Just One of the Guys(96)
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
SOMETHING’S DEAD IN ME. Now that’s a pleasant thought to have on a romantic weekend with one’s gorgeous boyfriend, isn’t it?
Ryan and I check into the SoHo Grand Hotel, a place so stylish and swanky that the maids are better dressed than I am. But apparently Ryan is a regular, because the concierge greets him with, “Wonderful to see you again, Dr. Darling.”
We are shown to our painfully chic hotel room, a corner suite with minimalist furniture and stunning views of the city. “This is beautiful, Ryan,” I say after he’s tipped the bellboy/aspiring actor who is nearly as handsome as Ryan himself.
“Well, I wanted it to be special,” he acknowledges a little sheepishly. Then he kisses me and glances at the bed. “Care to…?”
“You know what, Ryan? I’m a little tired,” I say. It’s not a lie. The truth is, I’m tired of comparing the two men in my life. Correction. There aren’t two men in my life, are there? There’s just this one.
We lie on the beautiful, sleek bed, holding hands. I tell him a little bit about where I hung out when I was a graduate student, places I ventured when I worked in Newark and came to the city for fun. He talks lovingly about his endless residency at Columbia Presbyterian, his horrible hours, the little Thai place that he frequented, the parts of Central Park where he relaxed.
Looking at Ryan, I don’t feel the soul-wrenching ache I feel—felt—for Trevor. There’s a lot to be said for that. If I’m not mistaken, Ryan is going to pop the question this weekend, and I’m going to accept. Enough beating of the poor proverbial already deceased horse. The dead thing in me will harden and crumble away into tiny bits. Just like it did for Mom.
We have drinks in the lounge, stylish, deliciously expensive drinks (who knew a martini could cost $25?) and head up Broadway to see Wicked. It’s wonderful. I love the show. Ryan agrees that it was excellent. Then we have a late dinner at yes, the Rainbow Room. Because my boyfriend is a wealthy surgeon, I feel no compunction about ordering filet mignon and another gold-standard martini. Later, we dance to the orchestra and, of course, Ryan is a smooth dancer.
“You’re good at this,” I say, smiling up at him, since I had the sense to wear flats.
“Ballroom dancing lessons were part of my education. Seventh grade,” he confesses.
“I’ve never danced with a guy who really knew what he was doing.”
“You’re pretty good yourself,” he says, giving me a quick kiss.
“I love you,” I tell him, more for my sake than his.
“I love you, too,” he says. “In fact—” he releases my hand to reach into his breast pocket “—I’m hoping you’ll do me the honor of being my wife.”
What song is playing? I don’t recognize it. Ryan smiles beautifully and slides a chunky diamond ring onto the fourth finger of my left hand.
“It’s gorgeous,” I say, and it is, platinum with an emerald-cut stone flanked by two smaller diamonds. Stunning, like something out of the New York Times magazine.
“Will you marry me?” he says, more for protocol than anything else.
“Yes,” I say, and I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him, and the people around us applaud and smile.
This will be my life, I think as we stroll a few blocks. The air is dry and clear, a light breeze swirls through my hair, the smell of bread perfumes the air. All around us, Manhattan sparkles and hums. I hold up my hand to inspect my ring, and Ryan grins. “My parents will be very pleased,” he says.
“Really?” I say, and he laughs and squeezes my hand. Visions of Thanksgiving and Christmas with Dr. and Mrs. Darling (and Bubbles) float through my head, as surreal as a Salvador Dali painting. “Mine will be, too.”
“Of course,” Ryan says. I try not to roll my eyes. Instead, I picture Ryan holding his own at our Thanksgiving touch-football game which, though it sounds Kennedy-esque and good-spirited, rewards creative, dirty, after-the-whistle type hits. Of course, we wouldn’t want to injure Ryan’s gifted hands, so he might have to excuse himself. Still. It could be fun.
We sleep in the next morning, go out for brunch and spend the afternoon shopping at Saks, mostly for Ryan, to be honest, who needed a few new suits, though he very kindly buys me some fabulous underwear and a pair of peach silk pajamas (perhaps a comment on the ancient Yankees T-shirt I usually wear to bed). We return to our hotel, where I call my mom and tell her the news.
“Oh, Chastity!” she cries. “Honey, that’s wonderful! Wonderful!” She offers to invite the boys and their families over for dinner the next day so Ryan and I can come and announce our engagement live and in person.
“Sure,” I say. “Sounds great.”
Ryan calls his parents, too, and I talk to Mrs. over the phone. “Please call me Libby,” she says. “And I can recommend some very good designers for your dress, darling.”
Dr. gets on the phone, too. “Welcome to the family,” he says heartily, and I try to forget that he’s seen me naked.
Then Ryan takes the phone and fields questions about dates and locations and that kind of thing. I drift over to the window of our swanky room and gaze out at the Empire State Building.
Is this really me, I wonder? It doesn’t quite feel real. I don’t belong in a hotel like this one. The ring, though it sits well on my finger, looks like a prop from a movie. Though we’ve been gone less than twenty-four hours, I miss home. I miss Buttercup.