I fake-elbowed him in the ribs. “You know what I mean.”
Thatcher stepped in front of me and took both my hands, his expression turning more serious. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’m sure. That’s why I brought something.”
He let go with one hand and reached into his coat pocket.
I froze as he pulled out a small, hand-carved wooden box. My breath caught, hard and fast, as the air between us changed.
“You made that, didn’t you?” I asked, touching the edge of the lid. The wood grain had been sanded smooth, the design etched in carefully: wildflowers blooming around a set of pine trees.
“Yeah. Took me a while. I had to get it right. Now before you get any ideas,” he said, flipping it open to reveal a simple gold band with a single round diamond, “I’m not asking you to change your name. I’m not asking you to give up your career. I’m just asking you to keep choosing me. One day at a time.”
My heart cracked wide open. I’d always imagined I’d want something dramatic, something huge. A billboard proposal or a flash mob. But this? This quiet moment in the snow, at our place, with the man who had once warned me to run? This was everything.
I nodded, waiting for the words that would bind us together forever.
“Joely, will you marry me?”
“Yes,” I choked out, my voice thick with emotion.
He tugged off my glove and squeezed my hand in his.
“Nellie’s going to be telling everyone who’ll listen that we’re getting married. You’re not very good at flying under the radar these days, you know that?” I said.
He grinned. “Yeah? Must be the company I keep.”
I laughed and stepped into his arms, kissing him slow and sure. “I choose you, Thatcher Thorne. One day at a time.”
He slipped the ring onto my finger. It wasn’t flashy or fancy. Just warm metal and steady weight. A promise in a circle.
“Let’s celebrate. I brought a thermos,” he said, nudging me toward a fallen log. “And something sweet.”
“You brought snacks to your proposal?”
A slow smiled spread across his lips. “I figured I’d need backup in case you said no.”
I laughed, blinking back a tear that had nothing to do with the cold. “Smart man.”
We sat close, sharing coffee and a couple of cinnamon rolls he’d smuggled from the cafe. I let my head rest on his shoulder.
“What happens now?” I asked.
“We keep doing this. Just living life together. Choosing each other every single day until the end of time.” He paused. “But there’s one more thing I wanted to show you.”
He reached into his coat again, this time pulling out a folded sheet of paper.
I unfolded it and skimmed the top of the flyer.
Hard Timber Outdoor Education & Environmental Writing Residency
Launching Spring Session – Applications now open.
I looked up, stunned. “This is… what is this?”
“I talked to some folks,” he said. “State program, regional grants, private donors. We made room for a seasonal educator and writer-in-residence. You’d be the first.”
“You made a job for me?”
“You already made a life here. This just makes it official.”
