The Lies That Bind(54)

“Do you really love it?” he asks softly, almost under his breath.

“I do love it,” I whisper, feeling buzzed and fluttery.

Matthew nods, then says, “I can wait as long as you need. But can you tell me one thing?”

I nod.

“What’s your hesitation?…I mean, is it that we just got back together?…Or is it…him?”

I freeze, shocked by the question. He’s never mentioned Grant since that first phone conversation when he asked if I was still seeing “that guy.”

“It’s not him,” I say as forcefully as I can, so wanting this to be the truth that it feels like the truth.

“So you don’t still talk to him?” he says.

A lump in my throat, I shake my head and say no. Never.

“Because…I wasn’t snooping…but I saw the postcard he sent you in your nightstand.”

I freeze, feeling ashamed that I still have it, even before he asks why I saved it.

I shrug and say, “You know I save things…even things that aren’t important.” Technically the statement is true.

“I read it,” he says, lowering his eyes. “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have.”

    “It’s okay,” I reassure him. “I would have read it, too.”

He lowers his eyes for a beat, then says, “He said he loved you.”

I nod, knowing the postcard by heart, then say, “It was a lie, Matthew. The whole relationship was a lie.”

He looks at me with the saddest eyes, nodding, then says, “I would never lie to you.”

“I know,” I say, as I reach out to hug him harder than I ever have.

When we separate, I say his name softly, then tell him to ask me again.

“Ask you what?” he says, looking confused.

“Ask me the question you asked me before dinner,” I whisper, my heart racing as I have an almost out-of-body experience.

His expression changes, going from confusion to hopefulness as he slowly reaches for the ring, all the while holding my gaze. A beat later, he is lowering himself to one knee, proposing again.

“Cecily,” he says, his voice and hands steadier than the first time. “Will you marry me?”

“Yes,” I say, scared but somehow sure. “Yes, Matthew. I will.”





The next few days are a whirlwind, as we share our news with friends and family. We call my parents first (although my dad already knew, Matthew having flown to Milwaukee to ask for his blessing), then his parents, then our siblings and Scottie, followed by the rest of our friends.

Everyone is thrilled for us, eager for all the usual details—how Matthew did it, whether he was down on one knee, the degree to which I was surprised, what the ring looks like, whether we’ve picked a date. We share the important stuff, but of course leave out the first, predinner proposal. It feels like an insignificant edit in the scheme of things, more about privacy than about revisionist history. But part of me still worries that the fib is a metaphor for our relationship—that Matthew and I are both pretending things are more ideal than they actually are. After all, I ask myself, how wonderful can an engagement be when the question took two tries to stick? When the ring was left on the counter all evening? When the immediate precursor to the second proposal was a conversation about another man? A man I still can’t fully shake from my mind or heart?

Then again, I argue with myself, maybe Matthew and I aren’t unique. Maybe all relationship journeys are messy and complicated in one way or another, products of two flawed people coming together to form a flawed but, one hopes, stronger union. Maybe the only people who don’t have any reservations amid a marriage proposal are delusional about love—and therefore destined to be disillusioned later in life when things get tough.

    I vacillate between the two extremes. In one moment, I’m fearful that Matthew and I are both settling—or at least rushing into this; in the next moment, I have accepted that all of life is a grand compromise, and Matthew and I are exactly where we’re supposed to be.

Ultimately, in conversations with myself, whether in the shower or riding the subway or falling asleep at night—sometimes right next to Matthew—I make the conscious decision to be happy and grateful. Yes, Matthew and I had our setbacks; and yes, I had an interim relationship that caused me to question my feelings for him; and yes, my first answer was a feeble maybe; and yes, I haven’t told him the truth about absolutely everything. But things aren’t perfect. They’re very far from perfect. The world is unpredictable and unsafe—we know that now more than ever—so maybe it’s about holding on to the things we can really count on. And I know I can count on Matthew to be steady, honest, and true. When the going got tough, he returned to me, and now we are moving forward, together.

So we forge ahead with wedding plans, choosing October 19, 2002, both because I’ve always wanted a fall wedding and because it gives us approximately a year to plan, plenty of time so that we won’t be stressed. We reserve my hometown church, make tentative plans to fly home and look at reception venues, and choose our attendants, five each. My sister will be my matron of honor, and the bridesmaids will include my cousin, a friend from college, Jasmine, and Matthew’s sister, Elizabeth. The groomsmen will be Matthew’s best friend from high school, two friends from college, my brother, and Scottie, although Scottie insists that he will be joining all bridesmaid functions, as well as planning my bachelorette party. Frankly, his enthusiasm actually surprises me a little—in a good way—though it does occur to me that he’s overcompensating, somehow trying to make up for all of the critical things he said about Matthew in the past. But I just add this to the list of things I refuse to dwell on, managing to find a peaceful equilibrium.