“That cost me a pretty penny,” Bryan says happily, “But it was worth it. I like spending money on you, Kelly.”
I tear my eyes away from the bling, staring at my clueless boyfriend. My jaw hangs open, my mind unable to form words. What the bloody hell am I even supposed to say?
“Try it on,” Bryan urges.
“I...What...” I stammer, looking around the restaurant to see if there are any hidden cameras about, or whether Ashton Kutcher is about to jump out of the woodwork to tell me I’ve been punk’d. But no dice. This is really happening.
“Come on, Kelly,” Bryan laughs, plucking up the ring and slipping it onto my finger, “This is the part where you get all weepy and call your girlfriends, and—”
“Jesus Christ, Bryan,” I gasp, my hand weighed down by the massive jewel, “This is absolutely insane.”
“Right?” he grins, “The perfect proposal moment. I’m pretty proud of how—”
“No, I mean certifiably insane,” I clarify, “Like not-in-your-right-mind, straight jacket and electroshock therapy insane.”
His winning smile falters ever so slightly. “Are you not...happy about this?”
“I’m...very confused,” I say, sliding the ring off of my finger once more, “For fuck’s sake, Bryan, we’ve only been together for a few months.”
“Several months,” he corrects me.
“We’ve never lived together. Or travelled together,” I go on urgently, amazed at his ignorance, “I don’t even know your middle name. You’ve never even seen my apartment.”
“How is any of this relevant?” Bryan asks blankly, “You’re a great match for me. We look great together, we have amazing sex. We should get married.”
I have to bite my tongue to keep from breaking the news that our sex life is mediocre, at best. I’ve been doing my fair share of acting too, where my orgasms are concerned.
“Look, actors with non-industry spouses are having a moment,” Bryan goes on, annoyed at having to explain himself, “We could be a power couple, Kelly.”
“I really have no idea what to say to you right now,” I tell him, shaking my head.
“Say yes already,” he urges, “Come on. The help is starting to look concerned.”
“The help?” I echo, gob smacked, “You mean the wait staff?”
“Whatever,” he seethes.
Despite my distaste for him, my annoyance, and my horror, I burst into a fit of uproarious laughter. I can’t stop myself, this whole thing is just too rich.
“Is something funny?” he asks coldly.
“Oh, very,” I laugh, throwing my head back, “You actually thought this was a good idea? That I might actually marry someone who says things like ‘the help’ and ‘angry feminist thing’?”
“Well you’re going to, aren’t you?” he insists.
“Of course I’m not!” I exclaim, my laughter subsiding, “Bryan, you’re the most arrogant, inconsiderate man I’ve ever been with.”
“Then why the hell are you with me, if I’m so terrible?” he fumes.
“Honestly? I have no idea,” I say, looking at him in a brand new light. “I don’t know what I’ve been thinking, sticking around for as long as I have.”
“You don’t mean that,” Bryan says, “You must be having a mood swing or something. Did you switch birth control or what?”
“That’s it,” I mutter, jumping to my feet, “I can’t have this conversation with you. Or any conversation. I’m done.”
“Where do you think you’re going?” he demands, rising.
“Away,” I say, grabbing my purse. “I don’t need you to send me anything, since you wouldn’t even let me keep a toothbrush at your place. Have a nice life, buddy.”
“You can’t just leave,” Bryan says, grabbing me by the arm.
“Let go,” I hiss, as heads swivel toward us all around the dining room.
“Not until you change your mind and say yes,” He insists, tightening his grip, “I’ve already informed my publicists that this is happening.”
“You’re hurting me, you asshole,” I say, raising my voice just loud enough for the rest of the room to hear.
“Stop being hysterical,” he growls, “You’re going to make a fool out of me.”
I wince as he tries to drag me back to the table. If there’s anything I have zero tolerance for, it’s being disrespected. When I say “no” or “that’s enough,” I damn well mean it. I wrench my arm out of Bryan’s manicured hand and slap him right across the sculpted cheek. The air goes out of the room as he turns to look at me, shocked and furious. The only sound to be heard is the clicking of a dozen smartphone cameras, capturing our spat for the tabloids and blogs. Good. I’m glad. The world should see him like this, for once.
“You’re ruining everything,” he says, clutching his face. I’m happy to see a hand-shaped red mark rising there. “What are you thinking, laying a hand on me?”
“That’s the most I’ve enjoyed any physical contact with you,” I tell him, “We’re through, Bryan. Please don’t bother trying to do anything about it.”
“I could have made you a power player,” he says, “You could have been an A-lister, once I finally got my big break. I could have given you everything, Kelly, and you’re just throwing it all away because, what, we’re not mooning over each other 24/7? Love is just business, sweetheart. Pure and simple.”
“I guess we have to agree to disagree. I have a different sort of life in mind,” I tell him, my thoughts flying once again to Vegas, to memories of Sam. “Goodbye, Bryan.”
“Unbelievable,” he mutters, sinking back into his seat, “Good thing I got insurance for this damned ring.”
I turn on my heel and march out of the restaurant, very aware of the whispers that follow in my wake. I expect to feel some sort of mixed emotions, walking away from my boyfriend of six months. But as I step out into the warm LA night, I feel freer than I have in a long time. I realize now that I’ve been fooling myself. Trying to convince myself to want the chic, polished life that comes along with living here in LA. But if I’m honest with myself, that’s not what I want at all. I don’t want cocktail parties and brunch. I want another taste of that life I got to sample in Vegas. I’m starving for it.