Black Lies(29)

She is nervous. I can see a darkness in her eyes, a tremor in her hand as she pushes the diamond stud through her earlobe. Something is off—from the deep inhale of her breath to the smile she gives me. Tighter, less free. It’s not the false front she serves out to others, but it isn’t the smile I know. It is a distracted mix of the two. Something is on her mind. Something her eyes say she isn’t ready to talk about. I bend forward, inhale the rich scent of her as I place a soft kiss on her collarbone. “Would you rather stay in? We don’t have to go out.” A question whose answer can ruin tonight’s plans but I don’t want a reluctant companion. Not tonight, at the official start of our life together as one.

Another smile that is not her smile. “No. We should go. I want to.” Her breathing is off. Quicker than usual. I suddenly want to pull her into the bedroom. Slide up her dress and connect with her. Lose both of our senses in the hard press of our bodies. Put our center back, reassure me that she is mine and she is here and she is happy.

I don’t. Instead, I hold open her coat, let it fall over her shoulders and open the front door for my future wife. Pull it shut and pray to God that she says yes. Suddenly, everything I know seems up in the air.

Maybe not tonight. Maybe I wait until this funk passes. Until she smiles and the light reaches her eyes. I watch her move down the steps and follow.





One hour to forever. She doesn’t question the helicopter, or that night’s unorthodox use of the Rolls and my driver. Tucked under my arm, her head turns to the window, the lights of San Francisco tiny against the shoreline as the chopper moves steadily through the sky. She doesn’t ask questions. Just settles into my arm and watches the reflection of a low sun as it shines off the peaks of rocky waves.

“I love you,” she says softly.

My arm tightens around her, embracing the feel of her. She loves to be held, a part of her anxious for the physical confirmation of our bond. “I love you too.”

She tilts her chin up and meets my eyes. “Forever,” she says firmly.

“Forever,” I repeat, leaning down and pressing a kiss against her exposed forehead. The copter shifts and I tighten my grip. “Buckle up. We’re landing.”

Forever. It had sounded ominous on her lips.





Chapter 20


Despite the strong wind, the helicopter sets down easily on Farallon Island. We open the door to two tuxedos, waiting with outstretched arms to help us out of the chopper and along the irregular ground. We duck and run, Lana’s bare feet nimble on the uneven surface, her heels in her hand, a true laugh spilling from her lips as she grips my arm tightly and climbs over the small hill of rocks before us, the slick surface of my dress shoes making the journey treacherous. Just what I need. I can picture the headline: COUPLE STUMBLES TO UNTIMELY DEATH JUST MOMENTS BEFORE PROPOSAL. Not that there has ever been a timely death.

It is all worth it when her head clears the rocks and I hear the catch in her voice. Her eyes had found the table set on a flat rock, white linen, candles, and champagne present. The height elevates us on a ledge with nothing but rock and ocean and sunset on all sides, the jagged skyline of San Francisco twenty-seven miles to the east. The suit to our right holds out a floor-length coat that I help her into before shrugging into my own, the buffering wind giving the evening a chill. Sitting, we accept flutes of champagne as the setting sun paints a landscape of beauty on all sides. It is perfect. Just as I imagined, the small island a private sanctuary for this moment.

“You went all out.” She meets my eyes over the table. Direct. Nothing else between us right now.

“All out would have coordinated whales. Their union wouldn’t agree to demands, but I’m hoping we see some tonight.” I nod to the waves. “I was told this is the spot to see them breach.”

A moment of silence falls over us as she wraps her coat tighter and glances out at the water. I wish for a whale, for nature to prove its support of our union with one dramatic show of grace. In my right pocket, folded and unfolded a hundred times, my speech. I don’t need the paper; I know the words. Had recited them perfectly while shaving. Tried a different take, a different tone, while driving to the office. Have changed the format ten times, the wording twenty. The weight of the paper has been comforting all day, yet suddenly seems wrong. I throw away the plan and reach for her hand. “You know I love you.”

Her eyes move to our hands. “I know.”

No. I need to see her eyes. To have that connection, to read her. The Layana I know doesn’t hide. I don’t understand it, yet forges onward. “You know that I will do anything for you. To make you happy.”