Page 8 of Meet Me in Berlin

Eva and I had only been going out a year and living together for a month when she proposed at our housewarming party. And because Eva always needs an audience, she popped the question in front of the forty people spilling out from our kitchen into the tiny garden and live streamed it to her 100,000 Instagram followers. It was a mild May evening, and I had a nice buzz from hours of drinking. I was in the garden chatting with friends when Eva appeared in front of me, her olive skin flushed from the champagne.

‘Hello,’ she said, slipping her arms around my waist and kissing me.

I let our mouths linger before asking, ‘Having fun?’

‘Mmhmm.’ She swayed a little as she gazed up at me. ‘I really love you.’

I kissed her again. ‘Love you, too.’

‘We get on well living together, don’t you think?’

My mind quickly recalled the two barneys we’d had since we’d moved in, but it had mostly been good, so I said, ‘It’s only been a month, but yeah, we do.’

‘It feels right, though, doesn’t it?’ Eva loosened her grip on my waist and reached for my free hand.

‘You okay?’ I asked. ‘Are you drunk?’

‘A little bit…’ She glanced at her friend Leila and gave a quick nod. Leila held her phone up, directing it at us.

My eyes darted between them, suddenly very sober.

‘Casey, the year we spent together’ – Eva’s voice rose and a hush fell among our guests – ‘before moving in together was one of my best.’

I sought out Jaz and spotted her by the kitchen door, eyes wide, mouth hanging open. When she caught my eye, she mouthed, ‘What the fuck?’

Eva looked up at me, eyebrows raised expectantly.

I took a swig of lager before I replied. ‘Um…good. It’s been fun. I mean, it’s been a good year for me, too.’

She beamed. ‘I didn’t think we could get better, but waking up beside you every morning has made me love you more.’

The arguments, I wanted to say, what about the arguments?

Eva dropped to one knee and a collective gasp rippled around the garden while panic rippled through my body. ‘Marry me? I don’t have a ring because you’re not a ring person, but if you want one…’

My mouth opened and closed but no words emerged. The romantic garden decorations suddenly made sense – fairy lights, torch lanterns, glittery champagne flutes. I became aware of the piercing silence and Leila still pointing her phone at us. I helped Eva stand and whispered in her ear, ‘Is Leila recording this?’

‘I’m live streaming it,’ she whispered back.

I stared at her, hoping the shock wasn’t splashed all over my face. Her eyes flashed with panic, her cheeks grew red, and I crumbled. I forced a huge grin and said, ‘Of course I will.’

Eva squealed and threw her arms around me. The party erupted with cheers and whoops and the pop of champagne bottles. From the back door, Jaz winced at me, but who could say no in that situation? The following day, Eva was so caught up in the romance of it all that she swept me along with her, suggesting we hold the wedding reception at an art gallery – just for me – and I told myself that maybe it wasn’t all bad. We loved each other, so why not?

The days became weeks and weeks became months, and now here I am, getting married in seven weeks, a permanent knot in my gut and the thought of admitting that maybe, just maybe, I should’ve said no, makes my throat seize. Because, what do I say without destroying her? Sorry, Eva, I didn’t want to upset you on the night because I love you and getting married is important to you, but it’s not important to me, and I should’ve said no and I’m sorry I didn’t, but let’s call off the wedding and see if we can still have a relationship.

No, that won’t do. I shake my head, disappointed in myself, and jump up ready for my stop. I hop off the bus and head along Regent Street until I reach the side street that houses my gallery. My phone pings with a reply from Jaz.

It’s getting serious now mate. We need to debrief. Meet you Friday after work. Put on your dancing shoes.

Chapter 3

Holly, Melbourne

Idish up the last of the vegetables and carry the plates to the dining table. ‘Dinner’s ready,’ I shout.

‘Right,’ Tom shouts back from somewhere in the house.

I grind salt and pepper over my food and let a few seconds pass before yelling again. ‘Tom! It’s getting cold!’

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