Lakeisha Heeringa
Step One: Have your perfect proposal hinge on the reliability of Frontier Airlines.
Step Two: Make a timed entry reservation for Rocky Mountain National Park and Bear Lake based on step one.
Step Three: Book a photographer for proposal pictures, also based on step one.
I stood in Estes Park’s 271st gift store watching the woman who should’ve been wearing my ring. It was great seeing Rebecca’s excitement as she bought gifts for her family, but I would’ve rather seen the joy in her green eyes as I got down on one knee at Bear Lake—yesterday. Instead, I’d been trying to get a refund from the photographer while Rebecca camped in the airport waiting for Frontier to get its act together.
Sure, the speech I’d been rehearsing for months could wait another day, but tell that to my heart. I’d loved Rebecca since high school. Everyone knew it was meant to be Truce and Rebecca Holcomb forever. College, jobs in different states . . . we were still in love. It was past time to seal the deal.
Step Four: Have an almost-fiancée who loves to shop.
“I’ve got presents for my nephews, a magnet for my aunt, a sweatshirt for Dad . . . .” Rebecca held up her bags, her smile temporarily causing heart failure. Despite the flight fiasco, she was here with me. In Colorado. I needed to pinch myself. But I also had to get her out of Gift Shop Row. The line to enter the park when the gates opened was probably miles long.
“They’re gonna love it, honey.” I took three of her bags. “But we should probably get going. I don’t want you to miss seeing the mountains because it’s dark.”
She laughed and leaned closer. “Who cares about mountains when I can see you?”
We did not look at mountains while we waited in the truck for over an hour. When the park ranger finally waved us onto Trail Ridge Road, I forced myself to start working on Proposal Plan B.
The empty water bottles Rebecca had been guzzling crackled in the backseat as we ascended past Many Parks Curve and Rainbow Curve. I tried to keep my eyes on the road while she used up phone storage at every overlook.
Plan B: Stop at Forest Canyon Overlook. I figured I could ask someone to take our picture and then quickly get down on one knee with the snow-capped mountains as backdrop. It’d be perfect.
Step Five: Misjudge the effects of altitude.
Holding Rebecca in my arms was intoxicating. But holding her up while a random tourist pressed a can of oxygen to her lips was not. She was still pale as death when I helped her back to the truck.
“I should have waited another day before taking you here. You’re not acclimated,” I apologized, leaving the remnants of Plan B in the rearview.
“You make me weak at the knees,” she said.
I managed a grin. Her snark was another thing I loved. “I do think we should stop at the Alpine Visitor’s Center and get a can of oxygen. Mouth-to-mouth might not cut it.”
“We could try.” She grinned.
Step Six: Face insurmountable parking problems.
Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation didn’t happen because all the overlook pull-offs were full. So was the Alpine Visitor’s Center, which had a view that would have worked for Plan C. But by our sixth pass through the parking lot, we had a new problem.
Step Seven: Underestimate a woman’s bladder.
“I could let you off here and just keep circling the parking lot while you go,” I offered.
“I’m fine. I can make it.” She tugged at her seatbelt.
I wasn’t sure what that meant. Like, was she actually fine, or was this borderline emergency?
She flipped through the visitor’s guide. “There’s a bathroom at Milner Pass, we could go there. It’s lower altitude, too.”
So, she was not fine.
Switchbacks offered breathtaking views, but Rebecca wasn’t looking and neither was I. Time to generate Plan D.
I parked in front of the Continental Divide sign and Rebecca bolted for the pit toilets. Mountains towered around us and lush green grass filled the valley. The nerves that irritation had squelched came back with a force. This was almost as bad as April when I circled the block outside her parent’s home for a half hour, trying to work up the nerve to ask for her hand. The neighbors had called the cops to report a suspicious vehicle.
I took a breath. I could do this. She wasn’t going to say no. We loved each other. The ring was everything she could have wanted, plus a couple grand more.
I pulled out my phone and walked over to the only other tourists there. “Excuse me. I was wondering if you could take our picture?”
Step Eight: Fail to navigate a language barrier.
Of all the people I could’ve asked to take proposal pictures, I had to pick the ones from Eastern Europe. Google Translate was useless thanks to the lack of cell service, but when Rebecca emerged from the bathroom, my pathetic sign language seemed to finally make sense. They took our picture, but before I could reach into my pocket for the ring, they returned my phone.
Sitcom romances had better odds than I did.
“This spot is beautiful.” Rebecca spun in a circle, drinking it all in. “Do we have time to explore?”
Maybe I could do this. Hello, Plan E.
I let her lead me down a narrow path through the pines, chalking up my hammering heart to altitude. It was only a matter of time before I needed oxygen. It was now or never.
“Hey, look at this mountain lion track,” I said, dropping to a knee.
Step Nine: Kneel in mud.
I could hardly look as she turned.
Ring box out. Make sure it’s right-side up.
“Truce,” she gasped.
I needed more than just oxygen.
Step Ten: Forget your speech.
“Marry me?”
Lakeisha is an alumna of the Writer’s Police Academy, a member of ACFW, and serves on the board of her local ACFW chapter. When not knee-deep in music and writing, Lakeisha can be found reading, baking, or enjoying the great outdoors.
Connect with Lakeisha on her website, Facebook, Instagram, or Goodreads.
Spark Flash Fiction 