Didn’t See That Coming — A Short Story

A dramatic proposal deserves a dramatic solution. Thank you, Gam-Gam…

RDNE Stock project, Pexels

Warnings: being in front of a crowd, vomit, poison, a firearm, a chubby child who talks too loud, and an absurdly arrogant man

“Bet you didn’t see this coming, did you?”

Bruno Mars’ “Marry You” blares from unseen speakers. Flash mob dancers swirl around us. Crowds of people stop. Stare. Watch. More gathering with every passing second because of course they do. This is Times Square, for chrissakes.

A thousand stares crush me like a boa constrictor, squeezing tighter with every second. My head swirls. I fight to keep a surprised smile on my face, because that’s how I should react, right?

“I know, I know,” Bentley says with unconcealed pride. “You’re surprised. You had no idea this was coming, did you?” His gaze isn’t what I imagined when I pictured him on one knee. And this giant diamond ring sneering up at me is leagues away from the dainty design I’d dreamed of.

Nothing about this is what I wanted. But I can’t say that. Not here. Not now.

Black creeps in at the edges of my vision. Bitterness gathers at the back of my throat. A tiny burp escapes me. Caviar, lobster, wine, and the decadent chocolate dessert we’d had for dinner. All spinning inside me like my Ninja blender. The liquids swirling higher and higher inside me with every churn of the blade.

God no, please. If you’re there, and if you ever loved me, please, DO NOT DO THIS TO ME.

I put my gloved fingers firmly against my lips, clamping the top on my spinning dinner.

Bruno sang on, “‘Cause it’s a beautiful night, we’re looking for something dumb to do. Hey, baby, I think I wanna marry you…”

God, this song is fifteen years old. From my high school days. I don’t even like this song, why did Bentley pick it? I want to find Bruno Mars and shove a mic down his throat.

It’s that word “think.” “I think I wanna marry you.” That’s where Bentley’s at. Where I’m at. Not… this.

“Well?” Bentley pulls my thoughts back with a faint edge. But he’s smiling. Maybe I misread his tone. He pushes the blue velvet ring box closer to me. The giant diamond, like a single peering eye. Judging me. The expectancy in his face tells me there’s only one right answer here. But I can’t say it.

“Say yes!” Cheers from the crowd pepper the noise of the music as it starts crescendoing towards the end of the song, “I think I wanna marry you.”

Think.

I think.

But I don’t know.

“Come on!” Someone from the crowd shouts.

“Don’t leave him hanging!” says another.

The song reaches its final chords, the final words, “I think I wanna marry you.”

I know what I should say.

But I don’t think I can say it.

I open my mouth.

The blender top blows. Acid spews from my mouth. Chunks of caviar and lobster and cake mixed with wine and God knows what else sprays in my vision. The force of it rocks me, and I put my hands on my knees, just waiting for it to end.

Red-hot tears fog my vision. I wonder where the nearest manhole is. I can fling myself into the deepest darkest shit river in the city and hide forever. My stomach cramps, my mouth burns, my arms and legs tingle with the sudden relief. But only for a split second.

Bentley is shouting something. Gagging. Screaming. My chewed-up dinner coats his face, his jacket, dripping from the ring box, which is now shut. His arms are out like an orangutan, trying to flick and wipe the vomit off. My vomit.

Oh God.

Onlookers have their phones out — are they filming this? Oh God, no. I’m going to end up on TikTok. Thousands — no, millions — of views, likes, shares. I’m going to be like Hawk Tuah girl, except I’ll be the person who puked all over her fiance and his grand gesture.

Oh God.

Run.

I hurtle through the startled crowd. My ankles scream with every step in these damn stilettos. I have to hide. To disappear. To change my name. To move to another country. To go into witness protection. Something!

Wait.

Where am I going?

I can’t go back to the hotel, Bentley might go there. I can’t see him now. I can’t see him ever again, probably. I’ll be his “ex who threw up on him in Times Square while he proposed.” A sudden heaviness slams into me. Bentley. Are we done now? After six years, is this what it’s come to?

A horn blares. Tires squeal. My hands slam down on a car hood. The driver leans out the window, “Hey bitch, get the fuck outta the way!” It shakes me from my thoughts.

Bathroom. I have to find a bathroom.

A flash sparks at the side of my vision.

I look. Like a golden haven, is M&M World. Red and green and blue and yellow M&M characters waving me over, like angels ushering me toward salvation.

That’s it!

I stumble towards it. What’s wrong with my shoe? I look down to see that my left stiletto heel is gone, completely snapped off. Good. Bentley liked these shoes, not me. I limp towards my beacon of hope: a broken runner at the end of a disastrous marathon.

The warm smell of chocolate fills my lungs as I step inside. M&M’s clatter out of plastic bins. Children laugh and scream, while adults browse, all in a sort of childlike excitement. Even the burn of my reappearing dinner seems to bite less now. For the first moment tonight, I feel safe.

“Ew, you stink!”

I look down to see a chubby child in a barely-fitting “I heart NY” shirt. A comically accurate propeller hat is perched on his head, making wild reddish-brown curls stick out the sides. Chocolate — or what I hope is chocolate — all over his huge lips and plump hands.

“Did you upchuck all over yourself?” he says, far too loudly. “When my Gam-Gam took me to look at the Statue of Liberty, I almost barfed over the edge of the boat, but I just swallowed it instead. You shoulda tried that.”

The little idiot’s pronouncement cues another stomach churn. I have got to find the restroom. If I don’t hide now I might simply perish.

The chubby child calls after me, but I toss the bird over my shoulder and clop towards the back of the store. Then like a guiding light, I see a neon sign that reads “Restrooms.”

Halle-fucking-lujah.

Relief floods me as I beeline towards it, my calf starting to ache from the missing heel. I just have to get there, just have to clean myself up, to hide, to figure out my next move. I turn the corner into the hallway where the restrooms are tucked.

All at once, my heart deflates.

“Out of Order,” a sign reads.

Out of Order.

The words crush through me. Out of Order. That’s me. I’m out of order. I have a great man, who’s willing to commit to me for life. He has kindness, money, and job security. Yeah, he has faults, but don’t we all? What kind of woman would say no to a man like that? Much less, barf all over him in Times Square? Jitteriness washes over me and I steady myself against the fire engine red-painted wall.

Out of Order.

What is my problem?

He went above and beyond to get me a bigger ring than I’d asked for. What girl wouldn’t want that?

He went out of his way to create a grand gesture of a proposal in the iconic New York Times Square, instead of opting for the intimate proposal I’d suggested. How could I complain about that?

Why couldn’t I just say yes?

How could I still not feel sure about us after six years?

Because.

I’m “Out of Order”.

I lean against the wall and slide to the floor. The vomit on my trench coat crackles. Defeat and uncertainty echoes through me. I can’t go anywhere now. Probably ever again. I’ll sit here until I die. That’s a far nicer fate than facing Bently again.

“Miss?” a sweet voice bounces off the tile hallway. I turn to see an older woman, her hair in a bun on top of her head, large glasses that look too big for her face, and an “I heart NY” T-shirt. And behind her modest skirt is the chubby child I’d run into on my way in.

“I brought my Gam-Gam!” he squeals, his mouth bulging with half-eaten candy.

Oh geez, what did I do? I knew I shouldn’t have flipped off an unaccompanied minor. That was stupid. Now I’m going to get scolded and arrested and-

I push myself to sit up. “He started it-”

“That doesn’t surprise me at all,” she says, bold and yet kind, stepping towards me. “Sit, sit, it’s fine,” she says.

I don’t understand, but I stay seated anyway. With a great groan, she settles herself on the ground next to me. The chubby child sits next to her. And now all three of us are just sitting on the floor outside the broken bathrooms at M&M World, leaning against the wall. And me, covered in vomit with a broken heel.

“Percy said you might need some help,” she says in a sweet southern drawl. “I’m Thelma. Thelma Goodwiser.”

“Katie,” I say, feeling the prickle of tears in my eyes. Tears? That’s ridiculous. I sniffle, swallow, and set my jaw.

“Katie, what happened tonight?”

I clench my teeth, all the emotions I’ve been shoving deep down within me slowly start to awaken.

“I know that look,” she says, then turns to Percy. “Hon, run along with your sister now, I’ll come find you when we’re done.”

“Okay,” Percy shrugs. He stands then reaches into his pocket, the propeller on his hat spinning with the motion. “Chocolate tastes better than upchuck.” I look down at his grubby paws. They’re outstretched to me, a candy offering.

Once the mini M&M tube is in my hand, he sprints back out to the rest of the store. The tube is warm from being in his pocket, and I don’t really feel like chocolate right now, but he’s right. It will probably help get this vomit taste out of my mouth. Either that, or mix with the lobster and caviar and stomach acid to produce a far worse taste. I take my chances and pop open the tube to pour some of the mini M&Ms in my mouth.

“I know a woman with man problems when I see one,” Thelma scoots closer to me and reaches into her small handbag. “Have you ever used one of these?” I stop mid-chew to look in her lap.

I freeze.

It’s a gun.

Thelma rests a firm hand on my shoulder. “Stop it now, it’s fine. Safety’s on n’ everything. Got experience?”

I shake my head, and I swallow my half-eaten mini M&Ms. “No?”

“It’s unregistered and the serial number’s been scratched off. Just make sure you’re wearing gloves when you handle it, okay? You can just throw it in the dumpster when you’re done. But do it a few miles away. Quick as you can after, okay?”

My brain stalls. Is she really saying what I think she’s saying? To kill my boyfriend-almost-fiance? My mouth goes dry as she looks over me again.

“Alright, seems like that’s not your thing,” the gun disappears as Thelma digs through her handbag again. Mints, lipstick, a compact mirror, reading glasses, everything a Gam-Gam would have in her handbag. After a moment, she pulls out a travel-size bottle of Tylenol and holds it tight between us. “You ever heard of Aqua Tofana?”

I shake my head.

“Well, this is kind of like that. Undetectable,” She says. “Break the capsules into his coffee or beer or whatever he drinks. There are about ten capsules in here. Just start with one on the first day, two on the second day, three on the third day, and so on til you run out. It’ll mimic the signs of a bad flu and, well…” Thelma shrugs as if discussing a disappointing recipe turnout.

I stare at the Tylenol bottle. How could something so normal hold something so deadly?

I stare at Thelma. How could someone so grandmotherly be so lethal?

How could this all feel so… normal?

Could this really be a way to solve my problems?

Thelma starts shuffling through her purse again. “There are other options if you’re-”

“I’ll take it,” I blurt out. Through thick purple-framed glasses, her gaze tells me I’ve joined an elite group of women, I’ve made a decision to end my troubles.

She passes me the tiny Tylenol bottle then groans as she gets back up, slinging her purse over her shoulder. “I wish you all the best, dear,” she says in that sweet southern drawl, before heading back into the main part of the store, kitten heels clacking as she goes.

The pills inside click as I turn the bottle over in my hand. The red design, the boxes of directions and warnings. I pop open the lid, and just as promised, multiple small capsules filled with clear liquid. Then the gravity of it smacks me all at once.

Would I really rather murder my almost-fiance than simply tell him what I want?

My stomach starts to churn threateningly, heat rising to my cheeks. I put the cap back on the bottle and stare at the tile. How has it gotten here? Six years together… Is my lack of certainty his fault? Or is it because I’m so terrified of having a conversation that will make him run away?

This is silly. Would I really rather kill my fiance than have a conversation with him?

The absurdity slaps me in the face.

“Wait! I changed my-”

But as I race out and look around the store, I don’t see Thelma or Percy.

Laughter erupts from me. My entire body shakes at the force of it. Tears squeeze from my eyes. It feels good to have this sort of release. The chaos of the night, the insanity of this moment, it all smacks me over the head. The failed proposal, the vomit, the M&M World visit, that grandma and her schemes, and the Tylenol bottle of death clutched in my hand.

I slip the bottle into my coat pocket and make my way back to Bentley’s and my hotel room. I know what my decision is.

Luckily, he’s there. Like I thought he would be.

I smile at him. “Bet you didn’t see that coming, did you?”

This story was originally published on my Medium.