I summon every acting tip I gleaned from my brief dalliance with the Lincoln Middle School drama department, in which I played a tree in the seventh-grade winter production.

“You want to take me somewhere?” I repeat, lifting an eyebrow.

He dives in for a kiss. “Yeah. Get dressed.”

I shift to sit up in bed. “Should I . . . dress for anything in particular?”

I’m not a religious person, but in this moment, I actively consider praying he doesn’t propose somewhere cheesy in public, like on the jumbotron at a sporting event or the crowded observatory on the 102nd floor of the Empire State Building.

“Just get dressed,” he says, giving me that infuriatingly coy grin again. “You always look beautiful, no matter what.”

I fish yesterday’s jeans and T-shirt off his bedroom floor. Knowing that a proposal could happen at any time, I should’ve planned better for this moment. My hands are neatly manicured, yes, but that’s nothing special. They always are. The T-shirt is old and beginning to form unsightly pit stains. I’d shower first, but I don’t have any of the post-shower essentials I’d need here—no fresh clothes, no brush to detangle my wet hair, no real makeup aside from the tubes of lipstick and mascara I keep in the bottom of my purse. All I have is a toothbrush. Begrudgingly, I dress and check my reflection in his mirror. I’ve certainly had better-looking days.

Blake’s kitchen table looks like something Martha Stewart herself personally arranged: two plates are stacked high with eggs, pancakes, and home fries, surrounded by sunny cups of orange juice and steaming mugs of coffee. I realize that Blake has piped in soft jazz from a speaker somewhere.

“You did all of this?” I ask.

“Eat,” he says simply, leaning in for a kiss.

We sit, but it’s hard to eat or talk or relax when I know something is up. I want to pepper Blake with questions, but I know that it will be useless. I want to graciously enjoy this beautiful breakfast like a good bride-to-be should, but my mind is racing. Instead, I fork eggs into my mouth at a steady clip. Blake doesn’t seem to notice; he seems preoccupied, too.

He checks his watch. I’m no connoisseur, but to my untrained eye, it looks like one of his fancier ones. “We should leave soon,” he says.