The Box: A Sequel

Previously: Avoiding eye contact with me, Chris stares intently at the viewport. "You know," he starts hesitantly, "when I was sick as a child, my parents read to me to help me fall asleep." Then he quickly adds, "Not that I am sick, but I could use sleep. There's a box in the closet with a few favorites."

A brief search produces the right box. "Where did you find all these 20th century and ancient books? The Lord of the Rings, Black Beauty, Watership Down, A Christmas Carol. I see the pattern continues. The Chronicles of Narnia. Did your father have you debate the religious symbolism after reading that series?"

"Of course. The books were gifts from my grandfather. He read to me also."

I keep digging through the box. And pull out a model of an old WWII plane. "Did you build this?"

"Yes. Maybe we could rummage through my childhood things another day?"

Two weeks later

Chris greets me with a kiss at the door of his quarters which we unofficially but practically share. It begins chaste with his lips brushing against mine, then deepens with his hands cupping my cheeks, and skirts intimate without venturing into French with his arms nestling me against him. I am breathless when we break contact, and my legs feel insubstantial; I lean on his chest for support.

"Good day?" he asks.

"It is now," I murmur.

"Want a repeat?"

I nod. The second kiss does not disappoint and remains on the teen side of movie ratings. Hand clasping mine he leads me to the sofa and offers a glass of a wine before sitting by my side, not close enough we constantly touch, yet comfortably within a handspan's reach. We sip our drinks in comfortable silence, his a harder liquor than wine. These ordinary domestic moments are a favored part of my day.

Noticing the box on the low coffee table I lean forward. Before I can vocalize the obvious question Chris explains with a shrug, "I promised you could look through it. You've been remarkably patient, for you, not pressing for the chance sooner." His hand gestures in permission. "Go ahead."

My glass is deposited on the table and the lid is off the box before his sentence ends. I carefully set aside the books I've already seen and the meticulously built model airplane.

"I have a real one of those at home," he remarks. "It saw action during World War II. My grandfather and I restored it. I'll take you flying next leave."

I raise a skeptical eyebrow. Chris is not, shall we say, astute with mechanics.

Guessing my thoughts he assures, "One of Granddad's former students maintains it. Though I'm better with repairs than you give me credit for."

"Of course," I reply with a smile. The next item is another book, a compilation of Jules Vern's Extraordinary Voyages. I lay it to the side so we can read it together.

I pull out a canister-like item about fifteen inches in length constructed from silver metal. It's circumference is too small for my grip. By the shine I conclude it is regularly polished. There is a small button on the side. I can never resist pushing an unknown button …

When a two-foot cylinder of blue light extends from the metal hilt, I yelp and quickly drop the contraption onto the floor. Contact with the ground switches it off, the low hum fades along with the light beam, and the toy (I add a question mark in my mind to that assumption) rolls under the sofa. "What the hell?"

Chris stares at me as if I have grown a second head in the past few seconds. He sputters, "You … don't know … how is that possible?" He carefully retrieves and reactivates the device, swishing it through the air with precise measured strokes. "You know, light sabers?"

My expression remains puzzled and blank.

"Jedi Knights?" he tries.

I shake my head.

"The Force?" he prompts. Now his tone is disbelieving.

I raise my shoulders and arms, palms facing up, indicating I have no idea what he is talking about.

"We are having a movie night soon to fix the gaps in your cultural education," Chris promises. "It's a weapon. I mean a child's toy replica of an imagined weapon. One wielded by those who take an oath vowing protection to those in need. Wielded by those who defend against tyrants, dictators, and others who misuse power."

"Oh," is my unconvincing answer. "Jedi?" I query.

"Imagine the Knights Templar with laser swords," Chris describes in terms I will understand.

"Oh. Okay. And as a child you pretended to be one of these Jedi crusaders accompanied by your trusted light saber?"

"Jedi Knight," he emphasizes. "And yes."

"This explains so much about how you became you." I look Chris up and down. "Did you keep your phaser blade in a holster?"

"No, it clips to a belt or waistband," Chris explains while demonstrating. "And the laser light is generated by various crystals rendering different colors which have meaning. Blue is for a guardian." He notes my quivering shoulders. "What's funny?"

I flash my most angelic, innocent smile. "I'm not teasing you; I promise. It's cute, little Chris running around the ranch saving the galaxy with his, what did you call it?"

"Light saber."

"Adorable," I pronounce.

Next are three astrophysics textbooks, one published in the 21st century, one from the 1900s, one appears a decade or two old based on its limited wear and tear. I hold up the newest in a silent question.

Chris reaches for it and thumbs the pages. He smiles after reading an inscription on the inside back cover. "Dad gifted me with one at the start of my sophomore, junior, and senior years at the Academy. His unique way of not so gently reminding another failing grade was a nonstarter."

"Your father must have a wicked sense of humor," I observe.

"You have no idea."

The box contained other odds and ends including two dimensional pictures of family and horses proving Chris' dislike of holographic images stretched back to childhood, as well as various athletic awards mostly concentrated in track and field contests. At the bottom, resting in a corner, is a trophy. I carefully lift it out. He quickly intercepts and deposits the prize on a side table out of my reach, facing it to the bulkhead.

Before it was whisked away, I caught part of the inscription – Winner, Starfleet Academy Decathlon for two years in a row. I suspect the rest of the text honors second and/or third place finishes in his freshman and sophomore years. Chris' humility isn't a prop; it isn't feigned. It's genuine; I like and respect that part of him. So I won't seek out the trophy later to finish reading its inscription.

The last item is a midnight blue box with rounded corners. My fingertips brush it, the surface is soft velvet. I cradle it in my palm. "Family heirloom?"

"Perhaps," Chris answers in a nonchalant tone.

For an inexplicable reason I feel permission is needed before opening the tiny box. "May I?"

"Please do."

Light bounces off the brilliant diamonds circling the dainty anniversary band. I look to Chris; my eyes search his.

"Let's ride into the sunset together," he says.

His words breakthrough my reverie. I manage a strangled, "Wwwhat?"

"I'm pretty sure you heard me."

"Are you proposing to me or your horse?"

The dimples appear. "You get your own horse for the aforementioned ride."

Dozens of thoughts swirl through my mind, pushing my emotions up and down like a teeter-totter.

Then I get it.

This isn't going to make the top ten list of worst proposals ever.

It is one of the best. This innately kind man is carefully shielding me.

I reach up and kiss his cheek. "Thank you."

"That's an untypical response."

I shake my head. "Not really, no. Refusing is easier when the question is couched in humor."

Chris brushes a stray lock of hair behind my ear. "Declining an invitation for coffee is hard for you. I wanted to minimize bruising your tender heart if marriage isn't what you want."

"How could you think I would say no? I love you."

He answers, "We've known each other for only a short time. I can be overly decisive …"

I smile.

"I mean," he clarifies, "This proposal may feel hasty, but why wait to begin building a life together?" A pause. "Will give your heart into my keeping?"

I hand him the velvet box. He slips the ring on my finger. Our lips meet sealing the pact. I settle against his side ensconced by his arm, mine wraps around his waist. The room is silent except for the faint hum of the warp engines. Time halts.

"Christopher, I'm not getting married in a barn …"