An arm slid around my waist, and Ricky laid a kiss on my forehead.
“So?” he asked. “What’s the verdict, babe?”
I handed him the paper. He scanned the page closely . . . then let out a whoop of celebration.
“This was your number two, wasn’t it?” he said, his excitement palpable and so painfully genuine. “See, I told you it wasn’t a reach. You just have to believe in yourself!” Then his face fell. “Wait. Why aren’t you more excited? I know you liked your number one a lot too, but I thought these two were pretty much neck and neck?”
I looked up at Nia, who gave me a knowing look. The bestie always understood.
“No, no they were, and I am. I promise!” I said. “But Seattle is so far.”
Ricky and Nia exchanged a glance that I found . . . interesting. Before I could ask questions, Nia shoved a frilly pink bag into my hands.
“Treats, courtesy of Madame Annette herself,” she said. “You look awesome, and I’m so happy for you. I’ve got to drive back to work, or my boss is going to kick my ass.”
“Oh?” I said, aghast. “You can’t stick around for a bit?”
“Nope,” Nia said, her lips popping on the p. “Don’t look too sad, we’re celebrating tomorrow, right?”
“Yes, but—”
“Girl, you got a man! Hang out with him!” With a dramatic whip of her head, Nia marched toward the exit. I watched her go with wide eyes, my goody bag still clutched in my hands. Next to me, Ricky looked amused.
“You’re so funny,” he said. “Come on. Let’s head outside.”
In the courtyard, clusters of families and friends gathered, taking pictures, exchanging news about their respective matches. I spotted a few of my classmates sitting on stairwells, sobbing into their laps; Match Day was not a happy day for everyone. We walked across the lawn, occasionally being intercepted by my med school friends asking to exchange Match results or take pictures. Ricky played dutiful boyfriend, snapping pictures on their phones, and then requesting every one of them to take a picture of us too. By the time we finally reached the sidewalk, we had far too many different renditions of the same photos of us, courtesy of seven different photographers.
“Where are we going, anyway?” I asked.
“Away from all that,” Ricky provided.
“Ugh, you know me too well,” I said. Just being out of earshot of the Match Day shenanigans was helping calm my nerves.
We took the scenic route home, winding through a nearby park until we found a bench. I opened Nia’s box of treats to find chocolate eclairs—my favorite after Nia’s Bergamot Chocolate Sunset, the thrice remixed version of her classic double chocolate fudge surprise. I took a bite, then fed Ricky the next.
“You’re worried about me,” Ricky finally said. “I told you not to be.” He pulled my legs across his lap.
“I can’t help it!” I said. “I know you said it was fine, but of course I’m going to feel guilty. I could’ve ranked a Chicago program higher. I would still have gotten good training at the end of the day.” I paused, letting my excitement at matching in one of my dream programs seep in. “I’m happy that you’re so okay with it but . . . we can’t pretend this won’t be harder.”
Ricky gave me an unreadable look, and then reached into his jacket pocket. My heart jumped to my throat—No way*—but then, instead of a box, he pulled out an envelope of his own.
“Open it,” he demanded, then busied himself massaging my calves in his lap.
I took it, tearing it open far more carefully than I had my Match letter. I narrowed my eyes, perplexed. At first sight, the paper looked almost identical to my Match letter, down to the formatting and the NRMP logo in the top right corner. But the name listed wasn’t mine; it was Ricky’s. And the institution wasn’t a hospital; it was a company’s name and address. A company in Seattle.
I looked up at him in shock.
“How did you know?” I asked.
“I didn’t,” he said, laughing. “I just applied to a bunch of design agencies in every city on your rank list. Got a few offers, but I only ’shopped ones for your top five, because I just knew my girl wouldn’t drop below those.” He dropped my legs to throw his arm around my shoulders. “So . . . I guess we’re moving to Seattle.”
This man. He painted murals of my face on walls and charmed my most stubborn relatives, and now he was leaving everything he had ever known behind to move halfway across the country for me. And while I was busy doubting the mechanics of it all, he was busy making it happen.