CHAPTER ONE

HOLLY

 

“Antonio’s @ 8? I’ll meet u there.”

Stephen was asking me to dinner at my favorite restaurant in the entire city. The same restaurant he reserved for special occasions only—but why? I flipped through the archive of dates stored away in my memory, trying to narrow down what we could possibly be celebrating on an eyeball-melting day in July. I mean, five years of pre-marital bliss had accumulated quite a few memorable dates, so it took a while to determine that, nope, there was nothing to celebrate.

Unless …

My eyes were glued to the phone while my heart began to thump a tune rivaling a Metallica song. The little voice in my head tried telling me there was no reason to get excited, that Stephen had insisted he wasn’t the marrying type enough times for me to be convinced that he was serious. But it didn’t take too long for my heart to hammer that conservative little voice right out of there, though, and the naysayer was replaced with the type of excitement that caused me to clap a hand over my mouth and utter a guttural “oh, my God!”

It made sense, though, after a half decade of being the epitome of cute couples. I mean, what else was there? We had the apartment, we had the cat, the matching pajamas … So, wasn’t marriage the obvious next step? I had been trying to tell him that for years—three out of the five, to be exact—that there really wasn’t any reason not to get married. I love him, he loves me, my family loves him, his family loves me …

It. Just. Made. Sense.

Of course, he would always tell me there were millions of reasons not to get married (an obvious exaggeration), like not needing a paper to solidify his devotion to me, but dammit, weren’t my feelings important enough?

Well, apparently, now they were.

Holly freakin’ Hughes. Soon-to-be Holly freakin’ Keller.

 

***

   

I walked through the bustling city and although I wasn’t even close to being a fashionista, I knew I looked pretty damn good. I had worn my finest little black dress and my best red strappy stilettos—Stephen’s favorite. I couldn’t exactly walk gracefully in them but hey, we all have to make sacrifices in the name of looking good. My hair was curled and pulled to one side, cascading over my shoulder with Disney Princess perfection and leaving my slender neck exposed for the whole world to see. To top the look off, I had spent damn near an hour perfecting my smoky eye, and I knew I could have passed for a freakin’ model.

I wasn’t really one to leak self-confidence through my pores or anything, but that night I could just feel the eyes of every horny man and every jealous woman following me as I click, click, tripped my way towards the restaurant.

I finally made it to Antonio’s without falling flat on my ass in those heels. I stopped myself before going through the door, to try and collect my nerves before facing the man of my dreams and the dazzling rock that was about to sit on my finger. It hit me then how nervous I was and I quickly glanced around to locate the nearest garbage can. Just in case.

A million thoughts raced through my head all at once, and chasing them left me feeling a little woozy. How was he going to propose? Was he actually going to get down on one knee in a restaurant full of people? How long after proposing would we be married? How long after getting married would we have kids? Did Stephen even want kids? Why had we never talked about kids?

Whoa, Holly. Deep breaths, deeeep breaths …

I gathered my courage, and with a breath of humid New York City summer air, I walked inside.

A classical rendition of Frank Sinatra’s “My Way” tinkled over the restaurant’s chatter-filled atmosphere, and a bubbly hostess greeted me with a cheery “table for one?” I involuntarily raised an eyebrow.

Did anybody dress like that to go out to dinner alone?

“Uh,” I began, feeling a little self-conscious that this girl thought I was some saucy lone diner, “no, I’m actually meeting someone.”

My soon-to-be fiancé.

I gave her the name of my future husband, and she told me to follow her “right this way” through the restaurant. Just as I had hoped, she led me outside to the terrace. And there, under the pergola, surrounded by planters of shrubs and topiaries with twinkling white lights, sitting at the little iron table with the mosaic top, was Stephen. My Stephen. My heart skipped so many beats, I probably should have died standing there, watching him nervously chew at the cuticles around his fingernails.

After taking a few big gulps of air, I started my way towards him. Time seemed to slow to the crawl of a romantic movie as I pushed one foot in front of the other, and when he turned to look at me … Christ, I swear it was in total Jack-and-Rose ala Titanic fashion, especially as he stood, extending a baby smooth hand towards me. I took a hold, gripping on for dear sweet life, and I was pulled into his arms.

“Stevie, this is beautiful,” I gushed, gazing upwards at the sparkling slats of the pergola.

Stephen didn’t speak a single word, but his lips brushed against my cheek before he released me from his hold and walked around to pull my chair out. Like a true gentleman.

If he was trying to make the night perfect, he was succeeding marvelously.

Maybe he’ll let me sleep with him tonight.

We sat in unison, and I made an attempt at fixating on his eyes—those comfortable brown eyes—but no matter how hard I tried, he never seemed to meet my gaze. He just stared at the flickering candle in the center of the table with an expression that might’ve suggested someone had just kicked the bucket.

He’s just nervous. My poor baby.

My arm stretched across the table to take one of his hands, freeing him from his cuticle picking. I admired his attempt to look his absolute best, taking note of his freshly cut hair and clean-shaven face. I have to admit, I preferred him with a little scruff; the baby-smooth look made him look a little too childish for my liking. I like my man to look manly. Not lumberjack-manly, per se, but I would have gladly taken Paul Bunyan over the boyish look sitting across from me.

I’m going to instate a rule that he’s not permitted to shave once we’re married.

Stephen’s eyes continued their staring contest with the dancing flame. He didn’t look up at me until I spoke his name, and when he did, I smiled the most genuine smile I think I’ve ever smiled in my life. But he didn’t smile back. He just went back to looking at that damn candle.

Taken aback, I let my face fall and I dropped the hand I was holding, giving him silent permission to continue tearing his cuticles apart, except his thumb flew to his mouth to resume the even more disgusting chewing.

The waiter approached, asking if we were ready to order, and before I could shoo him away for a moment so that I could weasel my way into Stephen’s brain, that’s when Stephen finally spoke. He requested wine, my favorite red, and as soon as the waiter turned to retrieve the bottle, his fingers were back in his mouth.

“Stephen, you’re drawing blood.” I pinned my lips between my teeth as my excitement faded into impatient agitation.

“Oh.” His hands clenched into fists as he brought them down to the table, willing himself to not gnaw the skin right off his bones.

I couldn’t stand it anymore. “Stevie, what’s going on?”

There was a long, dangerously painful silence. At the sight of his knuckles turning white, trembling slightly with the tightness of his grip, I can honestly say I have never been that worried in my entire life. In all of our five years of being a couple, I had never seen him act that way and it scared the absolute hell out of me.

The waiter brought over the bottle, hastily filling our glasses before leaving the bottle in the center of the table, and promptly walking away—a skilled master at reading the room. I grabbed my glass, and just as I was about to bring it to my lips, I noticed Stephen’s trembling bottom lip and the big fat tear rolling down his annoyingly smooth cheek. His hands—bleeding cuticles and all—shot across the table, gripping my free hand and squeezing tight. I had to put my glass down, making the assumption that I didn’t need it after all, and with both hands, I squeezed back.

“Oh, Stevie.” I stroked the palms of his hands with my thumbs, allowing myself to smile just a bit. “I love you so much, you know that?” Of course he knew that, and as he nodded, a few more tears slid down and onto the table. “It’s crazy how many memories we have here, right? Remember our first date? You brought me here, and—oh God, remember you ordered the most expensive wine on the menu because you wanted to impress me but you had no idea it was five-hundred dollars, so you had to put the whole dinner on credit? You were so broke back then. It took you months to pay off one freakin’ date.”

I smiled warmly at the memory, reminiscing momentarily on how far he had come in such a relatively short period of time. He had only been with his graphic design company for a few years when we had met. It had just barely taken off, but after five years of a lot of work and an equal amount of luck, the list of celebrity clientele had grown significantly and so had his paycheck. It was more than I could say for my own growth at Teen Queen, after working as their advice columnist for nearly ten years, but it was going places. I could just feel it. Together, we were well on our way to being considered one of those power couples. I just needed to catch up a bit on my end.

Stephen’s gentle crying had built up to a steady blubber, and okay, yeah, he was starting to embarrass me a little bit. I mean, it was sweet that he could be that sensitive, but the guests inside were starting to look at the sobbing man in the nice suit …

“Stevie, please stop crying, baby. I know you’re nervous, and that’s okay, but—”

“Wait, you knew?” Stephen’s watery eyes widened and he finally released my hands to wipe the tears from his face. A sob wracked through his body, and I hoped it was the last one.

Finally, able to gaze lovingly into his eyes, I said, “Of course, sweetie. I’d have to be a complete idiot to not realize what’s going on here.”

His tears were drying, thank God, but I couldn’t detect even the slightest hint of a smile. “Holly, I’ve been wanting to do this for so long. I just … I didn’t know how to even bring it up. I’ve been such an asshole …” His voice trailed off as his eyes dropped to that damn candle again. I was ready to blow the freakin’ thing out.

“Well, that’s a little harsh,” I muttered. I mean, he certainly dragged his feet, but I’m not sure I’d call him an asshole for it. He shook his head in response, staring off beyond me. I released his hands and took a gulp from my wine. After downing half of the glass, assuming I was going to need it, I reached over the ever-appealing candle and stroked Stephen’s smooth cheek. “Honey, don’t beat yourself up for taking so long, okay? Sometimes these things take time.”

He swallowed hard and cleared his throat. “I really appreciate how understanding you’re being about this, Holly. I …” His eyes flitted over my face for a few brief seconds. What was he looking for? I casually picked at my teeth with a fingernail, just in case. “I just don’t know how you could possibly know. I thought I had hidden it pretty well.”

I laughed, because let’s be honest, he had. I hadn’t the slightest clue there was any possibility he was going to propose to me until earlier that day when my delusional mind forced those pieces together.

“I just don’t understand one thing.” Stephen downed his glass in two swift gulps. The wince reminded me that he was never much of a wine drinker. “Why haven’t you said anything? Hell, why aren’t you mad? You—You should be mad.”

I gawked at him with a laughing smile pulling at my lips. “Stevie, why would I be mad? I mean, I’ve wanted you to propose for years. You know that. And yeah, maybe it’s taken way longer than I wanted it to, but—”

With his eyes widening to the size of golf balls, Stephen held up a hand to stop me from continuing any further. Once my voice had trailed off, he covered his face and began a mantra. “Oh God, oh God, oh God.” Over and over again.

“Holly, I’m not proposing to you.” His voice was so flat, so matter-of-fact, and if I had known better, I could have sworn my heart had dropped right out of my body and onto the floor. His face remained expressionless and he was facing me, but he wasn’t really looking at me. I’m not sure he even saw me there. I guess he didn’t want to really see me when delivering the news he was about to drop down on top of my damn head.

And that’s when I understood his grim demeanor.

This wasn’t a beginning. It was a funeral.

I sunk into my chair again, finally removing the blanket that had been covering my eyes. Stephen took the bottle of wine from my hands and filled my glass like a good boy before continuing with his eulogy. Yet, there was no amount of wine that could have numbed me against the bomb that was about to hit.

Stephen scooted his chair around the table, sitting directly next to me, and I felt his hand gently touch my knee. He hadn’t even broken my heart yet, and his touch felt wrong. Poisonous, even. “Holly, I love you so goddamn much, and I never want you to forget that. I will always love you and no matter what happens here tonight, you will always be my best friend.”

Best friend.

“But?” I whispered through the tears that had already begun to fall.

 

***

 

And you know, the mind is a really funny thing. It has this way of protecting itself from horrifically traumatizing and upsetting experiences. It tries so hard to make us forget the moments that hurt us, and you know what? That moment in which Stephen broke my heart is one big blur.

Of course, that may or may not be due to the two very expensive bottles of wine I drank mostly by myself. 

I can tell you there were tears—many, many tears. I think there was some yelling. I mean, it’s pretty safe to assume there was, but I couldn’t begin to tell you what was said. There might have been a few breadsticks thrown. There could have been a few sympathetic diners that came rushing to my aid when I threatened to impale myself on a sugar spoon (or so I’ve been told).

But really, I can’t be too sure about the course of events that night. There was only one thing I was absolutely certain of.

Stephen was gay, and he was in love with somebody else.