Then, we bought a house.
It took us no time to set the ball in motion. Within theweek, he moved out of the church lady’s garage apartment. I moved out of Kate’sbasement, and we invaded the upstairs of his parents’ house while we shoppedfor houses with Meghan. It was important to both of us that she was happy, andthat she accepted these new developments in her father’s life. So, together, wefell in love with a three-bedroom house over on Birch, deep in the heart ofRiver Canyon’s historic district. Just a few houses down from where we grewup—from where we met.
It took four months for Mayor and town realtor ConnieFischer to get everything finalized, but the moment we were homeowners, Patrickdropped to one knee in the middle of our empty living room.
“Give me your hand,” he demanded, and when I did, he fishedthe gaudy green ring out of his pocket.
“Where did you find that?” I asked, my throat constricting.“And that’s the wrong hand, by the way.”
“No, it’s the right hand, and your mom found it a few yearsago. She was going to give it to you, but I got to it first.”
He tried shoving the ring onto my finger with zero luck,and he looked up with raised eyebrows. “Jesus, baby,y’puton a few, haven’tya?”
It needed some adjustments, but eventually, he got the uglything on, and when he started to stand, I glared at him.
“You’re not going to ask me?”
“Askyawhat?”
I rolled my eyes. “You know.”
“Hmm.” He narrowed his blue-green eyes, and shook his head.“Nah.”
Irritating Irish bastard.
Patrickinney.
He stood up, wrapping his arms around my waist in sync withmine around his neck. He lowered his mouth to my ear as he started to sway us backand forth in the vacant room, soon to be filled with a giant leather sectionaland monstrous flat-screen TV.
“My phone is in my right back pocket. I needyato take it out and press ‘play.’”
“You can’t do it yourself?” I laughed.
He shook his head. “Nah, I’m notlettin’go.”
One hand left his neck to reach for his back pocket. Ifound the phone where he said it would be, and I found a song—a differentsong—queued to play.
“This isn’t—”
“Play it,” he said with a dimpled smile.
I did, and the plucking of guitar strings filled the inchof space between us, and we swayed. When Van Morrison’s distinctive voiceaccompanied the music, Patrick sang into my ear, the opening lyrics to “TheseAre the Days.”
Then, he whispered, “Backleftpocket.”
With a shaking hand, I reached in to wrap my fingers arounda little box. I took a deep breath, nervous, as though I hadn’t expected it, asthough I hadn’t seen the moment coming for most of my life, and I faltered abit.
“I can’t ask you, ifyadon’ttake it out,” he said, his lips moving against my ear, a chuckle trailing onhis voice.
And that was all the motivation I needed to quit mystalling, and I pulled the box out, holding it in my trembling hand as Vancontinued to sing our new song about endless summers and magicians turningwater into wine.
“Open it.”
I tucked the phone into the breast pocket of his t-shirtand used that hand, shaking even more than the other, to open the box with acreak. Inside, on its little pillowedbed, was a gold Claddagh ring with an emerald heart.
“It came all the way from Balbriggan,” he said with asmile, thinking about the little coastal town he hailed from nearly thirtyyears before. “So, now you’ll always have a part of where I came from.”
“I already do,” I said, my voice shaking with emotion.
