“I’m worried this promotion will drop us down to the bottom of your list of priorities,” he says. “Our wedding. And everything else.”
Everything else. The words come quickly, quietly, almost spoken under his breath. Ryan and I have agreed that after the wedding I’ll join him in D.C. But the logistics of that move, and what they’ll mean for me and my career, have yet to crystallize. I can tell that Ryan’s thinking my promotion doesn’t do our plans to cohabitate any favors.
Then there’s the religion question, whether I’ll convert to Christianity. It’s important to Ryan that whatever future kids we have share the same religion as both their parents. I’m not particularly religious, but neither have I managed to get on board with converting. It feels wrong to change myself so we can become some WASPy united front on a future campaign trail. What is this, 1956? Even more than that, I can’t imagine telling BD that I’m not a Jew anymore and neither will her great-grandchildren be.
These are big questions, ones we’ve both gotten skilled at sweeping under the rug since our engagement. It never feels like a good time to tackle them. Tonight I’m too tired—and too elated—to even entertain possible answers. So I tell Ryan the thing that always makes me feel better when I worry about the hows of our future.
“You’re my Ninety-Nine Things,” I say, taking his hands. The fact that Ryan is so indisputably perfect for me matters a lot in my book. But he doesn’t smile like he usually does.
I turn to the prosecco for help. I put both our glasses back in both of our hands. I meet Ryan on his level, which is a practical, plan-making level. “What do you say the next time we’re in D.C., we go look at those wedding venues your mom wanted to show us?”
“Really?” he says.
I nod. “And in the meantime, tonight, can we please just drink to my good news? This is me begging you to drink excellent prosecco.”
Ryan smiles his gorgeous politician smile, the one that says I’m on your side. He raises his glass. “Congratulations, baby. Tell me everything Sue said.”
So I do, flopping on the couch with my prosecco while Ryan tinkers with my dishwasher. As I finish recounting my meeting with Sue and go on to tell him about the launch, I can’t help remembering that handshake with Ross at the end, the intensity of his eyes, the thrill that passed through me.
* * *
A glass of prosecco later, Ryan has not only restored my dishwasher, he’s nearly got the radiator valve sorted, too. We’re both in our underwear now and thoughts of Ross’s handshake are long gone. Ryan’s grunts and curses have decreased to once every three minutes, and I feel a space for conversation opening.
“Shall we discuss plans for tomorrow?” I ask.
Ryan doesn’t look up from his work. “Plan One is to enjoy our vastly improved quality of life, now that you have a working dishwasher. And a revamped radiator.”
“That rattle was my lullaby. You’d better hope I’ll be able to sleep through the silence.”
“I’m thinking you, me, that couch, pizza delivery, with jalapenos because I love you, and the new Scorsese. Is that a perfect Saturday, or what?”
“It’s Valentine’s Day!” I cry, more fiercely than intended. I’ve always been pretty lackadaisical about the holiday, but maybe I’m a bit worked up because this is the first year that Valentine’s Day has fallen on a weekend, which means it’s the first one we’ve actually gotten to spend together.
“I’m joking.” Ryan grins. “You should have seen your face when I said Scorsese.”
I throw a pillow at him. “I hate Scorsese. It’s like, would it kill him to put a woman in a film before Act Two—”
“Lanie,” he cuts me off, sensing a diatribe. “I’ve got a whole day planned, capped off by a very fine dinner at your favorite, Peter Luger. I made the reservation months ago.” He glances at me, and I know I haven’t reacted with the desired level of enthusiasm. “Lanie?”
We’ve celebrated our last four special occasions at Peter Luger, but if I mention that, it’ll be: It’s an institution! or I thought you loved their creamed spinach, which I do, above all vegetables on earth, but I don’t feel like defending creamed spinach tonight. The routines we’ve fallen into sometimes make me feel restless and claustrophobic, like a windup toy stuck in a corner.
“Do you ever worry that we act like old married people who are neither old nor married?” I ask.
And I think he’s going to say: No, because there’s no one else I want to be old and married with, which is why I proposed to you.
But Ryan surprises me, like he does sometimes. He picks me up, tosses me over his shoulder, and barrels toward the bedroom, making me yelp with delight.
“You ever seen an old married guy do this?” He tosses me on the duvet, and I’m hungry to get my hands on him.
* * *
By dusk on Valentine’s Day, we’ve had brunch at our favorite spot, Parker & Quinn, which I love for their DIY mimosa bar （four kinds of juice!） and Ryan loves because he gets to watch the Wizards beat the Bulls. He’s taken me to a midtown tennis shop for a racquet so that his couples goal of playing doubles in D.C. can finally be reached. I, in turn, have dragged him to the Guggenheim because I can’t get enough of Helen Frankenthaler’s Canal.
As we leave the museum we’ve still got an hour until dinner, so I suggest a walk back through the park.
We approach the Gapstow Bridge at Sixty-Second Street, which has been a touchstone of my jogging route since before I got the job at Peony, back when I was lost and broke and alone, begging the universe to reveal my destiny. The stone bridge looks like it was torn out of a fantasy novel, slate gray and mossy, crossing the north edge of the Pond. Beyond it rises one of the most stunning views of the Manhattan skyline, glittering in the gloaming. It’s a place where I’ve never felt like I could ask for too much, so long as I was willing to work to make it happen.
I stop at the center of the bridge, take Ryan’s hand to make sure he stops, too. “This might be my favorite place in all of New York.”
“It’s beautiful,” he says, tugging my hand a little, glancing up at the sky. “Should we get going? Looks like it’s going to rain again.”
“Wait. I was going to save this for tonight, but the moment feels right right now.” I open my purse and take out my small gift wrapped in tissue.
As Ryan unwraps the gift, I feel a growing anticipation. I’m practically bouncing on my heels by the time he parts the wooden panels.
“Your list,” he says. “From the book.”
“Yeah. From the book.”
“Doesn’t own clogs. Check. You do know I’m not a grocery list, right? I’m, like, a real guy?”
“Don’t you think it’s amazing that I had this unreasonably long and meticulous plan for love—and I found a man who meets every single one of my requirements?”
“Uh-uh, I found you,” he says and kisses me.
I show him how to put his gift in his wallet, and I like the way it looks there. “Now even when we’re apart, you’ll know why I love you.” We’re stepping off the bridge when I stop. “Wait, it’s Saturday.”