I’ve carried the ring for four days.
Four days of keeping it in the inside pocket of whatever jacket I’m wearing, checking it every hour like I’m afraid it will vanish. Four days of waiting for the perfect moment that never quite felt perfect enough.
Tonight has to be it.
The clock is creeping toward midnight. Outside, snow is falling again (soft, steady, the kind that makes the world feel brand-new). Inside, the countdown is about to start.
I cross the room, ignoring the cousins trying to pull me into selfies, the aunt asking about my “bachelor status,” the uncle who wants to talk stock options. I have tunnel vision and her name is Savannah Banks.
She sees me coming. Her smile falters, then widens, and she excuses herself from Ellie mid-sentence.
“Hi,” she says when I reach her, soft and shy, like we haven’t spent every night this week tangled in my sheets.
“Hi.” I slide my hand into hers, thumb brushing over the place where my ring is going to live in about five minutes. “Dance with me.”
There’s no dance floor, just a wide stretch of rug in front of the tree, but I pull her into my arms anyway. The quartet has switched to a slow, aching version of “Auld Lang Syne,” and the room fades to a low hum.
She melts against me, cheek to my chest, arms around my waist. I rest my chin on her head and breathe her in.
“You okay?” she asks, voice muffled against my shirt.
“Never better.” I press a kiss to her hair. “Just needed you close.”
We sway like that for a minute, maybe two. The countdown starts somewhere in the background.
Ten.
Nine.
I pull back just enough to see her face. Her eyes are bright, reflecting the tree lights.
Eight.
Seven.
I reach into my inside pocket. My fingers close around the small velvet box I’ve touched a thousand times in the dark.
Six.
Five.
Her breath catches. She knows.
Four.
I drop to one knee right there on the Persian rug, in front of the tree, in front of fifty relatives who suddenly go dead silent.
Three.
I open the box. The ring is a 3-carat oval diamond set in rose gold, surrounded by a halo of tiny emeralds the exact color of her eyes when she’s happy. I had it made the day after the boathouse.
Two.
“Savannah,” I start, and my voice cracks like I’m sixteen again and asking her to homecoming with a Ring Pop. “I have loved you since you were fifteen years old and stole my hoodie because you said it smelled good. I loved you the night you let me back in and forgave me for being an idiot.
Her hands are over her mouth, tears already falling.
One.
