“Yeah,” I say. “It really is.”
Sunset stainsthe sky with oranges and violets as I walk the length of the dock, a bottle of wine in my hand and my heart making a mess of my ribs. Hunter’s message said nothing except “come down at seven,” and the way he grinned as he pressed the note into my palm told me I’d regret it if I didn’t.
I’m in the blue dress he got me for my birthday last fall—the one that wraps my body like a second skin, the hem fluttering around my thighs with every nervous step. I haven’t worn it since that day, but it fits better now, my body fuller, stronger, more mine. He said the color matched my eyes, and I wanted to roll my own eyes at him, but I liked it more than I wanted to admit.
When I reach the end of the dock, I stop dead.
He’s transformed it: the battered old boards are covered with a linen runner, pinned down with river rocks. There are two chairs, both scavenged from the porch, but dressed up with seat cushions and fur throws. In the center is a table—small, round, perfectly set with real china, crystal goblets, and a storm ofcandles floating in glass vases. The flames double and triple on the lake, every flicker mirrored in the ripple of water below.
Hunter stands at the edge, wind mussing his dark hair, a sweater so black it makes him look like a villain in a Scandinavian drama. But he’s not a villain, and the nervous smile he gives me as I approach makes him look more boyish than I’ve ever seen him.
He pulls my chair out, and I sit, tucking my knees together in the cold air.
“This is—” I start.
“Insane? Overkill?” he offers, and I laugh.
“Perfect,” I say, and I mean it.
He uncorks the wine—something French, I don’t ask—and pours two glasses. “To the best mistake I ever made,” he says, raising his glass.
I clink, but I want more. “To surviving the year and coming out in one piece.”
He grins, teeth white in the dusk. “That, too.”
We eat. He’s made dinner himself, which is a miracle given that last winter he burned a frozen pizza so badly the smoke alarm shorted out. Tonight, though, it’s perfect: a plate of roast chicken, warm potato salad, something green and healthy he won’t admit to enjoying. We talk about nothing: the news, the neighbors who call at three in the morning to report “suspicious activity” (which is usually us, enjoying sexy times in the hot tub), the time I broke the espresso machine trying to make Turkish coffee.
It’s easy, but there’s an edge to it—a hum of tension, although it’s a good hum, not a bad hum.
By the time dessert comes, the sun’s gone and the moon floats in the ink above us, mirrored in the lake. Hunter brings out a chocolate tart, but he’s fidgety, drumming his fingers on the table and staring at his hands like they’re about to do something illegal.
I lean in. “Are you okay? You seem nervous.”
He looks at me, and for a second I think he’s going to bolt.
Then he stands, walks around the table, and gets down on one knee. Literally. On the dock.
My heart skips, then sprints.
“Are you—” I start, but he cuts me off.
“Tara.” He says my name like he’s memorizing it for the first time. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Every day. Every night. I want to spend all of my time with you, and swim in cold lakes together until we’re old and need life vests. I want to have a family with you, and I can already see a little girl who looks just like her mother with long, golden hair and big blue eyes. Several little girls, actually.”
He’s shaking a little. He takes my hand, and I realize I’m shaking too.
He pulls a ring out of his pocket. The stone is aquamarine, as big as a thumbnail, set in a swirl of silver.
“I know diamonds are traditional, but I thought this was more apt. You were reborn in water, and you are so much more thana cliché. The aquamarine captures the beauty of our adventure together, and honors and anticipates the years to come.”
I stare at it, and the world narrows to a pinpoint. The candles blur, the moon wobbles, my chest goes tight.
He waits. He’s never looked more vulnerable.
I nod, and then whisper, “Yes, Hunter. Yes, I’d love to marry you and become Mrs. McCarren.”
He slips the ring on my finger, and it fits like it was made for me. He kisses my knuckles reverently, then stands, and I throw my arms around his neck.
“Yes,” I say, my mouth at his ear. “Of course, yes, yes, yes.”