Cause of Death by Laura Dembowski (sci fi books to read .TXT) 📕

she smiles, a genuine smile, and I reciprocate instinctively. Seeing her happy makes me happy. I guess that’s the kind of thing we all look for in a mate.

“Hey,” she says. The word floats through the air like a wisp. It hangs there beautifully. I savor the moment.

“Hi.” I lean down and kiss her gently, just enough to show her I love her, but not so much that later we’ll argue about our public display of affection. “Did you have a good day?”

“I did. Did you?”

“This one case is crazy. I’m glad to be here with you.”

“Me, too,” she says.

We continue talking without missing a beat. After being together for so long, we are truly best friends, and it’s moments like this when I think Tracy is right, and I should go into debt on a ring and a house and spend the rest of my life with her—and Beth on the side.

Amid all the talking, we look over the menus and order. We skip an appetizer in favor of Caesar salads, prepared tableside. For entrees, Tracy orders surf and turf and I order chicken, partly because I like chicken, but mostly because it’s the only entrée on the menu below fifty dollars.

Dessert comes. I am still hungry; the portions at her fancy steakhouse aren’t exactly steakhouse-worthy. They’re more like bird food, if you ask me. I grab my fork and dive into the richest chocolate cake I’ve seen in my entire life. The taste is as good as I imagine, if not better.

Then I notice Tracy’s just staring at her plate. She’s smiling, beaming even, her eyes darting between the plate and me, the plate and me. I take my eyes off of her and look at her plate. A ring is on it. She sees that I’ve seen it. She sees the shock on my face and flashes an evil smile. Only then does she go, “Oh my God, yes, yes. Of course I’ll marry you.”

I have no idea what to say. I just sit there, baffled, frozen, not nearly as happy as she is to apparently be engaged. I know Tracy’s a bit needy, a bit of a drama queen, but no one is perfect, least of all me, so I take her as she is and love her and she does the same for me. But this . . . it’s diabolical; it’s sneaky and underhanded, and it’s just about the last thing I expected to happen at this dinner. I don’t know what to do, so I do nothing.

Doing nothing is driving Tracy up the wall, I realize, as I see her smile waver, but I remain unmoved. She grabs my hands and then gets up and walks over to my chair and kisses me passionately.

After a moment, I kiss back. It’s not like I’m going to stand up in the middle of this restaurant and walk away from her. Mostly because I know she’d just run after me, partly because I don’t want to be the bad guy. Suddenly I’m not sure what I’ve gotten myself into.

She sits back down after a kiss that lasted far too long for public consumption and puts the ring on her finger.

“It’s beautiful,” she says, admiring the rock she must have found at work and paid for God knows how. The couple next to us offers to take a photo after saying congratulations, along with just about the entire restaurant. She hands over her phone and poses eagerly for the pic. I’m sure I look dumbfounded; I’ll check it out later. I’m sure it will be all over social media so she can receive more public congratulations.

It is a rather nice ring, I must admit. It’s big enough to be noticeable but not gaudy, a square stone, set in platinum. I can’t figure out what she loves more—me, or just the ring and the idea of marriage.

Since we drove separately to the restaurant, we leave separately, her beaming, me looking like I just watched my dog die. I know she’s coming to my house without a single doubt in my mind. Sure enough, we arrive at just about the same time. I pull the car into the garage and she pulls in right next to me. I wave so she’ll get out of the car first, which she does. Then she stands there, in the shadows, waiting to pounce on me, a lioness hungry for some prey.

“Can’t we at least get in the house first?” I ask.

“You didn’t mind being frisky in the garage that one summer, you know, after that concert. We were hot and sweaty and a little drunk and had danced all night. Remember? That was the best sex I’ve ever had.”

Actually, I do remember; clearly she doesn’t. It was messy, sloppy, fast sex before I had to carry her into the house so she could sleep it off on the sofa because she was so drunk. I was sober.

“It was nice,” I say, hoping to avoid conflict, “but I’ve had a long day, and I’d really like to go in the house.”

“Okay,” she pouts.

I open the door and we walk inside. She’s all over me. She’s tugging off my jacket and rubbing her hands all over my chest.

“Trace, we need to talk.”

“We can talk later,” she says in a quiet, sexy kitten voice.

“No, we need to talk now,” I say, gently pushing her away and walking to the other side of the room so she can’t immediately jump back on top of me.

“What?” she asks innocently, blinking her eyes at me, trying to be sexy but failing. I’m trying to avoid laughing, as I don’t see that helping this situation in the least.

“What the fuck was that?”

“What?” she repeats, totally playing dumb, even though I know she’s not dumb. She’s smart. Too smart for her own good.

“You . . . you faked a proposal. I don’t even know how or why you’d do that,” I say, my voice raised to a tone I don’t