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Mirelle took a lick of her blueberry ice cream cone and let out a little moan. “This is amazing! How did you find this place?”
By scouring online reviews for two weeks straight, Aurore thought. “Someone at the station must have mentioned it,” she said aloud.
She took a bite of her own ice cream and was pleasantly surprised. The little ice cream shop’s sign boasted that the proprietors made their own vegan marshmallows in-house. Aurore, who was picky about marshmallows, had been skeptical, but her ice cream was truly lovely, marshmallows and all.
“Try some of mine,” she said.
Aurore and Mirelle traded ice creams. There was a long, delicious silence.
“Mmm,” said Mirelle at last. She shot Aurore the sort of sly, disarming look that had long ago stolen Aurore’s heart. “Pretty good for a last-minute date, my love.”
“Thanks,” said Aurore, taking her ice cream back. She licked it, trying to ignore the way her heart was pounding. If she let her anxiety show on her face, Mirelle would catch on in a heartbeat and the whole surprise would be ruined. Over the years, Aurore’s partner had grown very adept at reading her moods.
Casually, as if she wasn’t paying any particular attention to where she was going, Aurore led Mirelle down the sidewalk past a thrift store, a bar, and a bicycle shop. Her colleagues at the TV station had predicted the weather perfectly. The sun warmed their faces, but the cloud cover was enough to keep the day from growing too hot.
Mirelle saw the tiny used bookstore right on cue. Her eyes sparkled, and part of Aurore fell in love with her all over again.
“You just got prettier,” Aurore said. It was something of an inside joke. “If this trend continues, I forecast that by evening I’ll need sunglasses just to look at you.” She kissed Mirelle’s temple.
Mirelle chuckled. “You’re terrible,” she said, putting the remnants of her cone into a trash can.
“And you, Mirelle Caquet, are the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen.” Aurore bent to kiss Mirelle’s hand, not caring that passersby were staring. They were on television every day. It came with the territory.
“Could we go into the bookstore?” Mirelle asked. “We don’t have to stay long.” She peered through the dusty front window. “It’s just that I’ve never been here before.”
“Of course,” said Aurore, the model of an obliging girlfriend. “That sounds fun.”
Mirelle paused, looking skeptical. “You won’t be too bored?”
“Not if I’m with you.” Aurore hoped that smooth words and a pretty smile would be enough to distract Mirelle, and they seemed to.
It was true. In the past, she’d been a poor sport about Mirelle’s tendency to spend hours exploring used bookstores. She’d chosen this as the stage for her surprise in the hopes that Mirelle would take it as a promise to be a more considerate partner in the future. If Aurore was with Mirelle, she was happy. It really was that simple.
The bell over the door dinged as Aurore and Mirelle stepped into the dusty shop. Aurore suppressed a sneeze. She preferred clean stores, but today was for Mirelle.
Mirelle’s face shone as she led Aurore deeper into the bookshop, making a beeline for the classics section. “Look, The Book of Salt! That’s a dark one, but you know how I feel about Gertrude Stein.” Seeing the look on Aurore’s face, she added. “The protagonist is a cook in her house. I might have to buy this. Would you read it with me if I did?”
“Maybe,” said Aurore. She waited, trying not to smirk.
Right on cue, Mirelle said, “That’s it! I’m making it my mission to find something here that you’d have fun reading, Aurore.” She set aside The Book of Salt. Stopping for just a moment to thumb through a collection of Molière’s plays, Mirelle dragged Aurore deeper into the classics section.
Aurore was happy to be dragged. It wouldn’t be long now.
“Did you read anything by Marguerite Duras in school?” asked Mirelle, stopping in front of a crowded shelf. “I know you like sad and messy books.”
Aurore rolled her eyes. “That’s a gross oversimplification, and you know it.”
“I do,” said Mirelle. She was grinning. “But I also remember you devouring Madame Bovary.”
Aurore couldn’t have planned things better if she’d tried. This section was a little bit disorganized, which left a tattered copy of Madame Bovary directly next to a suspiciously new-looking edition of Wuthering Heights. She stroked Madame Bovary’s spine, knowing that Mirelle’s eyes were following hers. “That just proves that I like one sad, messy book.”
She saw the idea form. “Then try this one!” Mirelle said triumphantly. She pulled Wuthering Heights free and held it out to Aurore. “I loved it when I was a kid,” Mirelle explained. “You can ask my mother.”
Aurore had asked Mirelle’s mother. Her advice had thrown this whole plan into motion. She smiled, weighing the book in her hands.
“I’ll give it a try,” said Aurore.
She got down on one knee, disguising the movement as an effort to get into a more comfortable book-examining position. Mirelle seemed fooled right up until Aurore flipped the book open to a spot in the middle, exposing the cut-out cavity in its center and the ring box inside.
Aurore held Mirelle’s gaze. “We haven’t always seen eye-to-eye,” she said. “Not about books, or the color to paint our kitchen, or even who should be the KIDZ+ weather girl.”
Mirelle covered her mouth.
The moment was now or never. Aurore reached for her girlfriend’s hand. “Mirelle, I want to spend the rest of my life fighting and compromising with you. I want to learn the best ways to make you angry and the best ways to calm you down.” The corners of her eyes burned; Aurore always cried at times like these. “I want to build a life with you, Mirelle Caquet. If you’ll have me?”
It took a moment for Mirelle to speak. “I can't believe you killed a book for this.”
“I’ll buy you another one,” said Aurore. “If that’s your way of saying you do want to marry me?”
Now Mirelle laughed. “It is,” she said. “Of course it is. Of course I do.”