“Oh, he completely blindsided me. We were going on our usual run Sunday night. Garrett timed it so we’d reach Brooklyn Bridge Park at sunset, and then pretended he had to stop to tie his shoe. He dropped to one knee, pulled out the ring, and popped the question.” Leslie chuckles. “I should’ve been suspicious; he sent me to a manicure appointment Saturday I couldn’t remember booking.”

A sneak manicure. A small thing compared to a proposal. But Garrett knows how much Leslie cares about her Instagram, and he made sure she could take the perfect engagement photo with perfectly lacquered nails. Gosh, what it must be like to have someone care for and love you that much.

My chest tightens.

Hoping my voice isn’t too strained, I say, “I’m so happy for you, Lee. Have you already picked a date?”

“We’re thinking of summer next year. That should give me enough time to plan for everything.”

That’s when the jealous, cynic, scorned woman in me takes over for a second. “Don’t forget to come to me for a prenup first.”

“Sheesh, Vivi, romantic much?”

I rein in my inner bitter bitch and hastily apologize. “Sorry. It’s just the lawyer in me talking. You know I can’t help it. I’m sure you and Garrett won’t need a prenup.”

Leslie lets out a nervous laugh. “I hope not.”

An awkward silence follows, so I break the tension by asking a silly question. “Have you already bought all the bridal magazines on Earth?”

“Not yet.” I can hear the easy smile return in Leslie’s voice. “But I might have abused Pinterest a little.”

“Oh, gosh, that must’ve been quite the rabbit hole.”

“Yep, I have to delete the app from my phone, it’s a drug. Uh, listen, anyway, Garrett and I are hosting an informal engagement party Saturday night at our house. Are you free?”

“Sure,” I say.

“Great, I’ll text you the details.”

We hang up, and I stare around the living room for a few seconds, at a loss for words. A familiar lump in my throat is lodged in place, no matter how many times I try to swallow it away.

How did I end up here? In my mid-thirties, with no love life to speak of, and no prospect of a relationship. I’m a romantic at heart, but fifteen years of bad relationships have kept telling me I’m wrong. First, with what happened with Tegan’s father. Then, with all the gruesome love-turned-to-bitter-resentment I witness daily in my job. And, finally, with a good chunk of the men in New York not interested in dating a single mom. But when did I stop trying? I can’t even remember the last date I went on. Still, stories like Leslie’s make me hope love is possible, even in this chaotic world.