Page 140 of The Statistically Unlikely Reunion

“Did you find another cat for us to adopt?”

I shake my head, because I don’t want her to get too excited.

Because Pasadena has a coyote problem (and also a traffic and car and human problem), we weren’t able to let the cats be as free range as she’d originally envisioned. But we’d found contractors who specialized in building overly elaborate, borderline ostentatious “catios,” large outdoor enclosures with climbing areas that our current three (Godel, Escher, and Bach, another book reference, because of course that’s how Lorelai rolls) senior cats roam.

“Better than another cat.”

“Very little is better than another cat.”

“I’ll be sure to tell Aurora you said so.” I open the puzzle box, one of several from a specially ordered set, that’s been on top of the armoire, hiding in plain sight for weeks. Though she’s clever about solving them when engaged, Lorelai always claims to hate purposeless riddles, meaning it was the safest hiding space in the house.

I unclick the mechanisms quickly and withdraw an intricately folded origami lotus.

It took me six attempts before I perfected the first one. I’d had to special-order paper, so it could all be done in one piece. It’s not a detail Lorelai is ever likely to notice, but it had felt important, to me.

“It’s beautiful,” Lorelai says, holding the flower gently between her hands, examining the individual petals. Maybe later I’ll tell her why I chose a lotus, explain that the Chinese tutors I’d hired over the years didn’t just teach me the basics of the Mandarin language and grammar but also, quite often, the etymology behind common proverbs and superstitions.

One day, I’ll explain to her that I folded a lotus because within ancient Chinese culture, the lotus is a symbol of nobility and integrity. The flower represents strength in the face of adversity. Lotuses are born and then rise out of mud, all the while remaining untainted and pure. It is the perfect metaphor for my girl.

But there’s no time for explanations now that Lorelai’s found the ring.

She’s quiet, eyes wide, for so long that I finally understand why she’s always complaining about my loading time.

“I should have waited?” At Lorelai’s continuing silence, I repeat myself. “Should I have waited?”

She places the lotus carefully to one side so she can focus on the pink solitaire that matches her current hair.

Because Lorelai’s expanding personal projects in all sorts of different directions, I’d hired a separate assistant to handle many of the more personal tasks. For example, researching every salon within three neighboring counties to find Lorelai a place that specializes in treating thinning hair. If I’m allowed to be honest—which, according to Brody, is never, and according to Lorelai is . . . it depends—I don’t truly care whether Lorelai has thick, thinning, or no hair. That said, given how often Lorelai fidgets with it, and how much she seemed to mind when Vi spoke disparagingly of it, helping her feel as though it was fixed had felt like a priority. Now that Lorelai’s hair is thicker (at least she’s told me it’s thicker) and styled in something called a balayage, she seems happier.

And really, that’s all that matters.

After an interminably long silence, Lorelai finally declares, with a faint wobble in her voice, “You’re not buying me a different ring each time I change my hair.”

I think of the diamond, emerald, blue sapphire, and purple amethyst backups I’ve already purchased. Each is a completely different cut because had been that difficult to pick out one ring that’s supposed to rule them all. Maybe if I hadn’t read The Lord of the Rings so many times, or maybe if I could have consulted Lorelai about it, things would have been smoother. But in the end, I’d asked my mother (diamond, because she believed the traditional route was best), Aurora (emerald, because Lorelai was the green-haired Jezebel when we reconnected), and also Harper (sapphire, because it’s Harper’s favorite color), Wren (pink, because . . . really, I shouldn’t have been asking the ten-year-old), as well as Daisy and Gwendy (who both said purple amethyst, since Lorelai’s favorite color is often, though not always, purple).

I didn’t want to screw up, and so of course I bought all five.

“It might be too late for that.”

Lorelai laughs, because she thinks I’m joking and I swear I feel my chest expanding with pride. It happens each time I can make her smile, each time she laughs or breathes a little more easily, without the anger or guilt or responsibilities that used to weigh her down.

She’s not looking at me when she asks, a bit archly, “Are you going to ask me to marry you?”

“I know that proposing to you in our bedroom, post-surgery, is probably only a half step up from where and how I first asked you out, but . . . I just couldn’t wait.”

“Then don’t wait.”

“Will you?”

Her mouth twists a little, because yes, I can tell I’m not doing a particularly good job. In truth, I had planned on saying more. I have a few versions I’ve written, somewhere, but none of the words ever seemed quite right, and she so clearly needed a distraction now.

“Will you isn’t really a full sentence.”

I try to remember even a portion of a draft that wasn’t instantly consigned to the trash.

“Please promise to be mine and allow me to be yours?” I lean forward and press a gentle kiss on her nose.

She smiles, and I’m fairly certain of her answer, have been more or less positive since she introduced me to her (now former) roommates, and then let me move her, Wren and Harper into this house.