Never Really Over (Bremmy 3)

Chapterish 20

| LA |

THE BIG Q

It's been two weeks since Memorial Day, two weeks since I decided I'm finally going to pull the trigger. I'm going to ask Cece to marry me.

None of the logistics are worked out. And I'm also not sure exactly when I'm going to do it yet. But it just feels right, like it's time.

I am sitting on the porch at her parents' boujee Pacific Palisades house, and I am five minutes away from asking for her father's permission.

It's always been the first step of a proposal in my mind – I guess second step if you consider already buying the ring. Presumptuous or hopeful? Maybe both.

It's the step I always assumed I'd only ever do once in my life, hope to only do once in my life. So as confident and as steadfast as I am in my decision, I cannot shake the image of Frank Rhodes from my mind.

I blame my 17-year-old self for thinking he'd be the one I'd ask this question to.

"Babe, your eggs Benny," Cece says laughing at me.

I realize I've been holding up a fork of drippy eggs, suspended in midair as my mind is suspended in thought.

"Shit," I curse under my breath. "I'm sorry."

"Oh, no fuss. It's just a tablecloth," Carole, her mother, answers, dismissing the eggy mess on the table.

Her father eyes me suspiciously but does not say anything. Damn. I wonder if he's on to me.

"Are you overthinking the launch again?" Cece asks. She squeezes her fingers on my traps in a small effort to release some tension.

If she only knew what I was overthinking right now...

"When is the big day again?" Her mother asks.

"Wednesday," I answer, zoning out on Cece's white platform sneakers.

"Three days!" Cece exclaims.

The four of us are enjoying a home-cooked brunch (compliments of the kitchen staff) on the Majors' backyard terrace.

Their house is colossal and quaint at the same time, with a sprawling lawn and stupid view of the Pacific. The back patio-terrace is too fancy for America. I remember feeling like a dusty old rag the first time I stepped foot on their property. I'm still a rag, but at least a clean one now.

The whole vibe is all very European –something I think every time I come over here.

It's not that they're beyond rich (but they are) or that every Sunday brunch here feels like a trip to an outdoor café in France (but it does). It's not even how much Cartier her mother wears or all the money I'm betting is in her father's Swiss bank account.

Maybe it's the neoclassical architecture, I don't know.

All I do know is sitting here, looking at Cece's Aperol Spritz, feeling the coastal breeze, it's like I am lost in Amalfi.

After our plates are cleared, Cece and her mom start talking about vacationing this summer, rambling off a list including St. Barts, Monte Carlo, and the Marshall Islands.

"Don't forget, we leave for New York in two weeks," Cece says.

"And we are booked most of July. What about August?" Carole asks.

"No, I am out for all of August. I have that lingerie campaign starting." Cece shakes her head.

"Oh, yes. For that Italian company," Carole nods, remembering.

"And then September..."

I follow her dad across the stone terrace to the grand French doors that lead to his library study, which always smells like leather and cigars.

I've always like Harold Majors. I think in some ways he reminded me of my dad, and in other ways of what my dad was not. They are similar, both self-made wealthy men with an air of pride that doesn't quite suffocate you, but doesn't quite not. A pleasant smother.

I stare at him now, salt and pepper hair and way too tan than a man his age should be (it must be their house in St. Barts), and take the cigar he's holding up for me.

"So, why don't you just ask me, Jay?" He looks at me knowingly.

"Ask you?" I repeat, feeling a lot more awkward than I ever thought I would.

"Don't be coy. You've got the same look on your face I had when I asked Carole's father. Nearly threw up too."

"Well, I plan to skip that part."

"I thank you for both of us," Harold smiles.

This is it. Like it it. The Holy Grail of questions.

"I'd like to ask Cece to marry me. And I'd like your permission to do so."

There. Maybe it sounded a lot more eloquent in my head, but it's not the worst.

"And you have it!" Harold claps his palm on my shoulder, something that makes me seem smaller and younger. "I've already thought of you as a son this past year. Couldn't be happier for you two to make it official."

"Thank you," I say lamely.

"Now, did you get a ring yet? Do you have a proposal plan? What about a special destination?" Harold fires off questions.

"I –Ring, yes. Part of an idea. Destination?" I ask.

"Maybe a trip? Could use our home in the French Caribbean," he suggests.

"I'll think about it. Still hammering out the final details," I admit. "This was first on my list."

I take a long drag of cigar and watch the smoke drift through the open doors to the terrace. It feels as though a weight has been lifted off my chest and now, I can finally enjoy what a glorious day it is.

"Shall we get back to our women? Don't want them to get suspicious," Harold grins.

We rejoin Cece and Carole on the patio, now discussing winter ski plans. I tense up the smallest fraction of a bit when I hear the Vail location name drop. They finally agree maybe it's time to revisit the Alps.

The entire afternoon is spent seeing things differently. Switch flipped. I see Cece and everything she does, except she's a sexy 50-year-old, then a sexy 70-year-old, and then can barely function but she's still my Cece.

The rest of my life is coming into view and it's one hell of a movie. Midnight-premiere worthy.

I don't panic about not having a proposal plan or exotic destination trip planned. Yes, she's a model with some hit singles and trending influencer at the moment, but Cece isn't like that. She doesn't require spectacle. She's just a girl. And I'm just a guy.

I low key want it to be simple, be us.