Everything else. The words come quickly, quietly, almost spoken under his breath. Ryan and I have agreed that after the wedding I’ll join him in D.C. But the logistics of that move, and what they’ll mean for me and my career, have yet to crystallize. I can tell that Ryan’s thinking my promotion doesn’t do our plans to cohabitate any favors.

Then there’s the religion question, whether I’ll convert to Christianity. It’s important to Ryan that whatever future kids we have share the same religion as both their parents. I’m not particularly religious, but neither have I managed to get on board with converting. It feels wrong to change myself so we can become some WASPy united front on a future campaign trail. What is this, 1956? Even more than that, I can’t imagine telling BD that I’m not a Jew anymore and neither will her great-grandchildren be.

These are big questions, ones we’ve both gotten skilled at sweeping under the rug since our engagement. It never feels like a good time to tackle them. Tonight I’m too tired—and too elated—to even entertain possible answers. So I tell Ryan the thing that always makes me feel better when I worry about the hows of our future.

“You’re my Ninety-Nine Things,” I say, taking his hands. The fact that Ryan is so indisputably perfect for me matters a lot in my book. But he doesn’t smile like he usually does.

I turn to the prosecco for help. I put both our glasses back in both of our hands. I meet Ryan on his level, which is a practical, plan-making level. “What do you say the next time we’re in D.C., we go look at those wedding venues your mom wanted to show us?”

“Really?” he says.

I nod. “And in the meantime, tonight, can we please just drink to my good news? This is me begging you to drink excellent prosecco.”

Ryan smiles his gorgeous politician smile, the one that says I’m on your side. He raises his glass. “Congratulations, baby. Tell me everything Sue said.”

So I do, flopping on the couch with my prosecco while Ryan tinkers with my dishwasher. As I finish recounting my meeting with Sue and go on to tell him about the launch, I can’t help remembering that handshake with Ross at the end, the intensity of his eyes, the thrill that passed through me.

A glass of prosecco later, Ryan has not only restored my dishwasher, he’s nearly got the radiator valve sorted, too. We’re both in our underwear now and thoughts of Ross’s handshake are long gone. Ryan’s grunts and curses have decreased to once every three minutes, and I feel a space for conversation opening.

“Shall we discuss plans for tomorrow?” I ask.