The Proposal I Was Never Sure I Wanted
By six o’clock that Friday evening, Grant Hollowell’s future had already been arranged for him.
His charcoal suit had been delivered from a tailor on Chicago’s Oak Street. His grandfather’s silver cuff links rested perfectly beneath his sleeves. Inside the breast pocket of his jacket was a diamond ring chosen after three meetings with a private jeweler and several quiet conversations with his mother.
At eight, Grant was expected to ask Camille Redford to marry him during a private reception at the Hollowell family’s glass rooftop garden overlooking Lake Michigan.
Everyone important would be there. His mother. Camille’s parents. Several board members. Two senior partners from Redford Capital. The marriage would strengthen a business partnership that both families had been building for years.
There was only one problem.
Grant respected Camille, but he had never loved her. He had learned long ago that men born into families like his were expected to treat personal happiness as negotiable.
That evening, he had almost convinced himself he could do it.
Then he walked into the restroom of the restaurant downstairs.
Four little boys in matching navy sweaters stood near the sinks, trying to dry their hands beneath an automatic dryer that seemed determined not to cooperate. They looked about six years old.
Grant smiled briefly and stepped toward the mirror.
Then one of the boys pushed his dark hair away from his forehead with two fingers, tilted his head, and rubbed the back of his neck.
Grant froze.
Another boy did exactly the same thing. Then the third. Then the fourth.
Grant stared at their reflections.
His father had teased him about that habit since childhood. Whenever Grant felt nervous, he pushed his hair back before touching the left side of his neck.
One of the boys noticed him watching.
“Why are you staring at us?”
Grant blinked.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
The boy narrowed his gray eyes.
“You do the neck thing too.”
Grant slowly looked at himself in the mirror. Same gray eyes. Same narrow chin. Same slight crease beside the left cheek when they smiled. Even their eyebrows reminded him of photographs taken when he was a child.
The tallest boy offered his hand with surprising confidence.
“I’m Miles. Those are Mason, Micah, and Milo. We’re brothers.”
Grant shook his tiny hand automatically.
“All the same age?”
Miles grinned.
“We’re quadruplets.”
Grant felt something tighten in his chest.
“Where’s your father?”
The boy’s smile faded.
“We don’t have one.”
Grant swallowed.
“And your mother?”
Miles pointed toward the restaurant.
“She works here.”
Grant followed the direction of his finger.
And six years disappeared in a single heartbeat.
