When Skye and I moved out of the flat above Turnip the Beet, we knew that this house would be perfect for us. Stace and Matt stayed there and made it their home…for now. Stacey had just discovered she was pregnant, and they would soon outgrow the flat. We lived a few doors down the road from them, in fact, we were so close we could communicate through lamplight like Freddie Mercury and Mary.
Matt wanted a dressing-up party for his graduation celebrations. He’d finally finished a Psychology degree and Stace had organised a rowdy night. Skye and I had talked (argued) about our costumes. I wanted to go as Batman because I already had the suit. She wasn’t keen. Maybe it reminded her of the first time she met my junk? Getting Skye into a Catwoman costume was definitely out of the equation. I eventually agreed to her choosing the costumes. She said she’d make it worth my while and when I discovered I was going as the joker I could only hope that she was going as Harley Quinn. A sexy Harley Quinn – a fantasy I’d told her about many years ago and had been role played (without costumes) many times since.
She re-appeared with a grin. “I’ve put your costume in the bathroom.” I stared at her, still memorised by that rainbow syrup that shone through her veins and into my soul. “Go on then. Skedaddle.” She slipped out of my Super Mario T-shirt, which was a move that disappointed me until I saw what she was changing in to.
Harley fucking Quinn.
“Oh my,” I gritted out as she pulled on some little blue and red shorts.
“You like?” She twirled in just those little shorts and it took all of me to stop from pouncing on her.
“I like so much I’m considering calling Matt to tell him we’ll be a no-show tonight.”
“Don’t you dare! These costumes aren’t going to waste.”
“Baby, believe me, they won’t go to waste.” She swatted my hand away and continued dressing. A little top, a leather jacket, awesome boots and all the bloody accessories. I wasn’t sure how we’d both get through the night unscathed.
This DC nerd was pretty fucking happy.
After I’d dressed in my Heath Ledger version of Joker, trailed my hands up her fishnets as she painted my face, re-arranged my erection to a safe place and grabbed a piece of her carrot cake – I told you I was living my best life – we made our way to Matt’s party.
In ordinary circumstances, I would be looking forward to a night of watching Skye dance, fuelled by the knowledge that I was the lucky bastard taking her home with me. Tonight, was different. I was out of my comfort zone and nerves were setting in.
“How are you feeling, mate?” Matt said, I couldn’t take him seriously dressed as Kristoff from Frozen and even less so when Stacey was stood next to him as Olaf.
“Nervous,” I squeaked as I took a swig of beer. “Why did I think this was a good idea again?”
“I think you said something about a romantic grand gesture,” he replied. “But you may have been drunk and we’d just watched Coco.”
“Oh, yeah. That film is a killer.”
“Turns you to mush, mate.”
I’d planned on asking Skye to marry me for what seemed like most of my life. The way we fell into friendship and landed into a relationship seemed to fit us both. We liked to take life a day at a time, no forward planning, no pressure to fulfil stereotypical life plans, but there was this increasing deep need in me to make our life together official. Skye never talked about marriage, or rings or what dress she would choose when the big day arrived. She didn’t even get fidgety when we bought the house together, a joint mortgage seemed enough of a commitment for her.
I’d gone backwards and forwards about doing this. Weighed up the pros and cons. Would she grab me by my balls for even thinking about proposing to her? She wasn’t a traditional girl and we certainly had our differences. She hated guacamole and I piled it up like a green volcano. She asked Siri to turn down my movie theme tunes and banished my Marvel film posters to the spare room. I hated early mornings and she seemed to thrive on them. Although, I did set the alarm clock to wake me up just as she was in the middle of her yoga workout. Skin-tight leggings, purple crop tops, sweaty taught abs and a bum to cry for.
I timed my early rise with her early rise.
Her workout usually ended with a whole different kind of work out and one morning as I nuzzled her perfect breasts, I decided differences we’re good. Differences kept it interesting.
The name calling continued. I was often referred to as nerdsville. Screw you ballsack, was a favourite but always done with a smile. I called her angel, sometimes dirty angel. Sweetheart. Baby. My world. My everything. Made for me. The one. She pulled faces, rolled her eyes – I still fucking loved that eye roll – but eventually she accepted that I was just a pet name kind of guy.
Or maybe I just said what I felt?
She was my one. I never doubted it. Skye did everything she could to make me happy and she was doing a great job of it for herself. She continued her counselling sessions with the bereavement counsellor she met in Amsterdam. She looked after her body and mind, attended groups that Brighton thrived on. Mindfulness, goat yoga, spiritual awakening. She even started a blog – at times tongue in cheek – about some of the therapy sessions she attended and how helpful she found them.
She didn’t continue her career in porn, instead she concentrated on her thriving dog grooming business. I was grateful. I wasn’t sure I had another male sex scene in me. I liked to think I did a sterling camera job, but it wasn’t something I was jumping at to do again and anyway, I was settled in my job at Upfront.
“Are you ready?” Stacey asked as she pulled me by the arm. “She’s just nipped to the loo and I thought maybe it would be a good time to do it when she gets back.”
“Shall I just meet her on one knee when she comes out?” I replied.
“Don’t be weird. Does outside a toilet sound like a romantic place to propose?”
“Well, it’s no Eiffel Tower,” I mumbled.
I was so nervous I could feel the ring in my pocket digging into my leg. The ring. That was a whole other anxiety fest. I didn’t know where to start. Square? Round? Oval? One big stone or one stone surrounded by little suckers? I couldn’t help but think that every time I was handed one and held it up to the light – it wasn’t her. She needed something different, unique and special.
Like Skye.
Matt and I trawled the Old Laines and found a jewellery shop that specialised in antique diamonds. I saw it in the window. Emerald green and surrounded with tiny clear diamonds. I’d found it. Unique and distinctive. Perfect for her.
The proposal was a cluster fuck of anxiety. I couldn’t decide if this should be a quiet spur of the moment thing or an in front of family and friends thing. What would Skye want? The grand gesture idea had permeated and landed me here at Matt’s graduation party.
Damn beer and damn Coco.
“Quick!” Stacey shouted, her carrot nose wobbling. I knew she’d picked the outfit to cover the first signs of her bump. “Will!”
I did it on fright. Stacey’s shout made me lose all clarity of thought and here I was, down on one knee in front of a very startled Skye.
“Get up!” she said, her face knotted in confusion. The carrot cake I nabbed before we left fell to my arse. Shit. The crowd behind me started to whoop and surged around us to see why the idiot was on one knee in front of Harley Quinn holding a baseball bat with a face I couldn’t quite read.