Deep Brew C is dark and chilly this late at night. Despite the restaurant's generous space, it feels intimate, especially when Conn closes the door soundly behind us. A single lamp burns beside the cash register, along with some subdued track lighting highlighting some new decorative additions to the place: Hannah's paintings. When Conn found out she'd been painting dreamy watercolors of Abbott's Bay landmarks, he invited her to display them at DBC. It turns out the restaurant is the perfect gallery space for them. She's sold quite a few to the natives, and she'll definitely sell even more when the tourists return.
Conn also added Hannah's boyfriend to the DBC family. A regular bromance has sprung up between Conn and Marty based on their common interests of compost, heirloom vegetables, and free-range chickens, so when Hannah and Marty decided to stay in town, Conn happily gave him a part-time job. It's been working out fabulously—Marty's a natural, and he and Conn are of the same mind regarding the mission of the place.
"Sit down. I'll be back in a minute."
Conn disappears into the back hallway, and I sit at the bar. When he comes back, he says nothing, just slips behind the bar and falls into his usual rhythm, setting cups in saucers, leaning down to get the milk jug out of the mini fridge under the counter, grinding the beans. I don't think I'll ever get tired of watching him work.
He makes me a cappuccino then goes back into the fridge, fussing with something behind his back so I can't see. I sip my coffee and wait. In a moment or two he turns around with a small plate in his hand, the other shielding the flicker of a candle flame from random drafts. It's a cupcake. Chocolate cake, white frosting, with curlicue chocolate shavings.
"Happy birthday."
"That's two weeks from now," I chide him, trying to hide my smile. I fail.
"I was planning on waiting, but suddenly I don't feel like it."
"I'm not going to argue when there's a cupcake involved."
He slips a rectangular, flat gift-wrapped box onto the bar next to it. "And a present."
"Well, now you're talking." I tear off the wrapping. The box contains a plain key, one I recognize, and I'm puzzled.
"I already know where to find a key to your place."
"This is the one I hid outside. I'm not leaving it out for anyone to let themselves in anymore. It's now yours. Plus, it's symbolic: I'm taking the house off the market for a while."
I'm more than a little surprised. "Why?" It's true he hasn't had any offers yet, but it hasn't been on the market that long. "It'll sell. Let it sit for a while longer—"
"Hang on. I'm taking it off the market for now so you can have free rein with it. Go ahead—renovate it the way you've always wanted. I mean top to bottom, not just spruce it up. You were right," he shrugs. "It's too tired looking, and nobody wants to take on that challenge. So do your thing. Then we'll turn it back over to Laura to sell."
"Wait a minute. Back up. When you asked me to list it—"
"And you refused—"
"Can't guilt me."
"You thought I needed the money because DBC was in trouble. It wasn't—which you would have found out if you'd just asked me—"
"Yeah, yeah. So why are you selling it?"
"Well, let me tell you a little story." With a sigh, he rounds the bar and sits on the stool beside me. "But blow out your candle and make a wish first, before you have a puddle of wax in the middle of your frosting."
I do as he suggests, sneaking a finger full of frosting as I turn back to Conn. "Okay, tell me a story."
"When I asked you to list the house last spring, I had decided to sell because I was getting kind of…restless."
"You were bored with Abbott's Bay?" Unthinkable. "You told me you'd never leave here."
"I wanted to stay, but I didn't think I could anymore. I…couldn't take being around you."
I'm horrified. "Did I annoy you that much? You told me it was an act, a smokescreen."
"It was. I figured if I stayed annoyed, I wouldn't act like an idiot around you. There I was, crushing on you so hard, while you looked right through me."
God, that was what Maude said when she asked me for help—she accused me of never noticing other people around me. And it may have been true. But never with Conn. I take his hands in mine and say earnestly, "I always saw you. Always."
"But not the way I wanted you to. You didn't feel the same way."
I'm so stunned I don't know what to do. So I shove his shoulder. "Why didn't you ask me out, you doofus? You could have convinced me. Easily."
He grins. "Sure, I know that now."
"So you were going to sell everything you owned and leave?"
"I thought maybe I could get you out of my head if I didn't see you every day."
"Thank goodness you stuck around." I give him a long, reassuring kiss. "So why did you end up listing it with Laura anyway? God, when I saw that For Sale sign, I thought you were going to dump me and move to Provincetown."
"What? Never!" Conn takes a breath and says in a rush, "I still want to sell it because you hate it. I want you to be happy. I figured I'd sell the ugly house so you and I can have a fresh start…in a house you like."
You and I? Conn is asking me to move in with him? I lean forward and interlace my fingers at the back of his neck. "No." Then, before Conn can get worried, I add quickly, "You love the house. And I…like it. We should live in it."
"Really?"
"If you really meant it when you said I could renovate it."
"Oh, I meant it."
He looks so happy I can't resist kissing him again. "There's just one small problem."
"What's that?"
"Us living in sin. Your mother's head would explode."
"Hm. You're right. We can't have that."
Well, damn. I don't expect him to backpedal so quickly.
I'm scrambling to come up with a way to invoke a no-backsies rule when he says evenly, "Maybe we should get married then."
A buzz starts in the back of my head and my brain switches off. My breathing grows shallow, and I vaguely wonder if I'm hyperventilating. Especially when Conn brings out a ring. The man. Has. A ring. A gorgeous one. I look from the diamond to his anxious but hopeful handsome face to the diamond to Conn to the cupcake (don't judge—I said my brain has switched off) and back to Conn.
"Wh-where did you get this?" I breathe, awed.
"Oh, I've had it for a while. Tonight…it seemed like the right time."
A while? How long is a while? "So you didn't…because…the other day, when you found out Jack asked me to the ball…"
He laughs softly. "No, I didn't rush out and buy a ring out of jealousy. In fact, if you really want to try to get Jack away from Sasha, just say the word…"
"And what? You'd support me?"
"Well, no. I'd question your sanity, to be honest."
"So would I." My eyes are drawn to the ring again. "And you're serious?"
"Completely."
"I mean…me?"
He puts on an exaggerated puzzled expression and glances around the empty restaurant, pointedly indicating he hasn't confused me with anyone else. It's amazing how he can still get a laugh out of me even when I'm a stunned wreck.
Then he grows serious, saying earnestly, "Melanie, I love you. I've loved you for a long time, in so many ways over the years I don't even know exactly when I fell in love with you, but I did. Completely. Wholeheartedly. And permanently. Do you need convincing? Because I've got ammo for that. We've known each other forever. You know me better than anyone in the world."
"And you know me better than anyone in the world. That's the problem."
"How is it a problem?"
My insides surge as I brace myself to reveal my deepest fear. "A while back, you said I was perfect. We both know I'm not."
"M, come on."
"I'm a spoiled brat."
"You're not."
I just raise an eyebrow at him.
"You grew out of it," he amends.
"I waged a reign of terror."
"You grew out of that too. I'm not so sure Taylor did, but…"
God, he's got me laughing again. But I still need to get this out. "And the whole TV thing…you accused me of doing it because it was a boost to my ego, but that wasn't the reason. I wanted to be…" I hesitate, because saying it out loud might make it seem as ludicrous as I suspect it is.
"What?"
"Worthy of you."
"What in the world are you talking about?"
"You and Jack and Sasha all have your 'big things' that you do, the things that make you special. Being on TV gave me a chance to…I don't know…be somebody, get to that level."
"Are you kidding? You already are somebody. You're Melanie Abbott, totally unique and irreplaceable. Empress of Abbott's Bay. Own it. There's nothing better."
"Be serious."
"Look, whatever you thought you were trying to achieve, that level you were trying to reach…it's not real. There is no next level. And you're definitely not beneath Jack or Sasha. I mean, look at them. All the money in the world can't fix that hot mess."
"You're making it really hard to be serious right now."
"Do you want to go back to Triple N and try again? Be the next Trudy Helmet-Head?"
"No," I say emphatically. "Lanie was a horrible person, and I'm glad she's dead. Good riddance."
"So you don't regret quitting? You could have been famous."
"Famous for all the wrong reasons. No, no regrets. Besides, I can't go back now. You punched my boss."
Conn laughs then takes my hand. Softly and seriously, he says, "M, you have nothing to worry about. You think I don't know you're not perfect? I've seen you at your worst for years."
"Hey!"
"And at your best. Believe me—your best far outweighs your worst." I'm still dubious, and my expression must show it, because he adds, "Of course you're not perfect. Nobody is. When I said you were perfect, I meant perfect for me. I love you, Melanie Abbott. You say you love me—do you mean it?"
"I do. I love you with all my heart."
"Okay then. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. If you'll have me." I'm back to being speechless. This is really happening. I must be quiet longer than I think, because Conn asks worriedly, "Melanie? Are you freaking out?"
Yes. Yes, I am freaking out. But not for the reason he thinks. I'm observing our entire lives collapsing in on our present reality. My head is flooded with memories of Conn and me, at all stages of our lives together—when we were kids, playing on the beach…okay, he was playing football and I was running up and down the sidelines, in awe of him…when I was a teenager and almost shy around the cocky collegiate who seemed so much more mature than I was, Conn at his wedding, our close friendship over the past several years. I've known and loved a dozen different versions of Conn, and now they've all converged into the wonderful man in front of me. The one who's waiting for my answer.
As if there's ever been more than one option.
"Yes," I whisper.
"You are freaking out?"
"No! I mean yes, I'll marry you."
"You will?"
His bewildered squeak makes me laugh even as I start crying—happy tears. "Don't sound so shocked, will you please? Yes. I'll marry you." My voice is shaky, but my decision isn't. Not at all.
Finally his face lights up, and he grabs me, holds me tight, kisses me over and over. "I promise," he whispers into my hair, "I will do everything I can to make you happy for the rest of your life."
"You've got a pretty good head start already." As he rests his forehead against mine and brushes my tears away with his thumb, I murmur, "Melanie Garvey," for the first time. Well, the first time out loud, anyway. "That'll work."
"Oh, no. You can't change your name."
"Why not?"
"Because you're Melanie Abbott first, last, and always. Don't ever change."