Chapter 23
The burlap twine snagged on my ring when I tried to lift the apple tree.
“Hold on,” Cole said.
“I can get it free.”
“I’m not questioning your competence. You’re unraveling the burlap.”
I looked down at the taut strand caught between the setting and the wrapped root ball. He was right, a circumstance I was still actively trying not to treat as a provocation.
The first mild Saturday in March had turned the orchard to mud. The rows were still bare, and the air smelled of damp earth, cut wood, and coffee from Joanne’s kitchen. Near the shed, a wheelbarrow waited beside the hole Cole and I had dug that morning.
I pulled off my right glove with my teeth and carefully tugged at the twine. The ring caught it again.
“Want me to do it?” Cole asked.
“I want you to hold the burlap so it doesn't shift.”
“That I can manage.”
He planted both hands on either side of the root ball. His left shoulder no longer forced him to compensate, though after matches he still iced it before the ache had a chance to turn into an argument. I worked a fingernail beneath the fiber, freed it from the small stone, and lifted my hand.
The diamond had a streak of mud along one prong.
“Five days,” I said.
“It’s a working ring.”
“We picked it because you said it wouldn't snag.”
“The jeweler said that. I nodded with authority.”
Cole unzipped the right pocket of his jacket.
“Want to keep it in here?”
I slid the ring off and dropped it into his palm.
“Zip it up.”
“Yes, vice president.”
“That doesn't work as an insult anymore.”
“It never worked as an insult.”
He tucked the ring away and pulled the zipper once. Not twice.
We’d gotten engaged on Monday, exactly two years after the night at the Huxley.
The question hadn't been a surprise. We’d been talking since November about marriage, last names, bank accounts, cities, and the number of guests Joanne could feed without turning the wedding into an agricultural operation.
In January, we’d picked out the ring together, and then Cole had taken it without telling me when he planned to give it to me.
On Monday, he made dinner at the lake house. When I finished eating, he set the box beside my watch and asked if I wanted to marry him. No speech. No audience. The dishwasher beeped every thirty seconds because he hadn't latched the door all the way.
I told him yes.
Afterward, I asked if he wanted to marry me, too. Cole said buying the ring constituted sufficient evidence. I made him answer anyway.
Yes.
Five days later, the word still warmed me from the inside out at thoroughly impractical moments.
“Ready?” he asked.
I pulled my glove back on.
“Ready.”
We lifted the tree between the two of us. Cole took most of the weight while I guided the trunk. The wrapped root ball grazed the edge of the hole, showering damp dirt over my boots.
“Toward me,” he said.
“How much?”
“About an inch and a half.”
“‘About’?”
“I’ve grown.”
I nudged the root ball toward the center. Cole crouched down and checked the notch Gene had carved into the shovel handle to measure the depth.
“It’s good.”
“Check it again.”
“Are you serious?”
“I want it right.”
Cole measured again without commenting on the contradiction. Two years together hadn't eliminated our habits. They’d just shortened the distance between the reflex and the correction.
Gene had kept that end of the row clear ever since he cleared out the diseased tree.
The first time we visited the orchard after the loss, he’d explained that you don't plant immediately in the same soil.
After that, he hadn't brought up the spot again. Not in December of 2026, during the week the baby would have been born, and not the following April. He’d waited until Cole called him in January to ask if he could still get a young tree of the variety Joanne used for pies.
Before we arrived, Cole had told them why we wanted it.
Joanne had hugged me in the kitchen for so long that the coffee in my mug stopped steaming. Gene had looked toward the window, cleared his throat, and said the ground would be soft after the rains. Neither of them asked why we’d taken nearly two years.
Now Joanne watched us from the porch with a mug cupped between her hands. Gene was fixing a hinge on the shed that didn't need fixing. They’d given us our space without walking away.
I crouched beside the tree and rested a hand on the trunk. The bark was cold and smooth beneath my glove.
I’d thought time would make the count less precise.
It hadn't. I knew we were just over a month shy of two years since the emergency ultrasound.
I knew which drawer at the lake house held the white envelope, the box with the yellow socks, and the napkin with writing on both sides.
I didn't open that drawer every week anymore.
But I didn't have to pretend I could forget where it was.
“Cole.”
He set down the shovel.
“Right here.”
The sob caught in my throat before I could find words. I pulled off my glove and pressed my bare fingers against the bark. A drop of mud slid from the root ball to the bottom of the hole.
Cole crouched at my right side.
“Can I touch you?” he asked.
I nodded.
His palm settled between my shoulder blades.
He didn't pull me up or make a speech. I leaned forward until my forehead brushed his shoulder and cried with one knee sinking into the mud.
The fabric of his jacket was rough against my skin.
From the house came the dull slam of a door, followed by quiet.
“I’m sorry,” I said once I could catch my breath.
“Me too.”
I wiped my face with the back of my hand, leaving a smear of dirt beside my nose. Cole saw it. His thumb moved half an inch, then stopped.
“Go ahead,” I said.
He wiped the mud away without smiling.
“I want to finish,” I said.
“All right.”
We got back to our feet. I held the trunk steady while Cole tipped the first shovelful of soil around the root ball.
Then we traded places. The dirt fell in dull thuds, settling between the burlap-wrapped roots.
Gene walked over when the hole was halfway filled and set the wheelbarrow down beside us.
“Don't pack it too tight,” he said.
“I know,” Cole replied.
Gene looked at him.
“I was talking to Kate.”
“I know, too,” I said.
“Then it’ll be a quick job.”
Joanne came down from the porch carrying a watering can. She’d set down her mug, but she had four sandwiches wrapped in a cloth.
“You didn't need to bring food,” I said.
“It’s not for you two. It’s for the people who’ll show up once they know I have food.”
Cole took the bundle.
“How many people know?”
“Your mother, Linda, Priya, Marcus, Reyes, and half of Georgetown,” I said.
“The more discreet half.”
“Marcus told Lena,” Joanne added. “Lena texted me.”
“That explains the discretion.”
I laughed, and my next breath came without scraping raw against my throat. Gene held the stake while Cole secured the tree ties. I poured the water slowly around the trunk. The soil darkened, releasing a clean, mineral scent.
We didn't put up a plaque.
When we were done, the four of us stood in front of the apple tree. It was small, with three bare branches and a white ribbon fluttering in the wind. The branches yielded with every gust and sprang back to center.
Joanne gave my arm a squeeze.
“There’s coffee inside.”
Gene took the wheelbarrow handles.
“Give it ten minutes before you adjust those ties again.”
“I wasn't going to touch them,” I said.
Gene glanced at my hand, which was already halfway to the stake.
“Right.”
He and Joanne walked back toward the house. Cole waited until they were well out of normal speaking range.
“The appointment is Friday,” he said.
The wind stirred the tree’s ribbon.
“Nine-thirty.”
“I’m on the Thursday night flight.”
“I know.”
“I can change it if you want me there earlier.”
“No. I want you to sleep. Dr. Mehta doesn't need to evaluate us after you’ve spent a night in an airport.”
Cole slipped his hands into his pockets. His right stayed over the small bulge of my ring.
The appointment at First Hill was preconception counseling.
We were still using birth control. For eight months, we’d talked at the lake house, my office, and the apartment in San Diego; on top of that, we shared a running list that neither of us could edit without the other receiving a notification.
The list started with another loss. It went on to my travel schedule, the final year of Cole’s contract, the possibility of taking a long time, and the chance of discovering we couldn't do it at all. Beneath that were the lake house, our careers, parental leave, and the people we’d ask for help before we were exhausted.
“You still want to go?” Cole asked.
The question wasn't a test. If I answered no, there wouldn't be a binder waiting to convince me.
“Yes,” I said. “I want to know what she recommends before we decide when to start.”
Cole nodded.
“Me too.”
“And I want to talk about October.”
His eyebrows went up.
“I thought October was still in the column of possibilities.”
“It is. I want to move it to the column of serious options.”
“That sounds binding.”
“It’s not. Yet.”
Cole’s second season with San Diego would end in late September.
My New York assignment had wrapped up in May of last year, without the automatic extension I’d struck from the contract.
I still traveled one week a month to oversee the six active circuits and the team that now functioned without seeing me sitting in Manhattan.
The rest of the time, I worked from Seattle.
It wasn't a stationary life, but it no longer demanded three airports every seven days.
Cole kept an apartment in San Diego and two toothbrushes at the lake house. I had clothes in both places and had stopped interpreting that as disorder.
We still argued. In November, I took on three extra days in New York without checking our shared calendar.
Cole got angry; I told him I didn't need permission, and he replied that he needed information.
We slept back-to-back and talked over breakfast, with no suitcases by the front door.
When his shoulder ached, he told me before I discovered an ice pack.
When I missed a flight, I called him before booking another.
None of those things made the distance simple.
They just stopped the silence from deciding for us.
“October,” he repeated. “After the season.”
“After the season and the wedding, if we still want that sequence.”
“Are we still getting married in September?”
“Unless your mother officially invited half of Georgetown.”
Cole looked toward the house.
“We can review the sandwich budget.”
“I don't want the decision to depend solely on having a clear calendar,” I said. “There will always be another contract, another rollout, or an impossible flight. But I want to walk in with information. I want us to talk about leave policies, where we’d live, and who we’d call if something goes wrong. ”
“And if something goes right.”
The breath caught, aching slightly in my chest.
“That, too.”
Cole pulled his right hand from his pocket and offered it to me. He didn't try to finish my sentence.
“On Friday, we ask questions,” he said.
I put my hand in his.
“All of them.”
“That could take hours.”
“I booked ninety minutes.”
“Of course you did.”
“Afterward, we talk again. No deciding in the parking lot.”
“How long after?”
I thought about the answer. In the past, I would have had a date prepared just so I wouldn't have to admit I didn't know yet.
“Saturday,” I said. “After breakfast.”
“Sounds reasonable to me.”
“We don't make reproductive decisions on an empty stomach.”
“That should be a federal regulation.”
I laughed. Cole tugged my hand to pull me close and kissed my forehead. His jacket smelled of rain and cedar from the shed.
“My ring,” I said.
“I knew something felt missing from this moment.”
He unzipped the pocket and pulled out the ring. A speck of dirt had settled inside the setting. Cole wiped it clean with the hem of his T-shirt and showed me the stone before putting it on.
“May I?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He slid the band down to the base of my finger. The metal was warm from his body.
“Two years and five days,” he said.
“You’re keeping count.”
“I have an app.”
“An app?”
“I’ve grown.”
I looked back at the tree. The white ribbon had twisted around the stake. I left it that way.
Cole picked up the shovel, and I took the bundle of sandwiches. We walked toward the house, our boots sinking into the mud in steady rhythm.
Behind us, the apple tree stood in the place we’d chosen.