“It’s barely November,” I say, feeling his body heat seep into mine. “I do not care.”
“But I do,” he counters.
I meet his eyes in the mirror. “Connor. I’m getting old.”
He frowns, but it’s soft. “How can you get old at thirty-five? We’re in our prime.”
“Speak for yourself. I pulled a muscle the other day while getting out of bed.” I reach for the tweezers again. “Really, there should be an unsubscribe button.”
“Manuela.”
“Connor,” I echo, meeting his gaze in the glass.
“Why so serious?” he asks, his tone somewhere between amused and genuinely curious. “Where is this coming from? I’ve never heard you talk about this before.”
“Did you know that pregnancies after the age of thirty-five are considered geriatric?” I say, turning toward him now, leaning against the counter. “Literally, the classification is the same for a pregnant person in their seventies as someone in their mid-to-late thirties.”
His eyebrows lift. “Okay. Do you know anyone who was pregnant in their seventies?”
“That’s not the point.” I wave him off. “The point is that I’m getting old, and I hate it.”
“Babe.” He takes a deep breath, then breaks away, stepping out of the bathroom without another word. I hear the faint sound of the closet door sliding open.
When he comes back, he’s holding a white rectangular envelope, the kind that comes tucked into bills for mailing back checks. His expression is determined. “You leave me no choice.”
“No choice for what?” I ask, glancing down as my phone buzzes on the counter—Camila, calling from somewhere in theMediterranean. She’s on her delayed honeymoon after the whole drama last year.
Before I can answer, Connor moves. In one smooth motion, he pushes the envelope into my hand and takes my phone from the counter, tossing it gently out into the carpeted closet hallway.
“Connor, what is going on?”
“Open it.”
I hesitate, narrowing my eyes.
“Just open it and stop asking questions,” he says, a lazy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You are so impatient sometimes.”
I glare, but I’m already sliding a finger under the flap.
“But I love you so much, baby. Just the way you are,” he adds, his voice softer now. He leans in to give me a quick peck on the lips, then steps back, waiting.
Inside are photos—one per month, starting with January first and moving through the year. I shuffle through them slowly, my mind catching up to what I’m seeing.
The last one stops me cold. It’s from Elle’s new rooftop a few weeks ago, when the weather was still warm. She had a huge housewarming party for herself once they moved to a bigger house, and of course it was as extravagant as her wedding. We’re lounging on her loveseat, the herb planters behind us overflowing. I’m looking at the camera, but he’s looking at me with dreamy eyes—the same way he looked at me in Switzerland two summers ago, and last summer when we traveled through the United States in my attempt to at least visit a few of the national parks.
“What is this?” I ask, even as my stomach flips.
In every single picture, Connor is holding the same small, vintage pink box with decorative filigree on the edges.
“I’ve been trying to propose to you for months,” he says, smiling wryly. “But for one reason or another, I haven’t been able to. And since you’re not getting old, I might as well do it?—”
“In the bathroom of our home?” I cut in, staring at him.
“Yes, baby. In the bathroom. You leave me no choice.” He slips into the most exaggerated Spanish accent I’ve ever heard. “Manuela Torres, ¿te querés casar conmigo?”
The accent vanishes on the last word, replaced with perfect pronunciation. He even skips thesafterquerés, just like we do in Argentina.
“What the fuck?”
