want in a man. Maybe it’s because this is Brad. He has a way of making me feel insignificant, less than, not enough; even though that’s the last thing he’d ever want to do.
“I figured,” he says, sounding smug as ever. “You’d never go for a guy like me.” He’s trying to sound hurt, and he’s succeeding. I don’t know where he’s going with this, but it makes me nervous. We’re in unmarked territory here. It’s off-putting.
“That’s not true. I just,” my voice trails off. “I know a guy like you won’t go for a girl like me.” It’s true. I’m too high maintenance as he tells me. I try to shake off the eerie seriousness of the conversation. Brad pulls back, places his hands on my shoulders and looks me up and down.
“You’ll do,” he says as he scans my body and his hands find purchase on my hips. “Nice and wide,” he sizes up my hips.
Wide? What the hell!
I gape at him, much too surprised for my own good. He has me hooked into whatever he is warming up to do or say, just like when we were little. Whatever it is, I’m so screwed.
“So, here’s the thing, pretty girl,” he grins devilishly. I’m sunk and I know it. “We got,” he looks at his watch and presses a button on the side, illuminating the dial, “a little over an hour left until midnight, and your birthday will be over. What do you say we make one of those wishes of yours come true, huh?” I’m confused. I haven’t a clue to what he is referring.
“Huh?” I ask. Before I can see it coming, he drops to one knee. Suddenly, things become very clear, but I just can’t believe what I’m seeing. Obviously, Brad has Vegas fever. People are starting to notice the crazy man on his knee and it’s making me nervous. They seem to have no apprehension about gathering around and watching the show.
“So, you wanna marry me or something?” He is still grinning, there on one knee, and I am mortified. This is so typical—he sees a problem and sets out to fix it.
Sanity be damned!
“What!” I screech, unable to find any control to my volume. I am half-past freaking out and he is the epitome of calm. At least our friends aren’t here to see this. I just want to crawl into a hole and die. With the best of intentions, he has managed to make me feel even more insignificant, and less than, and so terribly alone.
“Dude,” he laughs, “you’re my best friend. You wanted to get married by thirty, and that one’s past, so let’s just do it, okay? And can you answer me soon? My knee is fucking killing me here.” The crowd is getting larger and everyone seems to have an opinion of sorts: Marry him. Ask him where the ring is. I’ll marry you. He’s hot, if she doesn’t marry him, I will. The comments seem endless, though not a one is against the idea.
“Yeah, okay,” I say with a roll of my eyes, “But you do realize that after the wedding we’d be married, right?” The crowd laughs in unison and it’s Brad’s turn to roll his eyes.
“Annulment, pretty girl,” he is winning me over with his logic. And the being on bended knee thing. In my drunken fog, this looks like a viable option.
“People get them all the time. So, come on. Will you marry me, pretty girl?” I shift my weight from foot to foot and back again, making him stew. There is something about Brad that always makes me lose my sense of reason. One time he even talked me into an impromptu trip to the tattoo shop. I chickened out and got a very small flower on my hip bone instead of the beautiful, but large, hibiscus flowers I had wanted to begin with. He didn’t let me live that one down for weeks.
I find my resolve slipping away at rapid speeds. This is Las Vegas. I mean, it’s sort of the thing to do here, right? And I’ll be single again before my vacation is even over, so, why not? Not that being single is so appealing or anything. And a teeny, tiny part of me may think he looks sort of, kind of cute down there, like that.
“Yeah,” I shake my head, “but if we’re going to do this we better get going. My birthday’s almost over.” Brad hops to his feet,