Check this out, K.
I was at work, back after the week of rest that was given to me after the miscarriage. H was back on the promo tour, one after the other, and this time he was in the States for an Ellen guesting (I was sure that I had packed the Ellen boxers she gave them in his luggage), a Today show, and some interviews sandwiched in between.
“So if you’ll be asked about it…?” I remember asking him before he left. He knew what I was referring to.
H was pulling his luggage, already on his way out because T was outside, waiting for him. E will be taking them to the airport because H deemed I am not in the position to drive just yet. I was thankful for that initiative—frankly, I would have taken him to the airport because I wanted to see him off, but with all the press that we’re getting, I knew it was going to be equally crazy just as it has a few days before.
H stopped, parking his luggage, and then enveloped me in his arms, tucking me in lovingly like how a peg fits into its proper hole.
“Well, I don’t think there’s no point denying it, so I’ll just tell them about it,” he whispered, moving his face so our noses touched.
“Can’t you tell your management to put the miscarriage under the no-questions zone?”
He gave me a small smile, this time our foreheads touching. “Luv, it’s fine. I think we shouldn’t let it be an elephant in the room. Eventually they’re going to ask, and eventually I’d have to answer. Besides, they can’t really probe too much on it, because it’s gonna be awkward.” He gave me a soft, lingering kiss, whispered how much he loves me, and then we walked out the door.
I downloaded the video attached to the email sent by CF, who was on tour with the boys. It was a phone video, taken backstage during the interview of the boys. It wasn’t Ellen—the studio was just small, and the only people seemingly present were the boys and the interviewer. [Credit to CF’s non-shaky hands while taking a video. I can’t handle taking a video for longer than two minutes without my hands shaking real bad.]
“There is so proper segue for this, so I’d just plow through it. H, I heard you and your wife recently had a miscarriage,” said the interviewer, a motherly woman with a bright red headband. The awkwardness bloomed almost immediately, and even if I wasn’t there, I could feel the tension in the air. It was probably the first time during their press junket that this was asked.
The camera immediately panned to H’s reaction. There was a bittersweet smile on H’s face, and the other boys had confused looks on their faces. L, in particular, was caught mouthing the word, “wife,” a very puzzled look on his face. I think he was thinking: Did I miss the memo that they got married?
In my head, I was thinking: whoever crafted that statement was smart. Hitting two birds with one stone: knowing if H is already married and if we had miscarried.
“I wish she’s my wife, but she’s not. Not yet, at least,” H quipped, his bittersweet smile morphing into a simple, sad smile, and then he turned serious. “But yep, we did. It’s really unfortunate.”
“It is,” the woman agreed, and I could see it on her face how genuinely sincere she was. “I do hope you guys are both feeling a bit better now.”
H flashed her a real smile, one that he has been known for. “We’re doing okay. Healing. We have friends and family to support us. The boys were with us too.” Silence fell in the room, and H continued. “I guess it’s just really part of the road K and I we’re supposed to travel. It’s not just our time to have a kid.”
“Get her to say yes, first.”
It was L who started to tease, and I knew he was trying to diffuse the awkwardness in the room.
“I’m trying. She won’t say yes,” H said, rolling his eyes, as if this really frustrates him.
“Do you have a ring already?” she asked, and H nodded. “Of course. Asked her three times, she hasn’t said yes.”
“Wow, that woman. So hard to get.”
“I know,” he said, shrugging. “But I’ll never get tired to ask.” He folded his hands on his lap and I knew that was the signal that it was the end of it. I knew he was done hearing it. He wasn’t going to talk about me or the miscarriage anymore, not here or anywhere else.
That was it.
It was still painful—I don’t think it’s really easy to get over a loss of a child, no matter how young it was or how many body parts were already formed—but he wasn’t going to show this type of vulnerability to everyone else. It was his pain and mine, just like this relationship was his and mine.
I exhaled loudly, and then I replied to CF’s email. Oooh, mentioning he asked me thrice to marry him! THAT MAN.
WHY HAVEN’T YOU SAID YES?!?! THREE TIMES? JESUS, K.
Yes, CF’s reply was in all caps.
I grinned, emailing back: Question of the year. :)
CF didn’t reply anymore, but I leaned back, remembering the two other times he had asked me to marry him.
Is there a world record in the number of times you asked someone to marry you in a span of a year?