Chapter 07: The Launch

The intervening weeks have blown by since Taco Mac. Our worn, but trusty, Outback (cheekily dubbed "Moya" after a spaceship from an old sci fi show) sits ticking herself cool in the parking lot of Disney's Yacht and Beach Club resorts. In a way, that old wagon has come to symbolize some aspects of our relationship. I expressly bought it, used, with the intent of driving it forever, and indeed I've already racked up an impressive twenty thousand miles of highway blasting in less than a year.

Nevertheless, we like the Outback. The old girl hauls more than enough freight for our vacations and served as our crew's urban assault vehicle of choice in New Orleans over New Year's. The seats are almost exactly at Emily Butt Height (EBH); when I bought the car, perhaps my subconscious steered me towards a vehicle that would be appropriate for Emily and I starting our lives together?
What the car does not have, however, are a few critical pieces of my plan. I've forgotten them. Notably, the disposable cameras have vanished. I've also forgotten to bring a halfway decent set of trousers with a cargo capacity of their own. As a result, the intended Birthday Surprise clanks with jolly, sadistic abandon within a suspicious rectangular outline in my pocket.

Yes, it's a jewelry box in my pocket - but let's face it, who wouldn't be happy to see Emily?
She's radiant in her white-upon-red-upon-pink flowery sun dress, an escaped pixie from Titania's court flung through Atlantic Station, magnetizing bits here and there to look positively gorgeous. Her dark hair, cut into a pseudo-flapper-girl bob, frames her face, drawing attention to those steel blue eyes of hers. A wisp of gold upon her necklace and her rimless glasses complete the ethereal look.
"Ready?" she asks. I'm rooting through the bags with one hand while attempting to hold Moya's tailgate low enough to camouflage my intent. It's not working.

I resign myself to cramming my jeans pockets with as much of my paraphernalia - wallet, phone, keys, etc. as I can fit. Her present clanks in my pocket again. I turn, having nothing to offer but a big smile. A used-car-salesman smile.

"Right! Ready!" All pearly whites. It's about two hundred feet down the road when I realize it's just not going to work. The blasted jewelry box in my pocket is simply not cooperating, clanking louder and louder and forcing me to contort my gait into something out of a cheesy horror flick to quiet it.
Finally, halfway across the bridge to the Beach Club resort, I halt us. Better to blow the gig now than to suffer through lunch due to poor cargo-management choice in trousers.

"Hey Em," I say. "Surprise."

Out comes the box.

Inside are a pair of cherry blossom earrings that perfectly complement her sun dress. They came from the Washington DC yearly festival, something I was fortunate enough to attend with my sister Cristina. We'd strolled up and down the waterways of DC while I was there, and when opportunity presented itself - in the form of an absolutely perfect set of earrings for Em - who was I to turn it down?
She grins up at me, feigning, well, surprise. I'm not a terribly subtle person, and I suppose it really should have occurred to me that she would have noticed me being a bit ridiculous trying to camouflage her present in such a shoddy manner. Now, to be fair, she only knew she was getting something, not specifically what that something was.

That said, she knows I'm terrible at subtlety. Paradoxically, I can use that. After all, if she's expecting nothing greater than me doing a bad attempt at hiding her present from her, there's a good chance that she won't see the real thing coming.

Regardless, she lights up. "Oh my gosh Jamie those are amazing!" she chirps. Spaces between words have been added for the convenience of the reader and without regard for historical accuracy.
Immediately, on they go, and the box disappears into the caverns of her purse. A new indentation upon my thigh thanks me.

Em throws her arms around me, locking the two of us together, standing there on the bridge between the parking lot and all the crab legs we can eat. "I am SO happy," she says. "Thank you so, so much for this. You are the best."

"No worries, love - let's go to Cape May and clean house." The Beach Club is a study in relaxing pastel colors and old Maryland architecture. It's quiet for a hotel lobby, but not the stifling quiet of a museum; more like the quiet of relaxation, soft wooden walls and white-painted beams absorbing the harsher notes of the conversation.

We stroll into Cape May Cafe and immediately - "oh god I'm so freaking hungry" - the jury's out on which of us said that first, but if it helps, just imagine both of us saying that simultaneously. My stomach grumbles audibly at the smell of steam and crab legs in the air, the mildly sweet notes of the meat mingling with the sharper aromas of seasoning and salt.

In the middle of the cheery New England clambake shop are the enormous stainless steel boilers into which three men are unloading entire platters' worth of crab legs. Quantities measured in the dozens of pounds apiece, coral-upon-white and steaming as they come out. Corn steams on the line's nearby platters and a fat potboiler holds savory beef and vegetable soup.
Em looks up at me and makes a face like the first cat must have made upon walking into that first cave at the dawn of time. It is the face of impending - if temporarily stalled - pure animal gluttony.
"Feed me."

I glance down at her. "Yeah no problem." No punctuation there either.

As it turns out, it takes us about twenty minutes to get the table we've reserved. Sitting there, right outside the source of the maddening seafood smells, time dilates to a crawl. Ironic, isn't it, how I'm themeing this whole series of shenanigans around Emily's adventures in time and space and here I am at its mercy, right at the very beginning.

After the longest twenty minutes in the history of the universe, in we go. It's hard to express just how fast Emily rockets to the line without using a modern physics textbook, but she's practically on her way back before I'm halfway through the line.

The arthropod holocaust is swift and severe. In surprisingly little time Emily sits behind an oubilette of crab shells, with one mostly eaten half-ear of corn sitting off to the side for presentation's sake.

She's wearing the world's most satisfied smile.

I'm still going. I always have a difficult time pinning down just why crab (and its various arthropod cousins) happens to be so immensely satisfying to eat, but it's not just down to how delicious the meat itself is. (And it is.) Perhaps it's having to work for it, using that hidden talent of popping the leg open at the knuckle using a fork, without having to resort to that specialized plastic doohickey spawned from Joe's Crab Shack. (Surprisingly, the metal cracking tool is nowhere to be found. Perhaps Disney doesn't want kids trying to crack their siblings' hands in it.)

Emily toys with an Oreo bonbon while I stuff my face with crabmeat.

"You know what I like about these?"

"Mmhmmpf." I use my incisors to strip a chewy hunk of crabmeat off the sinew. The mild buttery-spicy-sweet flavor melts within my mouth. "Y'like'cndy."

Em giggles at my caveman speech. "These are great because they're Oreos that someone stuck in a blender and somehow mixed with cream cheese and then coated the whole thing in chocolate. And I'm going to eat every last one unless you get one," she grins.

"Fine'by'mhee," I mumble, still chewing as I crack open a particularly meaty knuckle. The carapace jabs me in the flesh of my palm but I have the last laugh as I extract the meat.
Five minutes, and about two entire marine ecosystems (and an Oreo bonbon) later, we're both sitting relaxed in the booth. "That...was amazing," Emily says.

She rolls her eyes and lays her head on my shoulder. Oh crap. I know what that means - like a satisfied housecat, Emily's threatening to pass out asleep in warm, content bliss. But she's got another envelope to open. I yank the second little blue envelope out of her purse and hand it to her. "For you, madam. Before you pass out on me."

#2
I am so glad you made it to Cape May Cafe! Kindly sit back and enjoy your steamed crab legs and mussels. This is something I know you have been wanting for a long time.

It's okay. You don't have to have a long flowery explanation of the place or anything like that.
This illustrates one of my favorite things about you - you enjoy simple pleasures in life, but are not ashamed to appreciate the more elaborate ones. This is the first step to your mastery of time - and that is recognizing what you want to prioritize.

The future is an uncertain thing. That is just the way of things. But all good plans must start from good intel, and all good intel must come from a reliable source. You, my dear, are this reliable source when it comes to the things you enjoy. You thread together the simple pleasures of life - a seafood meal at a warm and comforting place like this - with an appreciation for the craftsmanship and the level of attention to detail that exists in a place like this hub - world in which you stay.
Now, for the next part of your adventure.

The first world we will be journeying to, appropriately enough, will be England.
Here is what you must do. Find the "Rose and Crown Pub" and try something new. Why? Because of any of the worlds in your multiversal hub, England is the one most tied to tradition. Upon the surface, it looks most towards bringing the past into the present. Certainly, America has a quaint recreation of the 1700s, but England most elegantly strings the threads of the past together with those of the present.
I want you to share a "Cider and Black" with your traveling companion. Why? The drink might be terrible, for all we know. But it might be glorious. It is the uncertain future. It is acknowledging the past while taking calculated risks in the future.

And let's face it, if you want to learn how to master time and space, England is pretty much the place to start.

See you there!
- The One Who Moves

Chapter 06: Taco Mac Part II, Or Em Discerns her Part in the Game

“I have this book.”
Leave it to Em for the first words out of her mouth to be something like that. Then, a beat later, she quirks an eyebrow at me. “Did you…?” she asks, before trailing off.

“What do YOU think?” I ask.
“I’ve been trying to get you to read this for -”

“Ages,” I finish. “I know. Open up the back cover.”

Inside, written in gold ink, is a little message for her.
“I have this book.”

Leave it to Em for the first words out of her mouth to be something like that. Then, a beat later, she quirks an eyebrow at me. “Did you…?” she asks, before trailing off.

“What do YOU think?” I ask.

“I’ve been trying to get you to read this for -”

“Ages,” I finish. “I know. Open up the back cover.”

<3 Love, Jamie 

On top of that, there are five little blue envelopes tucked away inside the package, as well as a disposable camera. Anna and David are cracking up at Emily’s ever-increasing grin.

“This is so crazy,” she says, taking the envelopes and inspecting each one.

The first one

For Emily

My Adventure Co-Pilot

You have never been a great follower of rules. I know this.

It is, believe it or not, one of my favorite things about you. So it's going to be a little odd that the following will not only ask you to follow some rules, but follow them for an extended period of time. How extended are we talking? That's something you'll have to see for yourself.

Rule #1: Document your progress. Included is a pair of disposable standard cameras. You may, at your leisure, make use of digital photography just so long as it's something higher resolution than an iPhone camera.

Rule #2: You must not peek ahead. This is a Very Important Thing. I know that this is a lot to ask of someone who can't measure out her cotton candy intake, but I ask you to do this for the purposes of the game.

Rule 3: Complete the tasks in order. Do not be surprised if tasks take some legwork (or wheelwork, as it will) to accomplish. Do not be surprised if there is something of a stretch between tasks.

Got all that? Good.

Here, then, is your assignment.

This is a game in which you will achieve mastery of time and space. If it sounds like a tall order, you're simply not thinking forth-dimensionally enough. Think of this like your Jedi training. Think of this in terms of The Doctor and his companion. What you will achieve, however, will be something greater and more subtle. Curious? I hope so.

First, you must travel to a space in which you can access multiple worlds and lands. This "hub" world will be central to your adventure. You will not be able to complete the entire adventure at once. Your brain may be stretched somewhat.

It's all right. All part of achieving mastery of time and space.

The next part of the adventure awaits you at a place dubbed "The Cape May Cafe."

See you there.

 - The One Who Moves

"Cape May Cafe!" Emily bursts out. Except it sounds more like "Caymaycafe" when she's really excited.

“That part is not a surprise," I grin. "You planned the Cape May Cafe trip like a month ago.”

“I know,” she says. "But it's still awesome.”

I'll let her have that one. It'll come in handy later, for obfuscating the details of the unfolding plan. Remember, Emily is the Grand Master God-Emperor Champion of Ruining Surprises. I need all the help I can get.

“Sure it is, love. Sure it is.”

Chapter 05: Initial Presentation

It’s nighttime at the Taco Mac on Peachtree, I’m clutching at a manila envelope, and my breath hitches in my throat. It’s the same feeling that I get on a roller coaster, after the lap bar’s gone down and the train’s started to move. Certainly, I’m not out of the station. I have a tiny amount of time to back out. That’s how roller coasters are. You pitch a fit while the underpaid staff can see you, and one of those poor souls will hopefully stop the thing and let you off. But nobody really does that. Just like me, we sit it out and ride up the lift hill, our faces concrete with stoicism.

Tonight is kickoff night, but Em doesn’t know it. She’s got a hell of a birthday present coming to her.
Anna and David have already gotten us a table and I’ve gone racing ahead to go to the bathroom. Well, as covert as I can be with delivering this package while under the guise of going to the bathroom. Remember, for those of you playing at home, I’m not exactly a subtle creature.

That’s why I’ve got Anna.

Em is comfortably playing on her phone in the car -I think- and I jet to a halt at Anna and David’s table. It’s one of Taco Mac’s patented rock-hard wooden booths, the kind that inspires one to drink to forget the seething lower back pain. Or, alternately, inspire a nondrunk customer to leave. That is, if you can get your check over the cheering and yelling. Someone’s playing someone else on the giant TVs. I’m pretty sure there have been political revolutions quieter than this place.

But then, this is Taco Mac. The point of this place is to chow on wings and see how many different beers (of their approximately six hundred zillion) you can try without going in for a closer inspection of the linoleum.

As Anna sees me, her face lights up, an impish grin playing across her features.

“So that’s it, huh?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I tell her. “That’s it. This is gonna come last after your presents.”

“Ah hah ha.” Yes, Anna pronounces her evil laugh quite phonetically. I’m glad she’s on my side. “This is going to be good.”

I allow myself a rare smile at the proceedings. “I hope so. Let me grab Em from the car.”

Five minutes later, Em and I stroll into the Taco Mac. Barring special circumstances, she’s always on the left, and I’m always on the right. The way her gait works means she uses her right arm for balance more than her left, and having someone to hold her hand improves her pace and her balance.

Which is all lovely, but naturally, the real reason is that smile, those blue-gray eyes, the high cheekbones, all framed by her glasses and the thin, academic lines of her eyebrows.

Yes, I’m smitten.

“Well, aren’t YOU Mister Proud Of Yourself,” she teases as we walk in. Perhaps I’m strutting a little much, but I’ve put in a lot of work since that fateful day I got the reservation at Disney. The master plan is beginning to stir to life.

“I mean,” I say, which is a verbal tic we share. The jury’s out on which of us said it first. “It’s your birthday. And I think you’re gonna like your present, Miss Spoilerpants.”

“I only kind of spoiled my Christmas present.”

I shoot her a look. “Right. You wanted one hint. One. And you figured it out from that.”

She grins. “Not my fault you’re not good at surprises,” she teases.

Oh, wait until you see, Em.

“Fair enough,” I say, letting the conversation dissipate into the din of the restaurant as we sit down with Anna and David.

The meal proceeds easily enough, and it’s only after Em finishes opening her presents from Anna and David that I glance across the table from us, looking pointedly at Anna.

“Oh yeah!” she says. “Looks like something’s come in the mail for you.”

She hands a thick manila mailing envelope to Emily. Clearly, it’s been well packed.
“Gallifrey Bureau of Logistics?” Em grins. “Doctor Who. I wonder who THIS is from.”
I laugh. “Open it up.”

Inside is the last book that Emily ever expected to see: Thirteen Little Blue Envelopes, by Maureen Johnson. It’s a favorite of Emily’s, despite her having gone on record with quotes like “okay, it has the girliest cover of all time” and “well, it IS young adult fiction.” Don’t believe it when she downplays the book. She loves every last word.

Not only that, but she’s been trying to get me to read it for ages.

“I know it’s girly, but why don’t you give it a shot?” - Typical Emily plea

“Well, maybe, but it won’t be for a while. I have tons of other studying to do first.” - Typical (of me)
noncommittal topic-ender, specifically as I’m reading the book on the other end of the phone.

Perhaps here is a useful time to describe the basic plot and structure of the book, Thirteen Little Blue Envelopes. It concerns a girl, Ginny, who receives a curious parcel from her Aunt Peg, who until recently, resided in Europe. It's especially curious, because Aunt Peg has been deceased for some time now - it's as if Ginny's aunt is reaching across time to communicate with her niece. 

Inside Ginny's parcel are the eponymous thirteen little blue envelopes, as well as a debit card and a set of instructions telling her how this escapade is going to work. She ends up traveling all around Europe, from London to Italy to France to Greece and more, following the path that Aunt Peg laid out for her before her death. Ginny's travels through Europe mirror the journey that Aunt Peg undertook all those years ago when she arrived, young, inexperienced, and nearly penniless in London.

For being young adult literature, and for being incredibly girly (we're talking about measuring estrogen in quantities usually reserved for the study of astronomy here), it's an incredible book. I chalk this up nigh-upon-entirely to the talent of the author, Maureen Johnson, who manages to nail each separate voice in the story with ease that comes off as casual to the reader. 

All the Doctor Who trappings? I threw those in for fun. 

Chapter 04: April, Or, Of Reservations and Revelations

“Good morning! Victoria and Albert’s speaking - my name is Danielle - how may we serve you?”

I’ve been pacing my tiny office for the longest five minutes ever. My computer’s clock reads “6:57 AM.” The sky outside shows glimpses of light through the cloud cover and I press two fingers to an aching temple. It’s been a long day already.

 “Yes, hey Danielle. My name is James, and I’d like to reserve the Chef’s Table for Saturday, October 13th.”

 This was a long shot.

 Allow me to explain. First things first, Victoria and Albert’s is without question the most expensive and exclusive restaurant that Disney owns. It’s one of the most expensive and exclusive restaurants by any measure, a seven-to-ten-course hurricane of 19th century French opulence and service. This is the sort of restaurant where courses rest in their own private fog banks that creep across your table, and where one finds cuts of beef from cattle fed rice wine and massaged until slaughter. Each meal is a complex production where the supporting cast is quail egg and mushroom cappuccino and savory hypnosis of the nose.

 Meals at Victoria and Albert’s are not eaten. They are experienced.

 This also makes reservations damn hard to come by. And here I am, precisely six months in advance of my day - without even any hotel reservations, park or plane tickets, or any other plans whatsoever - trying to get a seat in the most exclusive room of the most exclusive restaurant. Guess how many Chef’s Tables there are at V&As. One - just one.

But I, as far as I know, am the first one asking for it. It’s why I’ve been carpet bombing their phone all morning. A reservation at all is nigh-on impossible to get to in this place.

 “I’m sorry, sir, but the Chef’s Table is already booked.” I quirk an eyebrow at this. Wait. Taken? How is this possible? I’m the first one allowed to make reservations here. This is the start of the 180-day window-

 “- guests with prior hotel reservations paid in full have an additional 10 days to reserve seats,” says my receptionist, Danielle, completing the sentence she’d begun while I wasn’t paying attention.

 “Well, do you have any spots in the main dining room?” I ask.

 Danielle considers a moment. I can hear the faint chatter of typing from her end. “Yes, we can seat you there. And we will put you on the waiting list in case the Chef’s Table opens up again.”

 “Thank you,” I say, although I’m not hopeful. If someone reserved it one hundred and ninety-four days in advance, it stands to reason they wouldn’t be giving it up. Of course, it’s hard to be too disappointed, as my plan will work regardless of location in V&A’s. And really, when the regular room is $135 a head and extraordinarily exclusive, who can complain too much?

 “Yes, thanks, that’ll be great,” I tell Danielle. “And please let me know if anything comes up.”
 I don’t have long to wait.

A week later, I walk into my office from a morning meeting and my phone shows I’ve missed a call, complete with voicemail.

 Danielle, from Victoria and Albert’s.

 Thirty seconds later, I’m pacing the tiny room waiting for them to answer. Please pick up, I say in my mind. Please.

 “Good morning! Victoria and Albert’s speaking this is - “
 “- Danielle?” I blurt. My tongue is ahead of my brain. “Er, sorry about that. I see I, ah, missed a call from you and when I heard your voicemail - “ At this, my fatigued brain gives a momentary pause, enough for the cool and collected Danielle to swoop in and rescue the conversation.

 “Yes, Mr. Cotton, excellent news. We’re pleased to say that the Queen Victoria Room is still open. Would you like to reserve - “

 “Yes.” There I go again. “Sorry again, Danielle.” She laughs, quite politely. I’m certain she’s spent hours honing that at Disney boot camp. “Quite all right, Mr. Cotton. We get that a lot. I’ll put you down for the Queen Victoria room, Saturday evening, October 13, 2012.”

 “Thank you so much,” I tell her. We exchange a few more service-industry pleasantries, but to be honest, my speech mechanisms are pretty much on Politeness Autopilot at that point. I’m floored. Whatever Disney voodoo spirit has been playing with me has clearly nudged me in the right direction.

There are, after all, regular seats in Victoria and Albert’s, and then there is the Queen Victoria Room. I’ve read the description, but in my myopic frenzy, I never considered the most opulent room of the most opulent restaurant. How could I have overlooked THAT room? For starters, there is exactly one seating per night. Four tables, ten courses, two waiters apiece - who could be sous chefs at lesser restaurants - and unparalleled service. The price is head-spinningly high - two hundred ten dollars a head, before tax, before tip, before any form of alcohol. But then again, this is a once in a lifetime moment.
 “Do it once,” I tell myself, “do it right.”

 Now, all I need is, well, the rest of the vacation to line up perfectly around that event.

Chapter 03: Initial Research

“Please stand clear of the doors. Por Favor Manténgase Alejado de las Puertas.”

 The monorail accelerates beneath us, a white fiberglass cocoon of air conditioning. Even in the (relatively) cool January, it’s still Florida, and we’re at Disney World.

Of course we’re at Disney World.

The intent and purpose of this initial trip, of course, is to go to Harry Potter world. It’s Em’s Christmas present. I’ve spent a few months preparing for it, but just a few weeks ago, she burst the surprise wide open when I made the mistake of giving her a hint that hit a little too close to the mark. I don’t like to pat myself on the back too much, but I think I did well on the setup. I prepared a poem for her, just like the Sorting Hat sings in the Harry Potter books when the new students arrive. (Heck, I had it down to the meter of the poem.) It was hidden in a little old boot in my house that she had to search for - naturally, the boot represented a Portkey, the magic teleportation device from the books, commonly disguised as useless or innocuous objects. Her wonder at the accuracy of Hogsmeade and the wizarding world of Harry Potter has only been eclipsed by how much she wants to go to Disney World while we’re here.

 So naturally, we’re at Disney World.

The monorail gives a little bump and I stagger. Emily beams up at me from the seat. We’re taking a little tour of her favorite kind. It’s pretty simple. All you have to do is pull into a Disney resort like you own the place, then explore it and/or pig out at the restaurants to your arterial content.

 We’re just leaving the Polynesian, and all I can say is: "Wow". As much as these little explorations have gone against my plan, I can’t say I resent them; the Polynesian’s island theming is subtle and spectacular at the same time. A massive waterfall towers in the main lobby, overgrown with jungle plants as you tour upon a cool, black slate floor. The paths outside wind through the jungle while tiki torches burn above you, a romantic touch in the evening air.

 That said, our next stop is the Grand Floridian, and as I step into the lobby, instantly a sense of realization washes over me.

Perhaps it’s the Victorian-esque opulence of the place, where a massive lobby acts as a sounding board for a live jazz band playing big-band arrangements of Disney music. Perhaps it’s the conflux of serenity and bustle to the place, how the grandeur holds these two opposing forces in a pleasing balance.

No, that’s not it.

It’s my right hand, how the blood is being squeezed out of it as Emily draws in a massive breath, her slender little form a coilspring of tension and awe.

 “Dance with me,” she whispers, as we stride out onto the carpet. Nearby, an elderly couple is doing just that. Stiffly, I attempt to convince my anxiety that this is the correct thing to do.

 It is. Those big, steel blue eyes glint with happiness, a reflection of tiny tears in their corners. This is, as I have found, our happy place, here in the opulent heart of the resort. The live jazz rings around us, with Emily’s arms around my shoulders. Like high schoolers dancing to the Goo Goo Dolls’ “Iris,” both couples, old and young, gently rock back and forth in the cool golden air of the Grand Floridian.

 That sense of realization? No different than when I nearly blurted out the magic words in Charlotte. I know for certain now that I will propose here, at Disney World, and heaven permitting in this magnificent hotel. My ability to plan a complex scheme has been confirmed, but my ability to execute it, and critically, to keep it quiet is not.

 Nine and a half months to go.

Chapter 02 - Setback

“She figured it out, didn’t she?” Emily’s roommate Anna asks, shifting on the couch to rest her head on her fist.

 Outside, the barren trees shiver in the chilly December wind. I’m home for a few weeks for Christmas and New Years 2012, and I’ve already hit a snag.

“Yeah,” I tell her, slumping lower in my chair. “She figured it out. One lousy hint was all it took.”

Let’s recap -and perhaps rewind- here.

Approximately one month ago, I began plotting a preliminary surprise for Emily. A test run, if you will. The plan seemed simple to me - come up with a suitably nice experience for Emily’s Christmas present, and lead her on a merry chase to discern its identity. Clever, right? Take her to a place we’ve never been? Throw in lots of creative trappings to confound and entrance her, right?

Wrong.

“Give me a hint,” Emily had said.

It was over the phone, but I could tell that pouty tone in her voice. In person, she’d be giving me The Eyes. I was powerless against The Eyes, because they invariably came accompanied by a puppy dog pout and that subtle inward slouch of the shoulders implying “certainly you’d tell little old me?”.

“No,” I’d told her, throwing the last of my willpower onto my mental campfire like wet tinder. “If I give you a hint, you’ll figure it out.”

“Pleeeeeeeeeaaase,” she’d pleaded. “Just a little hint. You’re so creative with these things. I just want to know a little bit.”

“N-no,” I attempted, but my resolve had cracked. That devious Emily! She knew how to get through my armor, undermining it by playing to my desire for praise.

“I promise I won’t tell you if I figure it out.”

“Aaaargh,” I said, through one layer of clenched teeth and another of my hand over my mouth.

“ONE hint. One really obscure one.” I thought for a while on this one - it had to be tricky and it had to be obscure enough to have multiple possibilities. A solution struck me, a convoluted answer that would no doubt frustrate her.

I had it. “We are going to a place we have been before, but never in person.”

Ha! That would do it. See, metaphorically, we had been to the Harry Potter universe, because we would read it to each other before bedtime each night. (Or, more accurately, I would read it to her, in radio-melodrama fashion, doing all the voices, while she fell asleep.) But, of course, we had never been to the theme park in Orlando, the Wizarding World of Harry Potter.

It was the perfect riddle.

The Sphinx herself would choke on this one, I thought.

“I know where we’re going,” came her reply, smirking straight through the phone. Her tone told me everything - it was over. She’d figured it out.

*****

Fast forward to the present. I’m sitting on the couch, glumly sifting through Anna’s collection of trading cards, registering little of each one.

“This, Anna, is why I cannot be trusted as the sole orchestrator of this thing,” I tell her.

“Yeah, that was a pretty bad move you pulled there,” Anna says. Ever sympathetic, that one.

“Which is why I need your help, Anna. I’ve got a plan and I know you’re a lot better than I am at keeping Em in the dark. I am the world’s worst liar.”

Anna nods, grinning. “Yeah, you kind of are.”

“Then we need to get to work,” I tell her. “You’ll be my first accomplice.”

I pause, mostly for effect.

“We’ve got about ten months.”

Chapter 01: The Realization

Charlotte's spires glint below us as the city's night life wakes. As I look out the window, the sounds of Netflix reach my ears from behind me. Emily, nestled under the covers, is the picture of contentment, with her computer in her lap, a bottle of wine, some cotton candy and the bed warmer on. I've escaped to avoid being baked alive in the reptilian conditions that women seem to favor. We're fourteen floors up in the lovely Omni hotel, in the middle of the Epicenter. The name couldn't be more appropriate for what's nearly happened. You see, I've just caught myself. Three words nearly boiled out of me just now, a combination of "Emily," "me," and that last one, supremely powerful when spoken in the correct order, "marry." What the hell?

We've been together two years now, in the spring of 2011, and looking at the situation like that, those three words - "marry me, Emily," would on paper seem entirely reasonable. But Emily and I have been proceeding with caution. We've both been hurt before in prior dating relationships. We know the value of reason. But that's the thing. Love isn't a perfectly rational concept. Love, by definition, is spontaneous. Uncontrollable. Weird. And at times, it will surprise you. I hadn't even had marriage on the mind until it nearly boiled up and out of me like that. The words lurk somewhere between my tongue and my larynx. They're probably hiding in that hole where my tonsils used to be, waiting for the moment I let my guard down.

It's then I realize that I can see this one aspect of my life stretching before me, a rail of light. It's like the taillights of the supercars that race the streets of Charlotte below us. Perhaps like that train ride scene from "Tron." And as I follow that rail, there's no deviation, no track to switch. It's dawned upon me that I will propose to Emily, because there's nobody else in the world with whom our lives could be complete. One other thing is certain: Emily is both intelligent and perceptive. Hazardously so. And I am not necessarily a creature of subtlety. I very nearly derailed the whole plan right here, without warning. If I'm going to pull this off, I'm going to need a hell of a plan. I'm also going to need an accomplice.