The first proposal of the night happens exactly seven minutes after the fireworks begin. Young couple, early twenties, he’s wearing a blue scarf that keeps catching in the wind. She’s crying before he even gets down on one knee.
Perfect, I think, already composing the blog post in my head. “Dear readers, love is alive and well on the Harrison Bridge…” They’re going to eat it up. My agent says these little glimpses into my “romantic soul” help sell books. If only she knew I’m basically running a nature documentary on mating rituals.
The second couple is more interesting. Older, comfortable. He fumbles with the ring, and they both laugh while searching for it in the rain-slicked boards. Their joy is quiet, worn-in like favorite jeans. I pull out my phone to make notes, but the screen’s too wet to register my fingers.
“You’re going to miss the show.”
The voice beside me is warm honey over gravel. I don’t remember hearing footsteps approach, but suddenly there’s a man next to me, leaning against the railing. His umbrella tilts in my direction, shielding my phone.
“I never miss anything,” I say, which is true. Missing details is death to a romance novelist. We need to remark on every shade of blue eyes and chestnut hair. “I’m doing research.”
He makes a sound that might be a laugh. “On the bridge of broken hearts? That’s an interesting choice,” he says.
I turn to look at him. “Broken hearts?”
“You didn’t know?” His smile is crooked, practiced. “This is where all the divorce papers in the city get signed.”
“What?” I blink at him through the rain. “No, that’s ridiculous,” I say. “This is proposal central. The most romantic spot in the city. I’ve documented dozens of engagements here for my…” I stop, self-conscious.
“For your blog? ‘Romance in Real Life’ by Rachel Stone?” He tilts his head. “The weekly posts about love flourishing in our cynical modern age?”
“You read my blog?” My stomach does a weird flip. Not the good kind I write about in my books. The unsettling kind that comes with being recognized.
“Hard not to when half my clients quote it,” he says. He shifts the umbrella, and I glimpse an expensive suit under his coat. “They usually preface serving papers with ‘This isn’t like one of Rachel Stone’s novels.’ As if I don’t know that.”
Ah. A lawyer. Of course. I take a step back, but a fresh burst of fireworks illuminates his face. He’s not what I expected — there’s something soft around his eyes that doesn’t match his sharp profession.
“I should go,” I say. The words come out automatic, defensive. I’ve spent too long writing about lawyers who turn out to be secret romantics. Real life doesn’t work that way.
The rain picks up in intensity, sprinting from a steady mist to a torrential downpour as the next round of fireworks explodes. The surrounding crowd on the bridge surges toward shelter. Someone’s elbow catches my ribs, pushing me closer to him.
“Sorry,” I mumble as I right myself. Shit. The rain turns violent, sheets of it now, destroying any chance of seeing more proposals tonight. Why did I think I’d be fine in a coat with a hood? I could use an umbrella right about now.
“There’s a coffee shop around the corner,” he says, steady despite the chaos. “Best view of the bridge in the city. You can watch the last of the fireworks through their windows and stay dry.” He pauses, then adds, “And I can tell you why this spot shows up in ninety percent of our divorce proceedings.”
I should say no.
“Come on,” he insists. “They have great chocolate croissants too. Giant ones.”
His smile is knowing, and I bark out a sharp laugh.
Damn. He really does read my blog.
I don’t answer, but I guess I don’t need to. He tips his umbrella over me and jerks his chin in the direction of Avenue C.
“After you.”
Image made with Midjourney.
Prompt provided by NoGENver, GoOnWrite.
Flash Fiction written by S. J. Pajonas with assistance from Claude 3.5 Sonnet.
Listen to this story at https://youtu.be/SnIzQxwVUnk
