Chapter 6
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That feeling of needing no one but him indeed disappeared during the first year. What followed was a fatigue that left me disinterested in the entire world.
I lived alone in New York. The relationship statuses of friends around me kept updating on Facebook and Instagram, from "In a relationship" to "Engaged," then to family photos holding children.
I liked him for more than ten years, and what I got in return were wounds all over and the words "pretty boring."
I often think, if I had liked someone else instead, someone who would have liked me with the same passion, how lucky I would have been. I wouldn't be like I am now, completely distrusting love, yet pathologically afraid of being alone.
Going on blind dates with strangers seemed to be the only way out.
It was in this state of mind that, on a rainy afternoon, I walked into that fateful "accident."
It was a blind date arranged by my advisor, a financial analyst working on Wall Street. My advisor spoke quickly on the phone with a noisy background, and I only caught the key information: "…at 'Bar on 6th' on Sixth Avenue, at two in the afternoon."
I arrived on time. It was a creative restaurant located in Greenwich Village, decorated with an artistic flair. I really liked the atmosphere there.
The person sitting at the table was tall, with broad shoulders and long legs, handsome in an intimidating way.
"Hello, I'm Clara."
I slowly sat down.
He was still looking at financial reports in his hand, seeming very busy.
I got straight to the point: "Are you the one who wants to marry me?"
He raised his eyebrows in surprise.
I was so nervous I stumbled over my words.
"I… I mean, aren't you the one my advisor introduced for the blind date?"
"No."
His voice was clean and slightly deep.
I was stunned.
"So…" he looked at me, "what's your story?"
I fumbled embarrassedly for my phone, clumsily pulling up the call history with my advisor. Then I understood.
My advisor had mentioned "Bar Sixes," a formal business bar located in Midtown. While I, mishearing one word, had come to this more artistically inclined "Bar on 6th" on Sixth Avenue.
My cheeks burned with embarrassment, and I wished the ground would open up and swallow me.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" I shot up from my seat, ready to flee this scene of social death. Looking up, I met his eyes, filled with quiet amusement.
He seemed to be smiling.
"Six years ago you got into the wrong car, six years later you mistake your blind date."
He rose unhurriedly, walked over to me, and blocked my path.
"Clara Lawrence," he said, "your taste is actually quite good."
I was too embarrassed to speak.
"You can marry me," he suddenly said.
I jerked my head up, staring at him in shock.
The smile disappeared from his face, replaced by a determined seriousness I had never seen before—as if he was staking everything on this moment.
"But I don't want a marriage of mutual respect and surface courtesy."
"I want us to be completely in love."
"Clara Lawrence," he asked me, pronouncing each word deliberately, each word like a pebble dropping into the still lake of my heart, stirring intense ripples, "can you do that?"
I don't know why. At that moment, looking into his eyes so sincere they seemed desperate, I couldn't bear to see him wear that dejected expression like he did in high school.
I felt like someone who had wandered through a desert for too long, nearly dying of thirst, suddenly plunging into an ocean called "affection."
I heard my own voice, clear and firm.
I said: "Yes."
