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Bedrooms?
I’m out.
But for good reason.
My disappointment quickly dissipates as I smile, glancing down at my ring. I’ll be happy to take on the project from the office, hold down the fort, and help Ava or Claire with their editing.
Goodness knows they need it—they both think a round of spell-checking software is enough to find all their mistakes. Trust me, it’s not.
Michael ends the meeting on a high note, promising it’ll be all-hands-on-deck for the Bachman story.
I stand, stretching after sitting at our cramped conference table for so long. Ava and Claire are arguing which of them is more discreet and thus better suited to pull off this mission. The only one of the three of us in a stable relationship, I’m happy to let them sort it out.
“Bye, girls!” I say, tucking my notebooks into my arms. “I’m off to see if I can track down the manager of the docks where Prince C blew up his daddy’s yacht.”
They barely acknowledge me as I make my way back to my desk.
I sink down into my cushy, worn leather rolling chair, slipping out the glossy Brides magazine I’d hidden in my stacks of notebooks. Knowing I’m not going to be chosen for the piece is a little disappointing. I need a pick-me-up. Pulling it out, I give a happy sigh as I flip through the brightly colored pages of bridal shower décor ideas.
I can’t be off trying to dig up bedroom secrets of gorgeous single men when I have a wedding to plan. Patrick wouldn’t want me hitting on guys and I wouldn’t want to, anyway. I am, after all, finally a fiancée.
I used to be so envious of those girls that walk through life… Wait. Walk isn’t the right word…
Breeze.
That’s it. They literally breeze through life, their perfect hair flowing behind them, the hems of their dresses fluttering, smiles shining like the sun. Big, bright grins that say to the world I’ve got you figured out!
As they lift their manicured fingers to their hair, the sparkling white diamonds on their left ring fingers catch the light. Their glittering, love-filled futures roll out in front of them like a red carpet.
Pure perfection.
I used to be envious of those girls—it’s true.
And now… I’m finally one of them.
I glance down at my ring, a quarter of a carat princess cut (created in a lab) set in sterling silver. It’s modest, not real (made with 100% renewable resources), but it’s the thought and love behind the gesture that matters to me, not the size of the rock.
She’s tiny but mighty, and I think she’s just perfect.
“Aren’t you?” I whisper as I lift her to my lips, kissing the ring and thinking of the man who’s made my whole life seem to make sense in the matter of a year.
Patrick Fitzgerald. My knight in a shining electric Subaru. A cutie with a closet full of secondhand flannel shirts and a job in political activism. And I’ll soon be Mrs. Lindy Fitzgerald. Ready to march right by his side in our crusade to save the world. A matter that wasn’t on my radar till I met him.
He’s made me a better person in so many ways. Though I’ll never join him in his effort to conserve water by limiting showers. I’m an everyday, sometimes twice a day, bathing kinda gal.
I stack my notebooks up with the magazine in the middle, sliding them to the corner of my perfectly organized desk. A place for everything and everything in its place. Anything I need is at my fingertips, neatly stored in colorful pink and green plastic drawers, labeled with my label maker, a gift from Claire last year on my birthday.
I think she meant it as a dig—making fun of how obsessive I am about organization, but I love the darn thing like a child loves a toy.
I flip open my rose gold MacBook and get to work. Our news outlet is online only, the days of paper newspapers long gone (Patrick would tell you it’s time to make everything electronic and save those trees!) and we focus on celebrities in New York City.
Our office is in a small suburb of the city, Rosewood, which means my landline does not have a city area code. The unusual three-digit number makes it much more likely people will answer when I call.
Picking up the black plastic receiver I Clorox-wiped this morning, I punch in the number for the Hudson’s Yacht Club in Brooklyn and wait.
After five rings, a polished voice finally answers. “Hudson’s Yacht Club.”
“Hi there! How are you today?” I echo brightly.
