Page 119 of The Love Operation

I don’t begrudge them. But I want that too.

Of course, I can’t tell him any of this, so I say, “I’m happy to be with you tonight. It’s one of those perfect nights.”

He looks away. “I don’t know. Nothing’s ever really perfect, right?”

A small buzz of unease hums at the base of my skull. “I guess that’s true. But we can have our own versions of perfection, right? There’s no pressure, though,” I say, trying to reassure him. “You are perfect for me, even though you’re not perfect.”

“Thanks.” He gives me a half-hearted smile. I’ve never seen him so filled with self-doubt.

I linger by the fountains. I want it to happen here, where passersby notice and pull out their phones to catch a glimpse of the man getting down on one knee. Where we can look back at the #NashvilleEngagement #HappyCouple tags on social media and have this moment memorialized.

“You coming?” he asks, already walking ahead. “I’m kind of tired. You mind if I get a raincheck on dinner tonight?”

Concern sweeps across my belly. Is he trying to throw me off?

“You don’t want to sit a minute? Enjoy the night?” I laugh, trying to keep it light. “We rarely get nights like this with both our schedules.”

He sighs, shoves his hands in his pockets, and sidles back up to me. “I guess we can if you want.”

For ten minutes I go back and forth in my mind: nerves or misunderstanding? Then I give up. Maybe he has other plans. Maybe I was wrong.

By the time we pull into my driveway, the excitement has curdled into irritation.

“Are you okay?” he asks when I move to get out of his car without saying good night or kissing him. I know I shouldn’t behave this way. It’s my own fault. But I wanted to feel like a girl tonight. Not just a surgeon. Not just a checklist of accomplishments. A girl.

“You’re just now noticing that something’s off?” I snap. I don’t want him to propose now. But I don’t know how to stop being awful about it.

“I guess my mind’s been somewhere else,” he says. “So what’s wrong?” But there’s no warmth behind the question. He’s asking to be polite.

“Honestly?” I pause. “I thought you were going to propose tonight. I found the ring in your coat pocket before we left.”

He deflates, like I’ve just pulled that clear plastic thingy free from his person and the air’s leaking out rather quickly. “I didn’t mean for you to see that.” He massages his forehead.

“Were you planning to propose?”

He nods, his mouth still tight. “I was.”

“What changed?”

“Cordelia . . .” My name is a sigh on his tongue. I’m instantly filled with dread. No one’s name sounds like that when it’s good news.

“Jeremy, what is it?”

“I wasn’t going to do this tonight. I know work’s been rough for you, and you were really looking forward to tonight, but I guess I have no choice.”

“There’s always a choice,” I say.

“I guess that’s what I’m realizing. And . . . I don’t think my choice is you.”

A sucking sensation starts in my chest, like a cannonball has just landed right in the center of it.

“You were going to propose,” I say, mostly to myself, mostly in disbelief. I don’t know why I say it out loud—maybe I need to name it, so I can leave it behind.

I watch myself open the door, feel the cool bite of metal beneath my palm as my face heats with mortification. The night air spills across my skin—warm and easy—while I struggle to locate the breaths I’ve lost somewhere along the way.

Outside the car, the world feels unchanged. But I don’t seem to fit into it anymore.

As I walk to my door, and Jeremy calls out to me, I hold a hand backward, signaling that he should go.