“Not these ones,” he signs.
I tilt my head in question.
“They’re a new variety. I bredA Rare BeautywithThe Boy at Sealast summer.”
My chest clenches.The Boy at Seais a variety of yellow rose he told me his father bred for him.
I go up to a rosebush, my hands shaking as I reach for a bloom. Up close, I can see the details aren’t exactly what I expected. The edges of the peach petals are red, making the blooms beautifully variegated. A perfect combination of two roses, with all their thorns.
It smells, somehow, like roses and the sea.
“What are you calling it?” I sign to him after I’ve released the bloom.
“I was thinking aboutYou Think About What You Did, You Fuck.”
I nearly choke.
Clint laughs. “I’m sorry. That’s still the best thing anyone’s ever said to put a man in his place.”
I give him a little shove, but it’s half-hearted. I’m laughing too hard.
“Okay, how about Cat-Boss Barbara? No, I know. The Jilted Bride!”
“Stop!” I exclaim, wheezing now.
When I finally catch my breath, I find Clint watching me, a goofy smile on his face.
“Okay, what did you really call it?” I ask, feeling a blush of self-consciousness at his appraisal, even though it’s hardly a rare thing.
He makes a sign I don’t recognize.
“What does that mean?” I sign.
“It meansMarry Me,” he says out loud.
My eyebrows lift, and I smile. “That’s a beautiful name.”
But Clint continues watching me as he drops to one knee. “Yes,” he signs. “But it’s a question too.”
He reaches into his pocket.
My stomach does a full roll.
When he opens it, my heart practically explodes in my chest. Because there is my grandmother’s ring. I handed it to him last year, telling him to give it to me whenever he was ready, whether that was to ask me to leave or to ask me to stay. I never wanted him to feel any pressure either way.
But here it is—hereheis. Grandma would have swooned, just like I am now. I look at this man, then out to the sea beyond, where I swear I see a fishing boat, Dad on deck, waving proudly.
Then he’s gone, and Clint is too, lost behind my blurred eyes and the emphatic “Yes,” signed with my hands. After that, all I can feel is the man I love. I leapt on him and can’t seem to let him go. So we stay like that, both of us crying as I whisper all the ways I love him, letting my words carry away on the wind to the sea.
Eventually, Clint lays down our blanket, setting the picnic basket he packed down next to it. Beyond a beautiful meal, inside is a bottle of champagne on ice, which we pop to toast the retreat center, but mostly us.
Then Clint declares he’s going to eat his dessert first.
When he does, I call his name louder than I ever have before.
After, we lie in the sun, full and happy, a little tipsy on champagne and life and each other.
“What are you thinking?” I sign to him a few minutes later, as I walk around, half dressed, determined to smell all the blooms ofMarry Me.
