“Indeed.”
“Mr. Rosen, your table is ready.”
There is a man in white tails at our backs, ushering us out of the bar, down the hallway, and into the ballroom.
I’ve only ever seen the Rainbow Room in movies, but it’s magnificent, truly the perfect place to get engaged. Round tables sit gracefully in tiers around a circular dance floor, where a dazzling chandelier hangs overhead. Rumors are the dance floor rotates, a spinning circle in the center of the room. Ornate floral arrangements, reminiscent of a wedding, pepper the dining room. There is a festive, old-world holiday air. Women in fur. Gloves. Diamonds. The smell of good leather.
“It’s beautiful,” I breathe.
David squeezes me to his side and kisses my cheek. “We’re celebrating,” he says.
A server holds a chair back for me. I sit. A white napkin is produced in a flourish and eased onto my lap.
The slow, smooth styles of Frank Sinatra float over the dining room. A singer croons in the corner.
“This is too much,” I say. What I mean is that it’s perfect. It’s exactly right. He knows this. That’s why he’s him.
I wouldn’t say I’m a romantic, exactly. But I believe in romance, which is to say, I believe in calling to inquire about a date instead of texting, and flowers after sex, and Frank Sinatra at an engagement. And New York City in December.
We order champagne again, this time a bottle. Momentarily, my chest ticks at what tonight will cost.
“Don’t think about it,” David says, reading me. I love that about him. That he always knows what I’m thinking, because we’re always on the same page.
The bubbles arrive. Cool and sweet and crisp. Our second glasses go down easy.
“Should we dance?” David asks me.
On the floor, I see two couples swaying to “All the Way.”
Through the good or lean years, and for all the in-between years…
Suddenly, I think that David may grab the mic. He may make this public. He is not a showy person, by nature, but he is confident, and unafraid of public displays. I am unnerved at this possibility. Of the ring arriving in my chocolate soufflé and his getting down on one knee for all the world to see.
“You want to dance?” I ask him.
David hates dancing. I have to drag him at weddings. He thinks he has no rhythm, and he’s right, but so few guys have rhythm that it really doesn’t matter. There are no wrong moves to “P.Y.T.” except sitting down.
“Why not?” he says. “We’re here.”
He offers me his hand, and I take it. As we make our way down the steps to the rotunda, the song switches. “It Had to Be You.”
David takes me in his arms. The two other couples—older—smile in approval.
“You know,” David says, “I love you.”
“I do,” I say. “I mean, you’d better.”
Is this it? Is this when he drops?
But he keeps just moving me, slowly around the rotating rotunda. The song ends. A few people clap. We go back to our seats. I feel, suddenly, disappointed. Could I be wrong?
We order. A simple salad. The lobster. Wine. The ring is neither perched on the lobster’s claw nor drowning in a glass of Bordeaux.
We both move our food around on our plates with lovely silver forks, barely eating. David, usually chatty, has a hard time focusing. More than once he knocks and rights his water glass. Just do it, I want to tell him. I’ll say yes. Perhaps I should spell it out with cherry tomatoes.
Finally, dessert arrives. Chocolate soufflé, crème brûlée, pavlova. He’s ordered one of everything, but there is no ring affixed to any of their powdered tops. When I look up, David is gone. Because he is holding the box in his hands, right by my seat, where he kneels.
“David.”
He shakes his head. “For once don’t talk, okay? Just let me get through this.”
People around us murmur and quiet. Some of the surrounding tables have phones aimed at us. Even the music lowers.
“David, there are people watching.” But I’m smiling. Finally.
“Dannie, I love you. I know neither one of us is a particularly sentimental person and I don’t tell you this stuff a lot, but I want you to know that our relationship isn’t just part of some plan for me. I think you’re extraordinary, and I want to build this life with you. Not because we’re the same but because we fit, and because the more time goes on the more I cannot imagine my life taking place without you.”
“Yes,” I say.
He smiles. “I think maybe you should let me ask the question.”
Someone close breaks out in laughter.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Please ask.”
“Danielle Ashley Kohan, will you marry me?”
He opens the box and inside is a cushion-cut diamond flanked by two triangular stones set in a simple platinum band. It’s modern, clean, elegant. It’s exactly me.
“You can answer now,” he tells me.
“Yes,” I say. “Absolutely. Yes.”
He reaches up and kisses me, and the dining room breaks out in applause. I hear the snaps of lenses, the oohs and aahs of generous goodwill from surrounding patrons.
David takes the ring out of the box and slides it onto my finger. It takes a second to waddle over my knuckle—my hands are swollen from the champagne—but when it does, it sits there like it has always been there.
A waiter appears out of thin air with a bottle of something. “Compliments of the chef,” he says. “Congratulations!”
David sits back down. He holds my hand across the table. I marvel at the ring, turning my palm back and forth in the candlelight.
“David,” I say. “It’s gorgeous.”
He smiles. “It looks so good on you.”
“Did you pick this out?”
“Bella helped,” he says. “I was worried she was going to ruin the surprise. You know her, she’s terrible at keeping anything from you.”
I smile. I squeeze his hand. He’s right about that, but I don’t need to tell him. That is the thing about relationships: it’s not necessary to say everything. “I had no idea,” I say.
“I’m sorry it was so public,” he says, gesturing around us. “I couldn’t resist. This place is practically begging for it.”
“David,” I say. I look at him. My future husband. “I want you to know I’d suffer through ten more public proposals if it meant I got to marry you.”
“No you wouldn’t,” he says. “But you can convince me of anything, and it’s one of the things I love about you.”
* * *
Two hours later we’re home. Hungry and buzzing off champagne and wine, we crouch around the computer, ordering Thai food from Spice online. This is us. Spend seven hundred dollars on dinner, come home to eat eight-dollar fried rice. I never want that to change.
I want to put on sweatpants, per usual, but something tells me not to—not tonight, not yet. If I were different, someone else—Bella, for example—I’d have lingerie to wear. I’d have bought some this week. I’d put on a matching bra and underwear and hover by the door. Fuck the pad thai. But then I probably wouldn’t be engaged to David right now.