Bad at Love by Karina Halle
She gasps.
I open my fist and take the ring and I hold it out in front of her ring finger, choking back on tears. “Marina, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
She blinks, tears falling, stares. Then she says, “Don’t you mean bee-coming your wife?” She laughs at her own joke. “Yes. Yes, yes, yes!”
Joy.
This is joy.
My hands are trembling as I slip on the ring and then I’m getting to my feet and I’m holding her face in my hands and I’m kissing her and she’s kissing me and I couldn’t ever ask for anything more than this.
This.
My woman.
My person.
My future.
My everything.
Everyone else gets to their feet, clapping and cheering and then Scooby comes in and embraces the both of us and then Noah does the same and then everyone else comes over to the huddle and pretty soon Marina and I are enveloped in the middle of a rather suffocating group hug.
“Is this what it’s like to be in a murder ball?” I ask Marina, my mouth against hers. “Or is it cuddle death?”
She laughs. “I’m fine with either one.”
“What’s a murder ball?” Noah asks from somewhere in this ball of people.
“Don’t get her started!” Jane yells, muffled.
“You’re so lucky,” Marina whispers to me, pulling back as much as she’s able to, her nose brushing against mine. “You get to hear about this stuff for the rest of your life.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I tell her. Then pause. “You better bee-lieve it.”
Someone groans. Someone laughs.
My heart it sings.
Karina Halle, Bad at Love