“I’ve been waiting for you to ask,” I finally said, letting him slide my three-carat fate onto my finger. I hugged him and didn’t let him go until I could muster a few happy tears and make sure a believable smile was plastered onto my face.

For years I felt numb. Hollow. Like I was just going through the motions, resigned to my fate. But, for the briefest second, as my face nuzzled into Graham’s neck, still smelling of chlorine from a recent workout that made my head spin, I felt a strike of excitement in my chest. It lasted a millisecond, like lighting on the Freedom Tower, but it was there. And it was exactly what I needed to step back, look at my fiancé, and kiss him.

I didn’t want an engagement party, but I knew it was part of the process. Like a sweet sixteen or quinceañera or debutante ball, announcing us and our intentions to the world. We’d send out invitations (come celebrate with us!) that would no doubt occupy a top spot on countless strangers’ refrigerators; we’d find a venue, hire a caterer, bring in a band. It was like a prewedding; a party for the locals to give you a taste of how great the actual wedding will be. And Veronica volunteered her Walker party planning expertise.

“What about all of Doug’s Vermont cronies?” I had asked, the day Veronica came over to order everything online, using the address book from their engagement party as a baseline—it’s not like I had anyone to invite. I’d insisted all the invitations only refer to me as Eliza. Not Eliza Bennet. Not Elizabeth. But just Eliza. I’m already more of a Walker than I ever was a Bennet, I’d explained, staring into Graham’s eyes the way everyone expected me to when saying something like that.

“Just locals for the engagement party,” Veronica explained. “Everyone gets the wedding invite, though. Get ready for an onslaught of Doug’s important friends. And their checkbooks.”

“If you don’t have anything nice to say,” I began, “write a check instead.”

She laughed, but I’m not sure she understood the joke.