Love, Commitment And The Open Road.

A Valentine's Story

By Carla King

A pulse of unease moved through me, quick and sharp, my breath hitching before I even knew why.

“I love you,” he said. “We have such a good time together, don’t we?”

I wanted to say I was just thinking that but a sense of dread crept over me, and I couldn’t speak.

In his hand was a small velvet box. “I think it’s time,” he said, flipping it open.

The diamond caught the light and the entire world around me blurred, narrowing to a pinpoint on that cold, sparkling stone.

The air thickened, the sounds around me dulling as my mind reeled. The soft laughter of tourists, the faint hum of bicycle tires against pavement, the rumble of a muscle car trailing its scent of oil and gas. All of it faded under the weight of the moment pressing down on me.

I took a deep breath, still staring at the diamond.

It’s time? I thought. Why now? Why here on this bench, on the sidewalk, in the middle of town?

And then I thought, again, Why? Why at all?

I’d never really wanted a diamond ring, despite everyone else apparently wanting one but this one was beautiful—catching the light and emanating it at the same time. Absorbing and reflecting, tempting, twinkling, winking.

“Oh.”

Not Yes. Not No. Just… Oh.

His smile faltered, his hands tightening slightly around the box. I had to say something else but it wouldn’t come.

“Oh?” he repeated.

My heart pounded against my ribs, frantic, disorganized.

“I love you,” I said, tearing my soul away from the sparkle and looking into his eyes—blue, hopeful, doubtful and then, as if he knew what I was going to say, sad, just before he looked down.

“But I don’t think I can say yes.” Then desperately, I wondered, why couldn’t I say yes?

A muscle in his jaw twitched. The box snapped shut. And a silence opened between us, gaping and bottomless.

Then, without a word, he stood. I could feel it happening—the slow-motion unraveling of something we had built over the years, the years leading up to this day, this moment.

Our love was easy. Our friendship was easy. Smooth, full of laughter, anticipation, fun.

And I thought we also had understanding between us. I hadn’t had a clue. Couldn’t things just go on as they were? Days spent hiking in Marin, enjoying jazz in Oakland, the roadtrip to Tomales Bay in the driving rain just crawling along, laughing as the windshield wipers slapped discordantly against the beat of the music. 

I wanted to say something else, to explain but my throat was thick, my mind full of cotton wool—sticky, clogged, unable to form words.

And then he walked away.

The white Lincoln was parked in the first spot next to the B&B. It hung out of the space a little, too long, too impractical.

But it was also roomy, quiet, with plush upholstery and a great sound system. It was like him, an extension of him, just like the way he carried himself—with an old-school sort of confidence.

I loved the way he moved, and the way he dressed, with a careless but classic elegance, fashionable but immune to fashion.

I rose, watching him go, my stomach twisting, my breath shallow. 

“No…” I almost cried out. “Wait.” But I didn’t.

What was I thinking? That he was going to grab our suitcases, roll them back over here and continue our weekend plans?

He didn’t look at me as he yanked open the driver’s side door and got in. The engine roared to life and the tires screeched as he threw the car into drive—then reverse.

A couple on the sidewalk jumped back, startled, their hands flying up in reflex. They stood there. I stood there. The rear suspension scraped as he backed over the curb.

Luckily, there were no bicyclists, no cars. But I don’t think he would have noticed if there were.

Then he floored it.

He’s not like this, I thought. My God. He’s going to kill somebody, I thought, as I watched him go.

And then, just as suddenly as he had peeled out, he braked. My heart leapt with hope.

He’s changed his mind, I thought. Relief rushed through me so fast it made me dizzy. We can talk and we can go on as we were.

The Lincoln sat idling, the rumble of its engine filling the silence.Then it reversed. I took a step forward to meet him but he braked again, just short of where I stood on the sidewalk.

The rear window slid down. I held my breath, trying to think of what to say. I’m sorry? I love you? It doesn’t have to change. Maybe even… yes? What would “yes” feel like?

Without looking around, I released the pull handle,

stretched it out, and turned. Rolling the suitcase

back to the sidewalk, bumping it over the curb

and dragging it into the B&B felt like an eternity.

Inside, the air was cool, scented with eucalyptus oil

and freshly brewed coffee. The lobby was all rough wood paneling, dim lighting, and the kind of muffled quiet that only came with a place that cost hundreds of dollars a night.

The woman at the front desk—a silver-haired pro with a no-nonsense bob and the energy of someone who had seen it all—watched me approach, dragging my suitcase behind me.

“Checking in?” she asked. I nodded, feeling the

weight of everything pressing into my bones.

And now, I’d have to figure out how to get home tomorrow.

“Just me.”

She clicked a few keys on her keyboard, then glanced up, studying me for a long moment.

“I’ll put you in a different cottage,” she said. “He requested number three but we’ll put you in six. Because…”

She hesitated, then shrugged. “There’s always somebody here, twenty-four seven. So you can just dial the front desk… whenever.”

Something in my chest loosened. “Thank you.” I felt tears burning in my eyes.

“Safety first,” she said. “He might be a nice guy but you never know what people are gonna do when their heart gets broken.”

I let out a short laugh, despite myself. “Oh, I think I

might have some idea.”

The cottage was beautiful. Too beautiful. A four-poster bed with gauzy white drapes. A bottle of Veuve Clicquot chilling in a silver bucket. A platter of antipasti—marinated olives, ribbons of prosciutto, dark chocolate squares arranged just so. 

I pulled down the duvet, nestled into the white sheets, and sighed.

What the hell had just happened?

Why couldn’t I just say yes? We were happy. I did love him.But there is something about marriage that changes a woman in a way it does not change a man.

Once married, a woman is claimed. Owned. Controlled.

And being married changes friendships in the same way that being divorced changes friendships. Suddenly, you’re single and your coupled friends find it awkward.

Suddenly, you’re married, and your single friends find it awkward. You haven’t changed but the world changes how it sees you. It changes how much time you spend—must spend—on the relationship.

Now, if you travel: Why isn’t your husband going with you? What does your husband think of that? I can’t believe your husband would let you do that.

I’d had quite enough of that in my life already.

But could it be different now? Now that I’m older? Does he really see me? Or would it all backslide—into expectations, into limitations, into something I could never quite name but always felt closing in?

Incredibly, I went to sleep. When I woke from my nap, the hot tub outside was steaming, mist rising into the night air. Beyond the deck, the silhouettes of oak trees swayed gently, backlit by the moon.

Somewhere in the distance, someone was playing acoustic guitar, the soft melody weaving through the crickets’ song.

I uncorked the champagne and slowly filled a glass, watching the bubbles rise from its hollow stem.

Stepping into the warm water, I took a sip, then let my head fall back and the silence settle in.

I wanted him to be here. I loved him.

But I never wanted him to be mine. And I didn’t want to be his. Can you be in love and still want to be free?

Carla King is an author of several books and works as a writing and publishing teacher based in Santa Cruz, California. Find out more and get her stories delivered to your inbox by subscribing at carlaking.com.

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But then my suitcase came flying out of the window.

It hit the pavement hard, bounced twice, then tumbled

backward, landing on its side in the center of the street.

I flinched.

A slow wave of silence rippled through the town.

Then the engine revved. The tires screeched again.

And the Lincoln was gone. Incredibly, there had been

a break in traffic during this whole ordeal.

The cyclists, the couples strolling hand in hand,

the families, the friends sipping wine on the patio

across the street—everyone was watching now,

a collective pause hanging thick in the air.

It took a beat, but what was I going to do?

Run around in circles and cry?

I heaved a deep breath in and stood up straight,

shoulders back and walked to the middle of the

street to collect my suitcase.