The Proposal

“I think about dying.”

“And what happens when you think about dying?”

I twiddle with the ring on my forefinger. “I wonder… I wonder if I’ll even be remembered.”

“You want to be remembered?”

Who doesn’t? “Yeah.” I nod. “I want… people to remember me.”

Thunder rumbles, and the lights in the diner flicker.

“And you think they won’t remember you?”

I let out a dry laugh and look down at the barely-eaten fries and untouched burger on my plate. He’d ordered the food and the black coffee, saying I had to eat something. I’d asked, “Can I at least buy the food myself?” and he’d said, taking his wallet out, “It’s nothing. I got it.” He’d sat across me, watching, waiting for me to eat, and so I’d forced myself to eat a few fries before losing the little appetite I’d had to begin with.

“I know it doesn’t make sense. Nothing I say makes sense anyway.” I look out the window at the pouring rain outside the diner and then back at him, at those piercing blue eyes.

“It makes sense.” He cradles a steaming cup of frothy coffee in his longfingered hands—probably absorbing its warmth. Fucking rain. I can’t even my feet, let alone wiggle my toes; they are frozen solid. It doesn’t help that the diner’s heater is broken. I’d asked the young waitress behind the counter to turn on the heater, and she’d said, without so much as looking at me, in a dismissive tone, that it was broken.

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting people to remember you when you are dead. I think there are people who will remember you,” he says.

“Yeah?”

He nods. “Your family will remember you. Your friends, too.”

Only Jonah would remember me. My family, however…. Well, that’s a whole other different story.

He looks at me pensively, like he wants to say something but doesn’t know exactly what to say or how to say it. I stare at his blue eyes. He is an extremely handsome man: he has the kind of face that would make people stop and stare—a beautiful, captivating face. Dark hair frames his well-sculptured face. Sharp blue eyes. And he has tattoos on his hands. He is beautiful.

I don’t know this handsome man, though, or his name. But what I do know about him is that he makes good money if the Louis Vuitton cufflinks and the Mercedes-Benz parked outside are anything to go by.

He opens his mouth, thinks, and then closes it again, deciding against whatever he was going to say. His gaze is on me, those piercing eyes of his studying my face, thinking, probably, about what would be the right thing to say to me. With his intense gaze on me, I can’t help but think, I probably look like I’ve been dragged to hell and back. I have dark circles under my eyes from lack of sleep and cracked, dry lips; my eyes probably look swollen and red from crying from when I’d been at that bridge— where he’d found me.

After a beat of silence, I say, “Anyway, I should go.” I stand up. “I can’t believe I just told a stranger my problems,” I say, more to myself than to him.

He looks at me and says, “You are leaving already?”

“Yeah, it looks like it won’t stop raining anytime soon.” I nod towards the window at the pummelling rain outside. “So, I better leave. Otherwise, I will be stuck here.”

“Okay,” he says, nods, and stands up too. Tall—he’s so tall. There’s a pause in which he stands there, so beautiful, so powerful. He has that look in his eyes as he stares at me as if he’s studying me again, like he can’t figure me out. It's like he wants to figure me out. It feels like he’s looking through my brown eyes into my soul. Then he says, “You are so…” He pauses as if thinking of a word to describe me. “You are so hard to read. It frustrates me.”

“It does?”

A nod. “I’m very good at reading people, but not you, apparently. I can’t seem to figure you out,” he says.

“Well, that makes both of us—I can’t seem to figure myself out too,” I say as I gather my things to leave the small diner.

The diner is vacant this time of the night—no customers except for the handsome stranger and me. My eyes stray over to the young waitress behind the counter, who is chewing gum obnoxiously with her eyes glued to the small TV on the wall, and then to the other waitress, who looks older, sitting on the bar stool, flipping through the pages of a magazine, a bored expression on her face.

“Don’t I deserve a reward?”

I turn to look at him and arch my brow. “A reward? For what?”

He takes a step forward, a little closer to me. “Yes, a reward; I saved your life, remember?”

“But I didn’t want my life saved.” That might be harsh, but it’s the truth.

I didn’t ask him to save my life.

He shouldn’t have.

He hums and nods. And then he says, “What about a reward for listening to you, then?”

I stare at him. “Well, what do you want? Money?” I say, and then realize that that was a stupid thing to ask because this man looks like he bathes in money.

“No.” He shakes his head. “I just want to know your name.”

I stare at him for a second too long, dumbfounded. “That’s what you want, my name?” He nods. 

“Fine,” I say with a sigh. “I guess I can do that. Nia. My name is Nia.”

“No last name, Nia?” He says my name like he’s testing it on his tongue.

“That’s all you get.”

“Okay.” He smiles—a perfect smile. “Nice to meet you, Nia.”

I chuckle. “Isn’t it a little too late for pleasantries?”

“You have a point.” He laughs. I like his laugh. It’s such a pleasant sound. I find myself smiling. “But I’m really glad I met you tonight, Nia.”

“Aren’t you going to tell me your name?” I ask, expectant.

He’s silent, seemingly considering it. Then he says, “Not tonight. But you’ll know soon.”

“Well, that doesn’t sound ominous at all.”

“You should go,” is all he says.

“Right.” I forgot I was leaving. “I should go.”

“Nia?” he says before I turn to leave. “I’ll remember you.”

I linger, backpack in hand, staring at him with burning eyes, tears threatening to spill down my cheeks.

“You should go home, Nia,” he says softly.

I try to keep my voice from wavering as I say to him, “Yeah, I should.”

I give him one last look before walking out of the diner. I run to my car, careful not to step into puddles and soak my sneakers. I climb inside and turn the heater on. I pull out my phone and scroll through it, hoping for…something. Anything. But nothing, other than a missed call from Jonah. Of course, there’s nothing. I don’t know what I was expecting. I bet my mom wouldn’t even notice if I were gone for a week, a month, even. My chest tightens, heavy with emotion. I scream, punching the steering wheel before collecting myself and driving home.