Missti: переводы

→I fling my arms around his neck, holding him so tightly that he finally says in a strangled voice, “Heather, you’re choking me,” but I don’t care, because I’m so happy, I never want to let go.

→“No, it isn’t,” he says firmly. “You should have more fancy things. Put that on and tell anyone who asks that we’re engaged. I want everyone to know, especially my family. And we’re not eloping, not anymore. After you get done billing the pants off Cartwright Records Television for my services, we’re going to be able to afford a wedding at the Plaza. How many people do you want to invite? More important, where do you want to go for our honeymoon? What dolls do you need to add to your collection? Paris? What about Venice? How about—”

→I inhale, shocked. “Cooper,” I say. “You shouldn’t have. It’s too much! It’s too fancy.”

→“Three hundred and fifty dollars,” he says. “That ring was fake, costume jewelry. I went to my friend Sid who works in the diamond district—legally, by the way—and I had him make you an exact replica, but with real jewels, on a real platinum band—”

→I feel absurdly let down. “Oh. A lot, I’ll bet.”

→“Sarah told me when I called the office one day looking for you,” he says. He looks pleased with himself. “You weren’t picking up on your cell. And it’s not the ring from that store on Fifth Avenue. I went to the store on Fifth Avenue to look at that ring. Do you know how much it cost?”

→“I-it’s . . . it’s the ring from that antique store on Fifth Avenue,” I stammer, feeling myself turning red. “H-how did you know I wanted it?”

→I glance from the ring to his face and then back again in astonishment.

→I open it. It’s an oval sapphire on a platinum band, with a cluster of tiny diamonds on either side.

→“Open it and see,” he says.

→I stare down at the box. “What’s this?” I ask suspiciously.

→“I think they should do a docu-reality show about you,” Cooper says, placing a small blue velvet box on my lap. “And call it Freaky Doll Collectors.”

→“I’m going to let Miss Ireland have a little breathing room,” I say. “I think Miss Mexico was giving her an inferiority complex.”

→“Oh yeah?” He’s reaching into the nightstand drawer again—for the remote, I assume.

→“Oh, don’t worry about her,” I say. “I already checked online, and there are a million Spanish flamenco dolls like her that I can buy for about seven dollars. But I decided I’m not going to replace her.”

→“Well, whatever they are,” Cooper says, “we’ve got more pressing things to worry about right now. Like what are we going to do about Miss Mexico?”

→“They aren’t toys,” I say, pulling my hand from his and furtively wiping the tears from my eyes. “They’re young adults who only need positive role models and some guidance and direction in their lives. And room and board in exchange for twenty hours of work at the desk or in my office.”

→“Don’t thank me yet,” Cooper says. “I think I have a pretty good idea how this is going to go, and if you think I’m going to let you adopt every misfit toy you meet in Fischer Hall, you’re nuts.”

→It doesn’t mean I’ve turned my back on Jack, Emily, and Charlotte, I realize. If they happen someday, that’s great. But the pressure of them having to happen someday or I’ll somehow be incomplete or a failure is gone. And that feels almost as good as when Gary Hall took the muzzle of that gun away from my head.

→A tightness I haven’t even realized I’ve been feeling seems to lift from my shoulders, and tears have filled my eyes. I’m not sure if they’re tears of joy, sorrow . . . or relief.