Chapter II
II. Noah
Pumpkin is having the time of her life.
Her stubby legs are a blur as she races between my parents and Maya, her curly tail wagging so hard her entire back end wobbles.
She’s wearing the ridiculous bow-tie collar Maya brought her—bright blue with tiny birthday cakes all over it—and carrying the squeaky toy shaped like a champagne bottle that Mom insisted was “perfect for the celebration.” Every few seconds, she lets out a joyful bark that makes Dad laugh that deep belly laugh I haven’t heard in ages.
“I think she remembers us from Christmas,” Mom says, reaching down to scratch behind Pumpkin’s pointy ears.
Pumpkin immediately abandons her toy to lean into the touch, her eyes closing in pure bliss.
“Of course she remembers you,” I say, smiling at the scene from my spot on the couch. “You FaceTime her more than you FaceTime me.”
Mom doesn’t even try to deny it. “Well, she’s always happy to see me. You sometimes look annoyed when I call.”
“That’s because you always call when I’m in the middle of something,” I protest, but there’s no heat behind it.
Which is generous, honestly, because the last time she called four times in a row, Connor had his tongue in my ass. I made him stop because four missed calls from Mom usually mean blood, fire, or someone being rushed to the hospital.
She wanted to know whether she should bring her homemade pickles for my birthday.
So yes, sometimes I look annoyed when she calls. But looking at her now, crouched beside Pumpkin with that helpless little smile on her face, it’s hard to hold on to any of that irritation.
The truth is, watching my family with Pumpkin makes my heart feel too big for my chest. When Connor and I first adopted her, I worried they might see her as just a dog rather than the furry family member she immediately became to us. But from the moment they met her, they were gone.
Dad gets down on the rug—his expensive slacks probably getting covered in dog hair—and starts playing tug-of-war with Pumpkin and her new rope toy. Maya instantly decides to document the whole thing on her phone, narrating like she’s filming a nature documentary.
“Here we see the distinguished real estate mogul in his natural habitat, dominated by a cute loaf of bread with ears three sizes too big for her body.”
Pumpkin growls playfully, her entire body wiggling as she tugs on the rope. Dad makes a show of struggling, then dramatically falls onto his side, letting Pumpkin win. She immediately prances over to him with the rope, dropping it in front of him for another round.
“Insatiable beast,” Dad says fondly, sitting back up to continue the game.
I glance over at the pile of wrapped gifts on the coffee table—supposedly for my birthday, but I’ve already noticed that at least half of them have gift tags reading “For Pumpkin” in my family’s various handwriting.
The dog has more presents than I do on my own birthday, and I can’t even pretend to be mad about it.
“We’ve created a monster,” I tell Connor, who’s just walked in from the kitchen with fresh drinks for everyone. “They love Pumpkin more than me now.”
Connor chuckles and hands me a glass of wine.
“Can you blame them?” he asks, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “She’s objectively adorable.”
“Traitor,” I mutter, but I’m smiling too much for it to have any bite.
Mom joins us on the couch, accepting her wine from Connor with a warm smile.
“You boys have done such a wonderful job with her,” she says, watching as Pumpkin abandons the rope to investigate the rattling sound coming from inside the gift Maya is now dangling just out of reach. “She’s so happy here.”
“We’re happy too,” Connor says simply, and the certainty in his voice makes something warm unfurl in my chest.
It’s true. These past eighteen months have been…
God, I don’t even have words for what they’ve been.
Moving in together, adopting Pumpkin, building this life—it’s better than anything I ever imagined for myself.
Sometimes I still wake up in the middle of the night and look at Connor sleeping beside me, overwhelmed by how lucky I am.
How completely, stupidly lucky.
Maya finally relents and gives Pumpkin her gift—a plush doctor toy that looks suspiciously like a mini version of Connor, complete with a tiny stethoscope around its neck. Pumpkin immediately grabs it and begins shaking it violently, making Mom laugh so hard she nearly snorts wine up her nose.
“Well, that’s disturbingly accurate,” Connor says dryly, watching as Pumpkin throws his fabric doppelg?nger into the air, catches it, then shakes it again.
“I had it custom-made,” Maya says proudly. “There’s one of Noah too. I was going to save it for Christmas, but then I decided that was too much emotional discipline for one person, so it’s somewhere in the pile.”
“Of course it is,” I say.
Mom gives me a suspiciously innocent look. “Your father and I may have already ordered Pumpkin’s Christmas present.”
I stare at her. “Mom, it’s August.”
“She’s very hard to shop for,” Mom says.
“She’s a dog,” I say, trying not to laugh.
Dad clears his throat. “There may also be two backup presents.”
I look between them, delighted and offended in equal measure. “You people are ridiculous.”
My parents both start defending themselves, claiming they’re being practical, actually, and while I’m still trying not to laugh, I catch Connor leaning toward Maya, his mouth close to her ear.
He whispers something, and she nods, her expression shifting from playful to serious in an instant. Connor jerks his head toward the kitchen, and Maya sets down her wine glass before following him.
Something twists in my stomach—not quite worry, but a sharp little flutter of curiosity. Connor and Maya have grown close over the past year and a half, but they don’t usually have secret conversations at family gatherings.
“What’s that about?” Dad asks, noticing the exchange too. He gets up from the rug and sits next to Mom on the couch.
“No idea,” I say, trying to sound casual while straining to hear any snippets of conversation from the kitchen.
I can’t make out actual words, just the low murmur of Connor’s voice followed by Maya’s lighter one.
Mom gives me a knowing look. “You’re terrible at hiding when you’re anxious, Noah.”
I immediately try to relax my face, which probably just makes it worse. “I’m not anxious,” I lie. “They’re allowed to talk privately.”
But just as I say it, I feel my face heating up.
Before I can defend myself, Connor and Maya reappear from the kitchen.
Maya looks…emotional? Her eyes are suspiciously bright, and she keeps glancing between Connor and me with this weird little smile.
Connor looks even stranger—his face is doing that thing where he’s trying very hard to appear normal and failing spectacularly.
His ears are red, which only happens when he’s extremely stressed or extremely turned on, and since we have company, I’m assuming it’s the former.
For a second, I wonder if they’ve planned some birthday surprise for me, but that doesn’t explain why Maya looks ready to cry and Connor looks like he’s about to pass out.
“Everything okay?” I ask, my eyes darting between them.
“Yep!” Maya says, too brightly. “Just catching up.”
Connor nods a bit too enthusiastically. “Yes. That.”
They are the worst liars I have ever met.
I narrow my eyes at them, but before I can press further, Connor clears his throat.
“Noah…”
He trails off, looking nervous in a way I rarely see him. Connor is usually the calm one in our relationship, the person who holds the ground still when my anxiety kicks into overdrive.
My stomach does a weird flip, as if I’ve missed a step going downstairs.
“Connor?” I prompt when he doesn’t continue.
He seems to pull himself together, shoulders straightening as he walks over to me.
“Noah,” he says again, and something in his voice makes my heart start racing. “Can you stand up for a second?”
I blink at him, confused, but rise to my feet.
We’re facing each other now, Connor’s eyes searching mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch. Behind him, I see Maya pull out her phone and point it at us.
What the hell?
“What’s going on?” I ask, my voice sounding weak.
Connor takes a deep breath.
“Noah,” he says for the third time, and then, to my complete shock, he drops to one knee in front of me.
The world stops.
My lungs stop working. My brain freezes, every thought dissolving into static except one.
Oh my God.
“Noah Caldwell,” Connor says, his voice even now despite the slight tremor in his hands. “From the moment we met in that cardboard apartment building, I think some part of me already knew you were going to be trouble.”
A laugh breaks out of me, helpless and shaky, half-swallowed by the tears already climbing up my throat.
Connor’s mouth curves for half a second before his expression softens again.
“And every day since then has only made me fall harder,” he continues.
I’m dreaming. I must be dreaming. This can’t be happening.
“You’re the kindest person I know,” Connor says, reaching into his pocket.
“You make me laugh more than anyone. You care so much about every tiny little thing. And even when it scares you, somehow you still keep showing up for everyone.” His fingers close around a small velvet box.
“You make me happier than I ever thought I could be. You gave me a life I didn’t even know I wanted until I had it with you. ”
Tears are streaming down my face now. I can feel them hot on my cheeks, but I can’t move to wipe them away. Can’t move at all, frozen in disbelief and too much emotion.
“I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” Connor says, opening the box to reveal a platinum ring, sleek and beautiful, with a thin line of diamonds catching the light.
“I want to wake up next to you every morning and fall asleep with you every night. I want to fight over whose turn it is to walk Pumpkin in the rain and argue about loading the dishwasher the right way.”
A sob escapes me, and I cover my mouth with both hands.
I’m vaguely aware of Mom crying somewhere behind me, of Dad going suspiciously quiet, of Maya sniffling as she films everything, and of Pumpkin watching us, suddenly still.
But mostly I’m aware of Connor.
My fake boyfriend for one weekend. My real boyfriend for the last year and a half. The man on one knee in front of me, asking me for forever.
Looking up at me with so much love I can barely stand it.
“Noah Caldwell,” he says, his voice breaking slightly, “will you marry me?”
Time stretches, suspended in this perfect moment.
I try to speak, but nothing comes out. I nod frantically instead, tears blurring my vision, and finally manage to choke out, “Yes. God, yes.”
Connor’s face breaks into the smile I fell in love with, relief and joy transforming his features. He slides the ring onto my finger—it fits perfectly—and then he’s standing, pulling me into his arms. I’m still crying, probably getting tears and snot all over his shoulder, but I can’t seem to stop.
“I love you,” I manage to gasp between sobs. “I love you so much.”
“I love you too,” Connor murmurs against my hair, his arms tight around me.
Then he kisses me, soft and sweet and perfect, his hand warm against my tear-streaked cheek.
The moment is broken by a collective squeal from my family, who apparently can’t contain themselves any longer.
Suddenly we’re surrounded—Mom hugging us both, tears streaming down her face; Dad clapping Connor on the back with suspiciously misty eyes; Maya still filming, full-on crying now, her free hand pressed to her mouth.
“You knew?” I ask Maya, when I can finally form words again.
She nods, grinning through her tears. “Connor asked me for help picking the ring last month.”
“Is that what you were whispering about in the kitchen just now?” I ask, the pieces clicking into place.
“Sort of,” Maya says. “He was panicking and needed a pep talk.”
“I wasn’t panicking,” Connor protests, but his ears are red again.
“You were hyperventilating into a paper bag,” Maya counters, and we all laugh.
Pumpkin, not wanting to be left out of whatever exciting human thing is happening, starts barking and dancing around our legs. Dad scoops her up so she can be part of the group hug, and she immediately tries to lick everyone’s faces.
“I think she approves,” Mom says, scratching Pumpkin under the chin.
I look at Connor—my fiancé, oh my God—and find him already watching me, his eyes full of love.
“Marry me,” he whispers, pressing his forehead against mine.
“I already said yes,” I remind him, laughing through the last of my tears.
“I know,” he says, smiling so brightly I feel it everywhere. “I just like hearing it.”
“Yes,” I say again, brushing my lips against his. “Yes, Connor O’Reilly. I will absolutely marry you.”
THE END