Ryan thinks. “Okay, yes, I remember you started freaking out about your mom—”

“That was part of it.”

“And the other part?” he asks.

“I’m a Dodgers fan.”

“Come again?” Ryan asks.

“I’m a Dodgers fan. You know that.”

“I know you have an old Dodgers T-shirt. I know you love Vin Scully. But what was I supposed to do, fly you out to a Dodgers game and propose there? It makes no sense to be a fan of a team in a city you’ve never lived in! You don’t even like Los Angeles!”

“I’m a Dodgers fan because of Sandy Koufax,” I say. “I’ve told you that. My mom was four years old the year he sat out game one of the World Series on Yom Kippur. BD told you the story of taking the train across the country with my grandfather to watch Koufax pitch his no-hitter against the Yankees. He’s a hero in my family, like he’s a hero for most Jewish families in America. You’re supposed to remember things like this about the person you want to marry. But that’s not even the point.”

“What is the point?” Ryan asks.

“The fact that I’m a Dodgers fan has almost nothing to do with our relationship. But the Washington Nationals have even less to do with our relationship. They’re your team, and that’s great. I had fun at the game with you. But there’s nothing special about them or that stadium to us. You could have proposed to me at the bodega where we buy coffee, and it would have meant more. I wasn’t happy, Ryan. I was in shock when you proposed. Or should I say, when the jumbotron proposed. It asked me to marry you. You never even said the words.” I sigh. “I could have been anyone in the crowd.”

“You’re not anyone,” he says, his voice cracking. “You’re Elaine Bloom and I love you. Uniquely.”

“I know that you love me. And I love you. But I don’t think we love what our future looks like together. You want me to be all the things you want in a wife. But I’m not a Nationals fan just because I wore your hat that night. I won’t be a WASP, even if I convert. I’ll never stop being an editor, even if I change jobs. I don’t want five kids just because you do. And I hate wedding planning without my mother, not because I need her to pick out my dress, or even to see me wear it that day. I hate it because I know that if I go through with it, I might be getting her last words to me wrong.”

“If you go through with it,” Ryan says, putting his hands on his head. He starts pacing. “Oh my god. You’re breaking up with me.”