Rory
Iknow which question he wants an answer to: his proposal. And the words are right there, on the tip of my tongue.
“To answer your question from earlier, Allie likes mushrooms on her pizza. The more mushrooms, the better.”
Nate just blinks because we both know that wasn’t the question from earlier he was hoping to get an answer to.
I lick my lips, hoping that running my tongue along the chapped skin will somehow force the words out.
“Also, I…I didn’t forget about your question from before. Your other question.”
It’s a cop-out. Nate deserves an answer, and I think I know what mine is. I do know what mine is.
But at the same time, after all those reruns of Gilmore Girls with Mom, I’m firmly on Lorelai’s side on this issue. A proposal should be special.
Lorelai, for her part, wanted hundreds of yellow daisies. I want more than an off-the-cuff question or a proposal that’s blurted out on impulse.
Do I want to marry Nate someday? Of course. I’ve even started imagining how things will look—the proposal, the wedding, all of it.
But if this past year has taught me anything, it’s that life often looks a lot different from what we imagine it will. Not necessarily better or worse—just different.
Once upon a time, I pictured being proposed to at a fancy dinner. Nate would be down on one knee, holding out the exact diamond ring I would have picked out for myself.
He’d pour his heart out, telling me everything he loves about me and our relationship.
My hands would cover my mouth.
I’d gasp with surprise, then say “yes” with a mix of laughter and tears.
This fantasy may have been heavily influenced by my love for The Bachelor during my formative years, if I’m being honest. Another one of Mom’s obsessions that she passed down to me.
But in all those fantasies, I didn’t picture Nate asking me to marry him multiple times. I didn’t think I’d brush each of them off as not a real proposal.
I definitely didn’t think I’d be standing in a doorway, one arm guarding the surgical site on my abdomen as I contemplated spending the rest of my life with this man, yellow daisies or not, and talking about my best friend’s pizza order, which is questionable at best.
“And?” Nate finally says, breaking the silence. He pushes a hand through his hair. “Rory, if you’re not ready, it’s okay. The last few days have been a lot.”
I grip the doorframe to steady myself. “I know. But I feel bad not giving you an answer.”
Nate moves closer, joining me at the threshold of our home.
He reaches up, cupping my cheek with one hand. “Rory. I love you, and I want to marry you. That will never change. I’ve asked you more than once. I will ask you a hundred times if that’s what it takes.”
The truth of his words has a knot of guilt tightening in my chest. He deserves an answer.
“Hey,” he says, cutting into my thoughts. “Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to go inside and get you settled on the sofa with everything you need. I’m going to find something for you to watch, and then you can just relax.”
“But…”
Nate leans in and kisses me. First on the cheek, soft and sweet, then on the lips, where he presses deeper.
“But nothing.” He runs a thumb over my lower lip, tracing his kiss.
“I don’t need an answer today, Rory. You’re it for me.
I love you. I want to marry you. End of story.
If you’re ready to give me an answer, the proposal still stands.
And if you’re not, that’s okay, too. I’ll ask you again.
I’ll ask as many times as it takes, babe. ”
He drops another kiss on my cheek, this one with a flirty smile that makes my heart melt.
“Come on,” he says, stepping past me to tug me into the house. “Time to take it easy.”
My insistence that I’m perfectly fine was no match for the painkillers.
They knock out any discomfort around my abdomen, but apparently, they also knock out my consciousness. I didn’t fully appreciate the side effect when I was in the hospital because everything there was a blur. But now that I’m home, it’s not only obvious, but it’s also really annoying.
I wipe a strand of drool from my cheek as I push myself up to sit.
On the TV, the screen shouts ARE YOU STILL WATCHING?, like people don’t binge hours of television on a regular basis. Normally, the message offends me.
But in this case, no, Netflix. I was no longer watching. Thanks for checking in.
I look down at the throw pillow, both relieved that there’s only a small wet spot and grossed out that I drooled on a pillow.
Narcotics really are dangerous.
The last few hours are a jumble. The last few days, really. And while I’d like to clear my head, the pain that shoots through my pelvis as I shift has other things to say about that plan. So instead, I let my head fall back against the soft pillow and close my eyes.
In the hospital, time seemed to ebb and flow in a strange pattern, only marked by the nurses coming in to offer me medication.
At home, other than Netflix aggressively wondering if I’m STILL WATCHING?—again—time doesn’t even seem to exist.
I check the pillow, relieved that I managed not to drool this time, and push myself up to sitting. My incision aches, but there’s no slice of pain that would indicate that the narcotics have worn off completely.
I look around the room. The sun still shines brightly through the window, another indication that it hasn’t been a million years. The coffee table holds the remote, my phone, and a note.
I force my body into a real seated position—not just upright, but with my feet on the floor. See? I’m completely functional. Totally fine.
I turn off the TV, then pick up the note, recognizing Nate’s handwriting immediately. He’s heading to the grocery store, I should text him if I need anything, and he’ll be back soon.
Love, Nate.
I trace his words with my finger. I love this man. I’m not sure what I did to deserve someone as amazing as he is, but he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
And I know my answer to his question.
Certainty bursts from my chest. I need to tell him. Soon.
I reach for my phone, and as my fingers wrap around the case, it lights up with a text.
BESTIES CHAT
Allie
I can’t do this.
She can’t do what?
I’m in the middle of an epiphany here. I need to tell Nate that I love him and that I want to spend my life with him.
I’m about to swipe the notification to the side when another pops up.
Allie
Rory, I’m going to murder your brother.
I frown at the screen. What in the world is going on?
As I try to find some context for the message, more appear on my screen.
Stacey
You’re fine, Allie.
Rory’s recovering from surgery. Leave her alone.
Allie
Fine. Rory, hope you feel better. When you do, I’m going to murder your brother.
Call me when you’re up to it. Also, feel better. But call me before I murder your brother.
I rub my forehead, a slight headache already forming as I type out a response.
BESTIES CHAT
Rory
Is everything okay? What’s going on with you and my brother?
Allie
I’m fine, relatively speaking. I’m staying with Dylan for a little while to let you recover.
Spam, too.
Anyway, you don’t mind if I murder your brother, do you?
Um, I mind a little. Plus, I feel like he’s bigger than you. How would you even murder him? Poison?
Stacey
No one is murdering anyone. Rory, go take a nap. Allie, I’ll call you. This text conversation is over.
I just woke up.
Stacey
How are you feeling?
Allie
Fine, I guess. Annoyed, mostly.
Stacey
Not you, crazy lady. I was asking Rory.
I’m feeling okay. Kind of like I got hit by a truck.
Stacey
What can we do to help?
Allie
YOUR FUCKING brOTHER GOT A CAT.
Stacey
Dude, read the room. Not the time.
I blink at the phone, her message making approximately zero sense. Everything in this text needs some background, and maybe a little more clarity than my current narcotic-induced fog. But that last comment from Allie makes me wonder if she’s the one who’s confused.
A cat?
Maybe it’s like a metaphor. Or a piece of sports equipment or something, like the time Dylan got a Peloton, and it took me a week to figure out what the heck he was talking about.
BESTIES CHAT
Rory
…a cat????
***
I have questions.
Allie
A cat. A feline. An asshole overlord of the house.
Stacey
Anyway, how are you doingm Rory? Can I bring you anything?
Dylan isn’t a cat person. He wouldn’t get a cat.
Stacey
Let the record show that I tried to change the subject.
Allie
He got a fucking cat. And now I’m living with it.
Stace, appreciate the efforts, but I need to hear more about this cat situation. It seems urgent. Also, Twilight Zone-esque. Dylan isn’t a cat person.
Allie
Its name is Norman.
Norman??
Allie
That’s what he named the asshole. Think he’d notice if I accidentally let it out and never let it back in?
Be nice to the poor cat. He’s probably trying to figure out what the hell is going on.
Allie
You know, I stand corrected on everything I’ve ever said about Spam. He’s a perfect animal. An angel. I love him. He’s the most amazing pet in the history of pets.
Uh… I love Spam, but he has his faults. Are you sure you’re okay? Just ignore the poor cat.
Allie
That’s my point, Rory. Norman is not a poor cat. Norman is a demon. He makes Spam look like a fucking angel.
I still can’t believe Dylan would get a cat. Are you sure it’s his? Maybe he’s watching it for a friend.
Allie
Does Dylan even have friends?
And no friend would wish this stupid cat on their worst enemy. He’s evil.
I’ll find out more. Anyway, are you sure you’re okay living with Dylan for a little while? Appreciate you giving me some privacy but I know you and Dylan don’t always get along.
Allie
Maybe Dylan has dementia. He’s old, after all. That might prompt someone to get a cat.
He’s thirty-eight.
Allie
Exactly.
Stacey
Love you ladies, but my prep block is over and I need to get back to work. We can discuss Norman and whether being in your late 30s is old enough for dementia later.
Sorry Stace. Call me after work.
Allie
Drinks tonight? I need something strong.
I think I’m out. Post surgery and all.
Stacey
Rory, if you’re up to it, maybe Allie and I could come visit?
Allie
I’ll bring tequila.
I’m fuzzy enough from narcotics that I’m going to pass on the tequila, but that would be fun. I’ll let you know how I feel.
I set the phone on the couch next to me and take a deep breath. Holy hell, I do feel like I got hit by a truck. Who knew that having surgery through teeny-tiny cuts could take it out of you like this?
Dr. Graham’s words float into my mind—it’s the same surgery on the inside, even if the incisions are small; you should take it easy.
It’s not that easy, though. I should be helping out at home, doing my job at work, all the usual things.
Instead, I’m on a couch, slightly high from pain medications, and discussing a cat.
I startle when my phone vibrates, and I reach for it, expecting something from Allie or Stacey or both. A debate about tequila versus vodka, or something like that.
But when I peer at the text, I realize I missed an entire unread group chat while I was catching up with my best friends.
The most recent text flashes on my screen.
BEAUTY QUEEN SUPPORT GROUP
Nate
I’m just not sure I’m going to go through with this whole thing.
I reread his text, then start to scroll back to read the rest of the messages.
What did I miss?