordered those rings, Hot Lips?” He smirks. “We’re going to have to get married.”





17





S A M



I sit perfectly frozen, almost as if he just turned me to stone. Day turns to night turns to day turns to night and I’m still staring at him, unblinking. Years pass. My hair turns gray and my hands are wrinkled and feeble when I finally realize he’s kidding.

I bark out a laugh and bat his arm. “Oh my god, Ian, I thought you were serious there for a second!”

So much silence fills his car, the windshield splinters down the middle, trying to alleviate some of the pressure. My smile fades slowly.

He’s not kidding.

He tips his head to the side and studies me.

Slow as molasses, his mouth spreads into a smile and my stomach drops.

“You’re not serious!” I insist. “C’mon, we need to focus. What are we actually going to do? Hack Mrs. O’Doyle into little pieces and ship her to different corners of the United States?”

“We can do that, too, but first let’s get married. They might send us to the same prison.”

He’s not dropping this joke. It’s getting old.

I roll my eyes. “Right, okay. We’ll get married. Ha. Married,” I sing-song. “Glad that’s settled.”

His smile fades and he turns to glance out the window. If I didn’t know better, I’d say I offended him.

I frown and reach over, taking his bicep in my palm. I squeeze it twice, trying to get him to meet my eyes. He won’t.

“Are you kidding?”

His brows furrow deeper. He looks so angry and so beautiful. “Nope.”

“Not even a little bit?”

“No.”

That answer hits me like a ton of bricks.

If he’s not kidding, then he’s on crack.

IAN IS ON CRACK! Somebody warn the anti-drug froyo guy.

My soothing, gentle voice is gone. In its place is a shrill, exasperated shout. “MARRIED?! Ian, YOU’RE CRAZY! I just gave in to dating you like a day ago, and now you want to propose marriage?!”

This makes no sense. Between the two of us, Ian is the logical one. He’s thoughtful about everything. I don’t think he’s been spontaneous even once in his life. He plans vacations two years in advance. He keeps the owner’s manual for every appliance he’s ever purchased, down to his can opener. Last year, when he helped me put together my new IKEA dresser, I ripped open every package, flinging parts across my living room. Meanwhile, Ian read the entire instruction booklet cover to cover (in English and in Swedish).

I open my mouth to argue some more, to throw reason at him, but I’m too dumbstruck to form words. I bob my mouth open and closed like a fish.

“Realistically, what would change?” he says, still staring ahead. “We already share a meal service subscription and a Netflix account. In fact, if you won’t marry me, I’m going to change my password.”

Well, he does have me there…

NO!

“We can’t get married!” I cry, tossing my hands in the air dramatically. “We haven’t even had sex!”

“Yeah, well, we can fix that,” he says, unveiling a hint of a smirk. “These windows are pretty tinted.”

Damn this delicious Sonic treat. Their ice cream is so thick I can’t even dump it out on his head.

He finally turns to face me and I’m hit with cobalt and powder blue and something else: LOVE. He reaches out for my hands and cradles them over the center console. This can’t be happening. I’m shaking. This feels like a real proposal…except the car next to ours is blaring rap music so loudly their bass is shaking our windows. Behind Ian, there’s a rusted dumpster and some tasteful graffiti telling me to $uk d!k. There’s not a single rose petal or lit candle in sight.

“Honestly though, is that your only reason against it?” he asks, brushing his thumb across my knuckles. My heart hammers in my chest. I feel like I could start sobbing uncontrollably at any second.