My third shirt.
In the past hour.
The first one—my favorite blue button-down—had somehow looked too formal when I caught my reflection in the bedroom mirror. The second, a casual polo, felt too ordinary for what was supposed to be a life-changing moment. But shit, we were headed to the park. It was spring, but Atlanta humidity had already kicked it. What was I thinking?
I tossed those aside in favor of a royal blue T-shirt, the one that brought out my eyes according to Debbie, who was currently sitting on my bed providing color commentary on my nervous breakdown.
“Daddy, you’re being weird,” she announced, swinging her legs over the edge of the mattress. The plastic tiara perched on her head caught the morning light, its faux diamonds sparkling alongside the tiny dragon head that roared from its center—acustom addition she’d insisted on after our conversation about “Operation Dragon Wedding.”
“I’m not being weird, Button. I’m just . . . making sure I look nice for Willie Wee.”
“You always look nice. He thinks you’re beautiful even when you have bedhead and morning breath.”
“Thank you for that touching assessment of my romantic appeal,” I said dryly, though my heart was hammering so hard I was surprised she couldn’t hear it from where she sat.
The box sitting on the nightstand felt like it weighed forty pounds as I lifted it to examine the wrapping for the twentieth time. I’d been carrying it around for two weeks, ever since I’d finally worked up the courage to walk into the jewelry store downtown and explain to the bemused salesperson I needed something that would make a delivery man who collected people’s hearts cry happy tears.
The ring itself was perfect—a simple white gold band with a small but brilliant diamond, classic enough to wear every day but special enough to represent forever. The box, however, was wrapped in brown shipping paper with a printed label that read “Jeremiah Mikel” and my home address—because if I was going to propose to the man who’d literally delivered love to my doorstep, I was going to do it right. I wanted to clearly communicate, “You’re moving in whether you like it or not.”
My phone buzzed with a text, making me jump like I’d been electrocuted.
Postie: Heading to my apartment to grab the soccer ball. See you and Princess in an hour at the park. Meet at our bench?
Perfect.
Just like I’d planned.
Though calling it a plan was generous—it was more like a carefully orchestrated series of white lies designed to getJeremiah away from us while I had my nervous breakdown in private and tried to remember how to breathe normally.
The soccer ball excuse was particularly weak, considering we had at least two in our garage, but Jeremiah had agreed without question—probably because he was used to my occasionally inexplicable requests and had learned not to ask too many follow-up questions when I got that particular tone in my voice.
“Are you ready, Button?” I asked, checking my reflection one more time and immediately regretting it. My hair was doing that thing where it stuck up at odd angles despite my best efforts with gel, and my face looked pale and slightly green around the edges.
“I’ve been ready forever, Daddy. You’re the one who keeps changing shirts like this is a fashion show.” She hopped off the bed and struck a pose. “Do I look fancy enough for Willie Wee’s special day?”
She was wearing her favorite sundress—the purple one with tiny unicorns and gold thread embroidered around the hem—paired with white sandals that lit up when she walked and the ridiculous dragon tiara that had become her signature accessory. She looked absolutely perfect, like a tiny fairy-tale princess ready to ascend her throne for the very first time.
“You look beautiful, sweetheart. Willie Wee is going to be so happy you dressed up for him.”
“When he says yes, can I be the one to tell him about the wedding plans? I have so many ideas, and Mrs. H said she’d help me make a list of all the Scottish traditions we need to include. She, um, also said she’d cook for the reception—”
“Oh, no,” I groaned.
Debbie nodded. “Oh, yes.”
“Wait . . .whenhe says yes?” My voice cracked slightly. “Not if?”
Debbie rolled her eyes with the exasperated patience of someone explaining something obvious to a slow adult. “Daddy,Willie Wee looks at you like you’re made of ice cream and he hasn’t eaten in a week. Of course he’s going to say yes.”
Her confidence should have been reassuring.
Instead, it made my anxiety spike even higher.
What if she was wrong?
What if I’d misread all the signals?
What if Jeremiah’s casual comments about “when we get married” had just been hypothetical daydreaming and he wasn’t actually ready for this level of commitment?
