“Why don’t we go out for breakfast? It might cheer us up.”
“I don’t want to be cheered up.”
“So you just want to eat oatmeal and be miserable for the next four years?”
“He won’t last four years—it’s impossible.”
“Okay, Ariel. But what if he does? You’re just going to sulk the whole time?”
“You’re not getting it.”
“Let’s go to the Roost. I’ll buy you a Bloody Mary.”
With this, she got out of bed. She felt responsible to her sadness, to the sadness of others. She knew she had it easy in the grand scheme of things, but there were others out there whose lives were in real jeopardy—undocumented immigrants who might get deported, sick people whose health care might disappear. She didn’t understand how Dex could think about cocktails at a time like this. Then again, he always thought about cocktails.
She found herself thinking about the time her elementary school gym teacher, Coach Kell, punctured her lung in a horse-riding accident and the district put out a request for a sub. Perhaps as a result of some sudden desire to participate in the community, or maybe as a way to get out of the house and away from her mother, Ariel’s father had volunteered. Three times a week, as she and her classmates filed into the rubber-scented gymnasium, she was disturbed anew to find her father standing under the basketball hoop in white gym shorts and tube socks, eager to call roll so when he came to her name he could break into a grin so embarrassing Ariel would wish she had been the one to puncture her lung. Her father knew nothing about sports or physical health—he was a poet, after all, for whom exercise generally consisted of walking quietly around the pasture, head bowed in contemplation. The other students immediately sensed his weakness and took advantage, convincing him that Coach Kell let them run wild in the fields around the school. The dread Ariel felt going into gym class was of the same variety she felt now, imagining the new president in the White House.
She sat on the living room couch, uncertain what to do. She felt compelled to clean—to vacuum or put away the water glasses and cereal bowls Dex had left out—but years from now, when she looked back on this day, she wanted to remember something powerful: writing letters to her representatives or marching in a rally (surely there was a rally somewhere nearby?). She’d taken the day off from the clinic for this very reason: to celebrate or protest. But now, the day stretching out ahead of her, all she really wanted to do was sleep. There was a packet of peanut M&M’s in the freezer, and she was thinking about those, too.
She was still sitting there when Dex came downstairs and sat beside her. “I want to ask you something,” he said, “but it’s probably bad timing.”
“You could wait until it’s good timing.”
“But what if I really, really want to ask now?” He was twitching his nose, a nervous tic.
“Dex, just ask.”
“Okay,” he said, taking a breath. He then slipped onto the floor, took a knee, and presented a small toy turtle—she hadn’t even noticed he’d been hiding anything behind his back. The turtle had a green shell and yellow felt skin. Tiny black beads for eyes. “Will you marry me?”
She stared at the turtle, then at him, then back at the turtle. “What is that?”
His eyes fell on the turtle. “It’s a ring box. I thought you’d think it was cute. Is it not cute?”
Her heart was galumphing so forcefully she worried it might shoot from her chest and knock the turtle clean from his hands. “I think you’re supposed to open it,” she said.
“Oh, right.” He flicked the box open to reveal the ring. It was not a diamond or any recognizable stone. It was more of a rock, dark gray with chips of white.
“What is it?”
“It’s a dinosaur bone.”
“Really? From what kind of dinosaur?”
“Ariel, you’re supposed to say something. Say yes.”
“Yes,” she said, feeling light-headed. Here was the man she loved—however complicated that love might be—on his knee, asking to be with her forever using a turtle and a piece of an animal so ancient she couldn’t exactly comprehend it. They’d been dating for nearly six years, and she’d been waiting for this moment for at least the last two. Over the past few months, she’d convinced herself she didn’t want to be proposed to, that the whole thing was fundamentally sexist. She’d even entertained the idea of proposing to him but realized she didn’t feel strongly enough to buy a ring. But now here he was. Here she was. Here was the turtle.
He collapsed into her lap, pressed his cheek against her thigh. Then he raised his head and kissed her, pushing her back against the couch. “I love you,” he said. “More than anything.”
“I love you, too,” she said, taking his hand and letting him lead her upstairs to bed.
She’d just taken her shirt off when the doorbell rang. “Fuck,” Dex said.
“Fuck what? Don’t answer it.”
“I have to—it’s Buddy.”
“Then definitely don’t answer it.”
“He has my phone. He told me he’d bring it by this morning—I completely forgot.”
Buddy was always stealing Dex’s belongings or coming up with elaborate schemes that would require Dex to hang out with him. Once, while she and Dex were out to dinner at Cafe Beautiful for her birthday, he’d texted Dex that Scarlett Johansson was at the Jackpot, signing autographs. After listening to Dex whine and beg all through the main course, Ariel finally agreed that they could skip dessert to go see her. When they showed up to the Jackpot, it was just Buddy and a few other dudes, everyone drunk and cranky. Ariel pretended to be mad because Buddy had spoiled their date night; in reality, she, too, had wanted to see Scarlett.
“Don’t do it,” Ariel said. “Just say no.”
“I have to—he drove all the way here.”
“But you just asked me to marry you.” They hadn’t had sex in a while, and now she was hungry for it. To feel close to him in the way they knew best.
“It’ll take two seconds. Lightning speed. Zip zap.”
Knowing Dex would not be lightning speed or even dial-up internet speed, Ariel grabbed a book off her nightstand—she was rereading Annie John by Jamaica Kincaid for the third time. Twenty pages later, she could still hear him talking to Buddy at the front door. When she listened, she could make out snippets like “teeny-tiny mermaid tails everywhere” and “in the back of her van, a live baby deer.” Buddy had a deep, radio-announcer voice that carried no matter the volume. Once, at a mutual friend’s wedding, he’d scream-whispered to Ariel, “Nipple slip, bridesmaid two,” and the whole wedding party had turned to scowl at them.
In the end, Ariel had fallen back asleep, Annie John and the little felt turtle on the pillow beside her. When she woke, Buddy was gone and Dex had made pancakes, eggs, and grapefruit mimosas. She ate until she was full and drank until she was tipsy. For moments at a time, she forgot what was happening in the world and saw only her kitchen, where Dex had filled a skinny vase with aster and the air smelled of coffee and grapefruit. Dex was right—it had cheered her up, a cheer that ultimately made her feel guiltier than ever.