Page 156 of Call You Mine
In his hand, he holds a matchbox, and I recognize the logo but can’t quite place it. It wasn’t in that bag I found in his T-shirt drawer the night before I went into labor, or one of the ones we’ve collected since then.
And then it hits me.
“Is that—” I can’t even finish the question, my hand going to my mouth and tears immediately filling my eyes.
Anderson nods, a smile on his face, but I can see the cloudiness in his gaze.
“I didn’t even see those at the Little White Chapel,” I whisper, more to myself than to him.
“I’ve been saving it,” Anderson admits before opening his car door and rounding the car.
He opens my door, and I unbuckle my seat belt, turning to face him as he lowers down on one knee.
He’s still in his backwards hat and Coach Montgomery sweatshirt, like he came straight from the sidelines and somehow wandered into forever. Georgie’s still in her sweaty uniform, shin guards probably digging into her calves, grass stains on her knees. And Eliana is due for her next bottle any minute now if the restless little noises coming from the backseat are any indication.
Everything about this moment is rumpled and rushed and gloriously unplanned.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Ava,” Anderson starts, his voice low and unsteady in a way I’ve almost never heard from him, but I don’t let him say more. Because the look in his eyes—wide and vulnerable and so full of love it steals my breath—is answer enough.
“Yes.”
The word falls out of me before he can even ask, instinctive as breathing.
“Oh, come on,” Georgie exclaims from behind me. “At least let him say his piece. Seriously, I think he practiced a million times.”
She lets out a dramatic groan, and I hear her head thunk against the back of her seat just as Eliana begins making soft, impatient cries from her car seat.
The sound makes me laugh through the tears already stinging my eyes.
Of course this is how it happens.
Not candlelight. Not some sweeping grand gesture.
A crying baby. A backseat commentator. My heart is trying to pound its way out of my chest.
Us.
Anderson shakes his head, smiling like he can’t believe this is his life either.
“You know what,” he says, reaching into the Little White Chapel matchbox and opening it with slightly trembling fingers. “This works too.”
My breath catches. Inside are not one, but two rings.
With the craziness of our lives this last year, rings were never a priority, not even after our marriage turned out to be real. And when I was pregnant, my fingers were so swollen, it seemed stupid to get a ring I wouldn’t even be able to wear.
His hand finds mine, warm and familiar, and when he slides the engagement ring onto my finger—a sunburst diamond that catches even the dim light in the car and throws it back at me—I let out a tiny gasp.
A sun.
Of course he chose a sun.
Because he listened. Because he remembers everything. Because he once let me tell him he was the sun, and somehow he turned that into this.
My vision blurs.
“But at least let me ask, love.”
