Page 118 of The Love Operation

Dad: Secret pantry cake.

Maggie: Wait. Livvie just told me the older kids hid BunBun under Eva’s fitted sheet because she was being annoying.

Everett:

Mom: Aww. Poor Eva.

Dad:

Everett: [Photo: swollen-faced Eva snuggling BunBun]

Dad: Yay!

Mom: Celebratory cake! I’ll add extra carrots.

Maggie: My yoga pants are rejoicing.

Me: Yay for finding BunBun! And carrot cake!

Me: Will you save me a piece? I can’t make it to dinner, unfortunately. I’ve got to work all weekend. But tell Eva she can give me a makeover the next time she sees me. Love you all.

I agonize over whether to add an emoji, but I’m trying to gracefully cancel without raising too many flags. They might read into it, like they know I’m overcompensating. Or maybe lack of emojis makes me seem cold and distant, still bitter about the retirement. I mean, I am, but I don’t want to seem like I am.

Me:

Why’d I send two? One was enough!

I click out of the exchange, a sinking feeling in my gut, like I’m letting them down. But I can’t not do this. My time is limited, and if I’m going to study my memories, it needs to be now, while I still have the ability and the side effects are still manageable. The medical provider in me knows I can’t keep sweeping them under the rug, but I need answers first. Then I’ll figure out what comes next. With all of it.

I pull on my soft, short-sleeved romper—the one my sister swore made me look amazing—silence my phone, and get to work.

Or rather, into my past.

It happens fast. One second I’m on my couch, the next I’m on a sidewalk in downtown Nashville, outside the Schermerhorn Symphony Center. Three years ago.

The warm breeze kicks up spray from the fountains and mists my arms. I barely notice. Everything about tonight feels . . . special.

Tonight, Jeremy is going to propose.

The corporate lawyer: Jeremy Riker. Thirty-two. Rising star at a prestigious downtown firm.

Chief identifying characteristics: Razor-sharp jawline. Immaculate time management. Deep appreciation for limited edition sneakers. Knows how to walk into a room and win a case. Firm handshake. Kind.

Physical exam: 6′2″ Black male. Frame of a former rower. Always in pressed navy suits with French cuffs. Dark hair kept short. Baby-smooth face, blemish-less skin. One-hundred-watt smile.

Impression: The kind of man you want to pay attention to you. When he does, you go warm inside.

I tuck my hand into his, look over, and smile. The curl of his lips in return is faint, almost forced, but I take it for nerves. He’s the kind of guy who wants everything to go just right.

He asks, “What’s got you so happy?”

Several weeks ago, we’d gone to look at rings, and when I slid a rose-gold band cradling a three-carat diamond, flanked by several smaller stones that glittered like yes, yes, yes, onto my finger, I knew I’d found the one—an elegant, timeless, perfect picture of what was to come.

He’d bought it.

And tonight, he’s got a little velvet box tucked in his coat pocket. But he doesn’t know I know.

I’m equal parts excited and relieved. I was beginning to worry that I wasn’t going to find my person. Everyone around me was pairing off, settling down, building families. Meanwhile, I was still clapping from the sidelines.