“Yes,” I say.
He smiles at me. The smile of assurance, warmth. It’s a smile of certainty. “Daphne,” he says, “will you marry me?”
There is only one answer to this question.
“Yes.”
Jake’s face flushes with relief and pride and the purest joy, so exquisite I want to bottle that, this look on his face.
All my life I believed that it was the person who mattered, that once you met “the one” you’d enter through a magical door where it was all on the table. I see him holding it, now. I see everything he has to offer inside. I see a life.
He puts a small box on the table. I peel open the top. Inside is an emerald with a pave diamond band. It’s modern, beautiful, and a little bit badass. It’s perfect for me, honestly. Now that it’s here, I can’t imagine anything else.
“I love it,” I say.
Jake smiles. “Kendra helped me pick it out.”
He plucks the ring out of the box. I hold out my hand.
“Here.”
It fits exactly right. I lift it up to the deepening sky, right over the horizon. The emerald catches the last brilliant rays of the disappearing sun.
Chapter Thirty
I show up to work the next day to find that Irina has erected aCONGRATULATIONS, GRADUATE!banner over the kitchen island. There are balloons and a giant Ring Pop, the size of my hand.
“Wow,” I say. “Word travels fast.”
“Kendra called,” she says. “Let me see it.”
I hold my hand out to her, and she surveys it, flipping my wrist back and forth like she’s a doctor at an exam.
“So fine; it’s gorgeous. He’s like perfect or something?”
“Or something,” I say.
Irina hands me a coffee that has just finished in the Nespresso. I set my bag on a stool and lean over the counter.
“And he took it like a champ,” she says. It’s not a question. It’s a reminder, maybe.
I look at her. She’s got on high-waisted jeans and a white bodysuit. Her hair is pulled back in a low bun. She doesn’t have a stitch of makeup on, and her skin is flawless—radiant and rosy.
“You know, until Jake you were the only one besides my family, Hugo, and some friends from college who knew about my heart.”
Irina nods. “It’s my trustworthy face,” she deadpans. “And the fact that I made you fill out insurance forms.”
I shake my head. “No. You never treated me any differently. You never made me feel like I had something to make up for, or that there were things I couldn’t do.”
“You can’t pick out a proper handbag,” Irina says, gesturing to the leather satchel that’s with me. “So I’d hold on to some modesty.”
I shake my head. “That’s not what I mean.”
Irina touches my hand. “I know what you mean,” she says. “But this relationship is like fight club. It works because we don’t talk about it.”
She turns around, back to the sink, and sets her coffee cup inside.
“I love you,” I tell her.
