It’s not at all what I expected my forever relationship to look like.
It’s messier and sillier and far less organized.
And I love it.
I love it so much, I’m grinning like an idiot as I collect the hose from its stand, coiled by the back fence.
The strawberry patch sprawls along the garden’s edge, and Makena’s right, the plants are looking pretty droopy.
“Hang on, babies,” I murmur, dragging the hose free. “Auntie Charlotte’s got you.”
I turn the spigot, and water surges through the hose with a satisfying rush. Moving closer to the plants, I angle the light spray over the thirsty berries, watching the soil darken as it drinks deep.
I’m admiring the cucumber starts and the way the dill is going positively feral in its raised bed, when I see it…
There, between the dill and mint, is a small statue I don’t remember from before. It’s a woman made of stone, wearing a toga with wheat strapped to her back. In her hands, she holds a bowl, outstretched toward me as if in offering. She reminds me of Ceres, the Roman goddess of fertility.
Which reminds me of that night in June all over again.
Yes, I’d had a couple of glasses of chardonnay, but I clearly remember telling Nix Roman people used to have sex in the fields as an offering to Ceres as I kissed him across the grass.
Could this…
I step closer, my instincts screaming that this is way too on-the-nose to be a coincidence. I angle the spray to hit the mint, clearing my view, and I see it.
What’s resting in the bowl.
It’s a ring, an antique by the look of it. A gorgeous, verylargediamond that catches the afternoon light and throws it back in dazzling sparkles. The band is delicate, intricate. Likely Art Deco, if I had to guess.
It’s an engagement ring. A forever ring.
And suddenly…
“Oh my God,” I whisper, blood rushing to my cheeks.
My pulse picks up, my throat tightens, and then—just as I’m about to reach for the ring—a rush of cold water soaks the bottom of my pants before running down to pool in my loafers.
“Shit!” I jerk the nozzle back to the plants, but it’s too late.
I glance down to see my Gucci loafers turning dark brown in the middle of the mud puddle I’ve created near a recently perked up strawberry plant. I jump back onto the lawn, wiping them as best I can on the grass, but I suspect this is the kind of fashion emergency that can only be solved with blotting, air drying, and liberal application of leather conditioner.
I’m trying to remember if I have any conditioner left in my stash in the closet when the hose shuts off, and a deep voice rumbles, “Shit. Did I fuck this up? Are your shoes ruined?”
I spin to see Nix by the hose stand, looking repentant.
He’s wearing a linen shirt—pale blue, sleeves rolled to his elbows—and dark jeans I bought for him last month. They cling in all the right places, and his hair is slightly mussed, like he’s been running a hand through it too often. The combo is enough to have my nerve endings tingling even before I remember what this is.
Why we’re here.
“Who cares about the shoes,” I whisper, gaze locking on his as I drop the hose. “Makena tricked me, didn’t she?”
He nods, his lips curving. “Yeah, she did. But it’s for a good cause.” He exhales a slightly nervous laugh. “At least I think so. Hopefully…” He sinks to one knee in the grass, sending happy tears stinging into my eyes. “I’ve been searching for the perfect words for months, since I bought that ring in Paris. I’ve gone to the philosophers, the poets, the mystics, but none of them got it quite right. Because none of them knew you.”
I pull in a shuddery breath. “You’re going to make me cry.”
“Good,” he says, his eyes shining, too, as he reaches up, taking my hand. “You always cry when you’re happy. Or angry. You don’t cry as much when you’re sad. You get quiet and thoughtful and just…let it be. You don’t fight or rage or hide. You accept that sometimes sadness comes, and that’s okay. It’s one of the things I love about you. One of the hundreds of things I love about you.”
I fight to swallow past the tightness in my throat, tears slipping down my cheeks as he adds, “I love your smile and your laugh and the way you’re never stingy with either. I love your generosity and your kindness and how you refuse to take shit from people looking to abuse either one. I love every piece of you—warrior, scholar, lover, thinker, and an artist who brings beauty to everything she touches. Especially people. Especially me.”
