Engaged

Whisky and I had been together for less than a year when, one night, one of our friends (let’s call her Lisa) said this: “You two are perfect for each other. You should totally get engaged.”

I laughed and looked at him… but he wasn’t laughing. “We should, you know,” he said.

We were all drunk already, but I hadn’t realised he was that drunk. I laughed so hard that I snorted, and he didn’t look impressed at that. “Are you on drugs?” I asked him, turning to Lisa and saying, “Stop being a dick.”

“I’m serious!” she protested. “You two should get married. You love each other, right?”

I waved her away and focused on my drink. Whisky wouldn’t let the idea go so easily, though. He must’ve said something akin to, “Why not, though?” five or six times before I finally gave in and answered his question.

“Because we’re young, we haven’t been together that long, and it’s insane. That’s why!” I laughed again, but the whole conversation was starting to piss me off. Why did Lisa even say that?!

For about two hours the topic was dropped. It might even have been longer than that. We drank, danced, kissed, and occasionally tactically vomited. Then, as Lisa was at the bar, buying the next round, Whisky leaned closer to me and whispered, “I want to marry you.”

That was the point at which I started to take him seriously. He wasn’t that drunk, which meant that he wasn’t blind-drunkenly asking me to marry him. I wasn’t that drunk, either… so, if I agreed, that wouldn’t be a blind-drunkenly made decision, either.

I sighed. “Okay, fine, let’s talk about it.”

“I think you should marry me,” he stated. “That’s it. That’s all I have to say about it.”

My face cracked into a smile I couldn’t control. His words made my heart flutter, which is how I knew, I wanted him to mean it. There was a very big part of me that was now seriously thinking about what married life would look like with him. I didn’t have the greatest expanse of relationship experience, and I had absolutely none when it came to all things military… but the thought of laughing with, kissing, and fucking him in the kitchen for the rest of my life seemed really appealing.

“Ask me properly,” I said, crossing my arms in a half-faux sulk.

“Will you marry me?”

“No.” I shook my head. “Down on one knee, go on.”

He laughed. “Not a chance.”

That should probably have been my first (or perhaps even my millionth) sign to say no, but I didn’t. Little realisations kept popping into my head like little raindrops as I looked into his eyes.

Drop. I might get to travel as his wife.

Drip. I could get out of my hometown, which I had been desperate to do.

Drop. I could go on a really awesome new adventure, and I loved those. (Still do.)

Drip. He wants to marry me.

The more I thought about it, the more the pros seem to outweigh the cons. I mean, realistically, what was the worst that could happen if I said yes? We’d come to our senses in the morning? Break up during our engagement? I didn’t want those outcomes, obviously, but I did want him. More than anything. More than all the shoes in the world.

“Ask me again,” I said, putting down my drink and giving him my full attention.

“Will you marry me?”

“Yes.”

At the exact time I said yes, Lisa returned to the table with new drinks. “OH MY GOD DID YOU DO IT?”

Whisky nodded and grinned, I took a very large gulp of my drink, and the entire bar erupted into claps and cheers. All I could think was, “Bestie’s gonna kill me when he learns about this.”

That should probably have been my millionth-and-one sign to run, but hey ho. I was engaged!

The next blog post in the dating timeline is this one: Number 29: The Prison Warden.