10. One Year Later
ONE YEAR LATER
The ring had been in Margot's desk drawer for three months.
She'd bought it on impulse, which wasn't like her at all.
But she'd been walking past a jewelry store in the Village, and there it was in the window: a rose gold band with a vintage-cut diamond, flanked by tiny morganites the exact color of the bridesmaid dresses they'd worn at Sophie's wedding.
The dresses they'd been wearing when everything started.
She'd walked in, pointed at it, and said, "That one."
The jeweler had asked about sizing. Margot had guessed, based on the rings Becca wore on her right hand, the ones she took off when she was elbow-deep in dough. She'd been right, apparently. She'd snuck it onto Becca's finger while she was sleeping, just to check, and it had fit perfectly.
Becca had mumbled something about cold hands and rolled over. Margot had slid the ring off and hidden it in her desk drawer, pulse racing like she'd committed a felony.
That was three months ago. She still hadn't proposed.
It wasn't that she was having second thoughts.
The opposite, actually. Every morning she woke up with Becca sprawled across three-quarters of their bed, hair a disaster, one leg thrown over Margot's hip like she was afraid Margot might escape in the night.
Every evening she came home to the smell of something baking and Becca's voice singing off-key to whatever was on the radio.
Every night they fell asleep tangled together, and Margot couldn't imagine wanting anything else.
The problem was the proposal itself.
She wanted it to be perfect. Becca deserved perfect. But every idea Margot had felt inadequate. A fancy restaurant felt too impersonal. A trip felt too complicated with Becca's bakery grand opening next week. A quiet moment at home felt too small for something this important.
Sophie had suggested proposing at the bakery's grand opening. "It's her dream," she'd said. "Make it part of an even bigger dream."
But that felt wrong too. The bakery opening was Becca's moment. Margot didn't want to overshadow it.
So she waited. And the ring sat in her desk drawer. And every day she looked at Becca and thought, soon.
Today was the soft opening. Friends and family only, a test run before the real grand opening next week. Becca had been up since four in the morning, and Margot had brought her coffee at six, and now it was nearly noon and the bakery was coming to life.
Wild Flour. That was the name, spelled with the "ou" that made it a pun. Margot had raised an eyebrow when Becca proposed it.
"It's clever," Becca had insisted. "Flour, like baking? But also flower, like wild and free?"
"I understood the wordplay."
"And? Do you love it?"
Margot had considered. The name was whimsical, a little chaotic, impossible to take too seriously. Exactly like its owner.
"It suits you," she'd said. "That's what matters."
Becca had kissed her for that answer.
The bakery was beautiful. Exposed brick and warm wood and a display case that made Margot's mouth water just looking at it.
Croissants and danishes and elaborate cakes and the macarons Becca had perfected over months of trial and error.
There was a small seating area with mismatched chairs that Becca had found at flea markets, and a counter where she could work while customers watched.
Organized chaos. Exactly like home.
"Stop staring and start helping," Becca called from behind the counter. She was arranging pastries with the focus of a surgeon, flour dusting her apron and one cheek. "The napkin dispensers need refilling."
"I'm a partner at a law firm. I don't refill napkin dispensers."
"You do today."
Margot refilled the napkin dispensers.
By two o'clock, the bakery was packed.
Sophie and Jamie had arrived first, of course. Sophie had cried at the sight of the hand-painted sign above the door, the one Margot had secretly paid for and told Becca was a "pricing error." That had made Becca cry. Margot had excused herself to check on the napkin situation again.
Priya had flown in from Chicago. She'd brought a friend, a public defender named Elena with wild dark curls and Doc Martens, who lived in the Bronx.
"Priya said I had to try the croissants," Elena said, already on her second. "She wasn't wrong. These are incredible."
"Thank you!" Becca beamed. "The lamination took forever to get right."
"Worth it." Elena grinned, bright and warm, the kind of person who made you feel like you'd known her for years. "Priya also said you made partner," she added to Margot. "Corporate law, right? I'm a PD. We're basically opposites."
"Most lawyers are my opposite," Margot said dryly.
Elena laughed. "Fair enough. The good ones, anyway."
Becca's parents had arrived an hour ago.
Her father had immediately stationed himself behind the espresso machine to help with the rush, and her mother was circulating with a tray of samples.
Her abuela sat in the corner like a queen on a throne, accepting tribute in the form of pastries and offering sharp-eyed assessments of each one.
"Too much powdered sugar on that one," she said, pointing at a danish.
"Abuela!" Becca protested.
"What? I have standards. But the flavor is perfect. I'll allow it."
High praise, apparently. Becca beamed.
Margot's own parents were there too. Elegant and slightly bewildered by the chaos, but making an effort. Her mother had actually eaten a macaron in public, which was practically a revolutionary act.
Her father pulled her aside near the window. "She makes you happy," he said. It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
"Good." He nodded once. "Your mother wants to know about grandchildren. I told her to wait at least until you're engaged."
Margot's hand drifted toward her pocket before she could stop herself. "We'll see."
Delphine was notably absent. A blurry photo had arrived that morning from somewhere in Greece, with a caption that read: Margot I'm SO SORRY the ferry schedule is a disaster, I WILL be there for Mom and Dad's anniversary, I PROMISE. Followed by seventeen apologetic emojis.
Some things never changed.
By five o'clock, the soft opening was winding down. The display case was nearly empty, which Becca kept calling "a good problem to have," and the seating area was scattered with crumbs and happy customers.
Sophie cornered Margot by the bathroom.
"So?" she demanded. "Did you bring it?"
"Bring what?"
"Don't play dumb. The ring. I know you bought a ring. Priya told me."
"Priya doesn't know anything."
"Priya knows everything. She's terrifyingly observant. Did you bring it?"
Margot didn't answer, which was answer enough.
Sophie grabbed her arm. "Margot. It's perfect. Look at her."
Margot looked.
Becca was standing behind her counter, surrounded by the remnants of her dream come true. Her apron was a disaster. Her hair had escaped its braid hours ago. She was laughing at something her father said, her whole face bright with joy.
"She built this," Sophie said softly. "With your support. And she's about to have the best day of her life. Don't you want to make it even better?"
"I don't want to steal her spotlight."
"You won't be stealing it. You'll be adding to it." Sophie squeezed her arm. "Trust me. This is the moment."
Margot looked at Becca again. At the bakery. At the life they'd built together over the past year: the apartment that was now thoroughly invaded by baking equipment, the mornings that started with flour on the sheets, the evenings spent taste-testing whatever Becca had invented that day.
She put her hand in her pocket. The ring box was there. She'd had it for three months, waiting for the right moment.
Maybe the right moment was now.
She waited until the last customers left.
Until Becca's parents headed back to their hotel, her abuela pausing to pat Margot's cheek and say "you're good for her" in a tone that suggested Margot had passed some final test. Until Sophie and Jamie and Priya said their goodbyes (Elena had already left to meet her tía for dinner), Sophie shooting Margot a meaningful look on her way out.
Then it was just the two of them, alone in the empty bakery.
Becca was wiping down the counter, humming to herself. The late afternoon light slanted through the windows, catching the gold in her hair. She looked tired and triumphant and so beautiful.
"Hey," Margot said.
Becca looked up. "Hey yourself. We did it. We actually did it."
"You did it."
"We." Becca set down her rag and crossed to her, wrapping her arms around Margot's waist. "I couldn't have done this without you. The business plan, the loan applications, the eighteen different versions of the menu you made me justify."
"The menu needed focus."
"The menu was fine. You just like spreadsheets." Becca kissed her softly. "Thank you. For everything. For believing in this. For believing in me."
Now. It had to be now.
"I need to tell you something," she said.
Becca's expression flickered with concern. "Is everything okay?"
"Yes. More than okay." Margot took a breath. She'd prepared a speech. She'd written it out, revised it, practiced it in the shower. But standing here, looking at Becca, all the words dissolved.
"A year ago," she started, "I went to Sophie's wedding fully prepared to hate it. I had my schedule, my binder, my plan to survive the weekend and go home unchanged. And then I met you."
Becca's eyes were getting wet. "Margot—"
"Let me finish." She took Becca's hands in hers. "You crashed into my life like a hurricane. You made me laugh when I'd forgotten how. You saw through every wall I'd built and decided to stay anyway. You made me want to be someone who chooses love over fear."
She reached into her pocket.