Page 88 of One Happy Summer

“Hi,” I say, now feeling slightly nervous that we might not be on the same wavelength. I grab her by the hand, giving it a little squeeze.

“So,” she says, looking around at my setup. “What’s all this for?” She gives me a broad smile.

“Well, I thought we could sleep under the stars again,” I say. “With no paparazzi this time.”

“Are you sure?”

I shrug. “I’m never sure about that.”

“It comes with the job,” she says.

We haven’t seen much of the paps around here, not for a while. But you never know.

“So, you have me here, on the beach,” she says, the smile on her face morphing into something more coy. “What do you plan to do next?”

I grin, any nervous feelings I had dissipating.

“I don’t know,” I say, pulling her toward me, snaking an arm around her waist. “I figured we’d sleep on the beach, maybe look at the stars.”

“And?”

“And . . . that’s it.”

“Briggs,” she chides.

“Okay, fine. I did have something else in mind.”

I pull away from her, taking a step back and giving myself enough room for what I’m about to do.

“Are you ready?” I ask her.

“I am,” she nervously replies.

“Should we look at the stars first?”

“Briggs Gatsby Dalton.”

“Okay, fine,” I tell her, and then push my glasses up my nose. Time to be serious.

Slowly, I get down on one knee, still holding her hand. “Presley,” I start. “I think I fell for you that first day when I dumped iced coffee all over you.”

She lets out a laugh, tears brimming in her eyes.

“And I’m pretty sure I knew I was falling in love with you after you jumped into my arms in the ocean when you were scared by some seaweed.”

“It was a fish,” she interjects.

“Shhh,” I say, tugging on her hand. “I’m trying to propose here.”

“Oh right,” she says. “Carry on.”

“I love your determination, your unwavering drive, and your tenacity in the face of challenges. I love your humor and the sound of your laughter. I love how you care for others, how you make me feel valued and appreciated. I want to be worthy to be by your side, and promise to work every day to be so.”

She’s crying now, and I can’t help but feel choked up myself. I reach into my pocket and pull out the black velvet box that I’ve been holding on to for four-and-a-half months now.

“So, Presley Renee Shermerhorn,” I say, opening the box and holding it out toward her. “Will you marry me?”

She doesn’t look down at the ring, but keeps her eyes on me instead.

---