“Thank you,” I whispered.
Owen stood beside me.
“For what?”
“For making your brother annoying enough to save my life.”
He laughed.
Then cried.
Three years after the wedding that wasn’t, Owen proposed.
Not in a restaurant.
Not at the venue.
Not under string lights.
In my apartment kitchen, while Meatball barked at thunder and I burned grilled cheese.
I turned around and he was on one knee.
I almost dropped the pan.
“No,” I said.
His face went white.
I quickly shouted, “I mean not while I’m holding flaming cheese.”
He looked at the pan.
“Oh.”
I put it down.
Smoke filled the kitchen.
Meatball barked louder.
Owen stayed on one knee, coughing.
“This is not how I pictured this.”
I opened a window.
“How did you picture it?”
“With less smoke.”
“Unrealistic.”
He laughed nervously.
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