Let me set the scene. It's our two-year anniversary. Marcus has been suspiciously secretive for a week — whispering into his phone, closing laptop tabs when I walk by, looking extremely proud of himself in a way that genuinely worried me.
I came home to candles. Everywhere. Not in a "soft lighting" way. In a "we may actually need the fire extinguisher" way. There were seventeen candles on the kitchen table alone. I counted. The smoke detector had already given up and was just sitting there, battery removed, on the counter like a little surrendered flag.
"I looked up how to set a romantic mood," he told me, gesturing at the table like a game show host revealing a car.
The table was set with our nice plates — the ones we got from his mom — and in the center was a single rose in a vase. The vase was a mason jar. The mason jar still had a faint Ring of Death from where spaghetti sauce had lived in it previously. I could see the ghost of a Prego label.
I sat down. I said nothing. I have learned, over two years, to simply receive.
He had made steak. This sounds impressive until I tell you Marcus has never intentionally made steak before in his life. He had, however, watched four YouTube videos that afternoon, which he felt was essentially the same as culinary school. The steaks were served with what he called "a red wine reduction" and what I would call "wine he forgot about on the stove while he was arranging candles."
"I think it's supposed to be a little thick," he said, tilting the saucepan toward me.
It was the texture of syrup. Dark, slightly burnt wine syrup.
"Totally," I said.
Here is the thing about Marcus's steak: it was actually fine. Genuinely, shockingly fine. Medium-rare, rested properly, seasoned well. I don't know how. I don't think he knows how. I think the YouTube videos entered him on a spiritual level and guided his hands.
I told him it was good and he looked so relieved I thought he might cry.
Then he said, "I also made dessert," and produced, from the refrigerator, a chocolate lava cake. Store-bought, still in the plastic bakery container, with the grocery store sticker on it. He had placed a single strawberry on top. The strawberry was not cut or prepared in any way. It was just a strawberry. A whole, full strawberry, stem and everything, sitting on top of a plastic container of lava cake like a tiny edible hat.
"I was going to make one from scratch," he said, "but then I read the recipe and it said 'bain-marie' and I didn't want to risk it."
I nodded. Completely reasonable.
He lit the candles on the table — there were so many candles — and we ate our grocery store lava cake in the flickering near-dangerous glow of what I can only describe as a fire hazard with ambiance. He'd made a playlist. It was called "Romantic Diner" and it had clearly been assembled in about eleven minutes. The third song was from the Shrek soundtrack. Not "I'm a Believer." A different one. When it came on he just looked at the ceiling and said, "I'll fix the playlist next year."
After dinner he gave me a card. On the front it said HAPPY BIRTHDAY in big letters. He had crossed out BIRTHDAY in pen and written ANNIVERSARY above it. Underneath, in his handwriting: "You are my favorite person in every room you're in. Even rooms with lots of people. Especially those."
Reader, I cried.
I cried at the crossed-out birthday card next to the Prego ghost jar next to the seventeen candles next to the whole entire untouched strawberry, and I meant every tear.
When I thanked him he shrugged and said, "I just wanted it to be special."
It was, baby. It really, really was. Just not in any of the ways you planned.