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Patty and Mitch are standing off to the side, both holding up their phones, aimed out into the room—either poised to snap photos, or ready for video. My dad’s near them, with his arm looped over my mom’s shoulders. She’s beaming at me with total pride, like I’m about to be crowned Queen of the Universe.
Veronica’s perched on the green couch, and Ransom’s there, too, with his big, goofy grin, which is a little straighter since he had all that oral surgery a year ago. He’s been around a lot this month, since the college he got a full tennis scholarship from runs on a trimester schedule and has a long winter break. It’s fun having him around. Parker loves playing tennis with him, and still thinks he’ll go pro one day.
Ransom has his phone in his hands, too, and I can tell by the way he’s watching the screen that he’s recording this, too.
One day, I’ll get to watch this happen all over again.
I feel heat from the fire dance over me as Carly drags me in closer to waiting Parker. She gives my hand a squeeze and then joins her parents by the hearth.
I’m left looking down at my boyfriend of a year and two months. Longer, if you could all those years that my love for him was buried so deep inside me.
I fell for Parker at age eighteen, and some part of me has loved him every day since then.
My eyes are locked on his, so I’ve barely looked at the box he’s holding. But when he flips it open, I flick my eyes to the ring nestled in satin and gasp.
My great-grandmother’s ring.
“You—you found it?”
“Took some searching…” His mouth hitches up at the corner. “Maybe I should’ve given it back to you when I found it, last August. I was out mowing, and the thing shot out of the back and almost took my eye out.”
That gets a laugh from our audience in the wings.
From most of them, anyway. Not his mother. “Parker, you have to be careful!” she quips.
Carly smushes her finger to her lips. “Shh! Mom, let him talk.”
Parker plucks the silver ring from the fabric it’s nestled in and pushes the box back into the pocket of his sweats.
That’s right. Hissweatpants.
My man is wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt—with an ugly plaid sweater-vest pulled over the top— to this surprise engagement party.
He still manages to look smoking hot, though.
I think he could dress in a trash bag and still look gorgeous.
He holds the ring toward me. Orange and golden light from the fire dances over his chiseled, tatt-covered biceps.
I’m about to say ‘yes’ to a man with tattoos.
A man who can’t mix a cocktail, but owns a bar.
A man who doesn’t use a planner. How can that be? I own six.
That’s why we’re such a good pair, a little voice inside me whispers.
I’ve haven’t yet dug into our compatibility score, because I’ve been too busyliving. But I know it’s all there: the weaknesses in me that Parker’s quirks make up for; the strengths I have that fill in his weak spots. The ways we support each other; the ways we can grow together.
There are probably data points about how we both like to drench our pancakes in maple syrup, or how we both go speechless when a sunset turns wispy clouds to pink.
And there’s definitely something in both of our scores about respect.
I respect and admire him, and he feels the same about me, and that might just be the reason we’re here right now, in this sitting room.
The ring’s bumpy, antique, silver surface looks freshly polished.
It issogood to see it.
