Page 45 of The Proposal Problem

“Here, stroopwafel, get him that.”

“What is it?” Mysti asks.

“Fuck if I know. Just get it.”

Mysti sighs in resignation and we all sit in silent contemplation until the waiter arrives. After what we’ve uncovered so far, there’s no shortage of things to dwell on.

One of us is very likely pregnant, I’m almost certainly married, and my fiancé is on the news with some new wife of his own.Ex-fiancé. Whatever.

That’s not even taking into account my mystery guy, or the bear-skinned toddler currently drumming the table across from me.

It’s been an eventful twenty-four hours, that’s for sure.

When a polite man in an apron appears, we’ve all been a little too busy in our own heads to look at the menu. We end up ordering stroopwafels all around. Mostly because, it can’t be that bad.

At least it’s not pickled herring, which it turns out, people actually eat. Crazy fucking world, right?

“Okay,” Sammi says suddenly, leaning forward. “So we need another clue. We’ve gotta figure out where this little guy came from.”

For some reason I can’t explain, we all turn to Mysti. The panic in her eyes seems to double.

“I asked, okay? He doesn’t talk! He just sits there smiling at me and calling me mommy!”

“Well that’s kind of a clue,” Becky says. “I guess you look like his mommy.”

“Great. We’ll just keep walking until we find her then!” I laugh, now fully believing in pregnancy brain.

“Well fuck, Percy. I don’t know!”

“Does that costume have pockets?” Sammi asks.

Finally, something we can work with.

I look again to Mysti, who growls under her breath as she turns to the child.

“Got any pockets?” she asks, half in a sing-song.

“Mommy!” He replies, throwing a menu across the patio.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Mysti,” I laugh, “checkfor pockets.”

She flushes slightly.

“Oh, right.”

She gingerly pats his outfit with a laser-focused expression on her face like she’s a TSA agent and he might just have a bomb.

“No pockets.” She finally concludes.

Well, fuck. There goes that idea.

I laid my head against the table in frustration.

“What about a tag?” I hear Becky ask.

“A tag?” I reply incredulously.

“Yeah, when I was a kid, my mom used to write my name and address on my tag. In case I got lost or… whatever.”

---