Dominic’s foundation was thriving. Dominic had expanded from six pilot schools to fourteen in two years, hired a full-time program director to work alongside Amrita, and secured partnerships with arts organizations across the city. He was happier than Charlotte had ever seen him — lighter, looser. He still came to P.S. 34 at least once a week, ostensibly to "check in on program implementation," though his check-ins had a suspicious tendency to coincide with Charlotte's free periods and always seemed to end with the two of them sharing lunch in her classroom.
Her students had figured this out immediately. Fourth graders were ruthless observers of adult behavior.
"Miss Hoffman, your boyfriend's here again," one of her students had announced in the middle of a math lesson, when Dominic appeared in the doorway with two coffees and a bag from the bodega.
"He's here for a program meeting."
"He's here because he looooves you," Sofia had singsonged from the back row, and the entire class had dissolved into giggles.
“She's not wrong,” Dominic had said, handing Charlotte her coffee. The class had erupted again, and Charlotte had sent him away before the lesson was completely unsalvageable, but she'd been smiling for the rest of the afternoon.
It had taken some time for Charlotte to agree to marry him. He’d had to propose four times.
The first time was six months after the gala. Dinner at Nick's — their booth, their waitress, Gloria refilling their coffee with a grin that said she already knew. He'd gotten down on one knee between the vinyl seats. Charlotte had burst into tears, but said, "Not yet."
He'd gotten up, sat back down, and said, "Okay. Can I still have my burger?" She'd laughed so hard she'd choked on her water, and Gloria had brought them both free pie.
The second time was on a Saturday morning in the new brownstone they lived in together. He'd made pancakes — successfully, a milestone — and hidden the ring in a bowl of strawberries. She'd nearly swallowed it.
After the Heimlich scare subsided and they'd both stopped shaking, she'd said, "That was either the worst proposal or the best assassination attempt."
"Is that a no?" he'd asked.
"It's still a not yet."
The third time was at her parents' house, during Sunday dinner. Dominic had proposed after dessert, in the living room, with her parents watching. Charlotte had cried and said, "Almost."
Her mother had also cried. Her father had gone to the kitchen and come back with beer for everyone, including Charlotte, which was his version of sayingtake your time, sweetheart.
The fourth time, he'd used her students.
It was a Monday morning, a new school year, a new class of fourth graders who didn't know Charlotte's history but had met Mr. Weston during the Welcome Back assembly and decided he was acceptable because he'd let them draw on his shoes with markers. Charlotte had walked into her classroom to find every desk holding a piece of paper, each one with a letter written in careful fourth-grade handwriting. She'd gone from desk to desk, collecting them, and when she'd arranged them in order, they spelled: WILL YOU MARRY DOMINIC?
She'd turned around. Dominic was standing in the doorway. Jeans, henley, chalk dust on his sleeve from helping set up the art station.
And she just knew.
"Yes," she said.
The classroom had erupted into cheers. Dominic crossed the room, his eyes full of love, and kissed her.
Now Charlotte stood barefoot on a Montauk beach with her father beside her.
He was in khakis and a button-down, no jacket, his good watch glinting in the late-afternoon sun. His eyes were red. His hands were at his sides, then clasped in front of him, then at his sides again.
"You okay, Dad?"
"I'm fine. It's the wind."
"There's no wind."
"There's a breeze. I have sensitive eyes." He offered his arm. "You look like your mother the day I married her. Didn't scare me this time, though."
"No?"
"No. This time I know the guy deserves it."
She grinned and took his arm. The linen of his shirt was warm from the sun. Familiar. Solid.
