Why her, and not me? I thought, peering at the photo again. Why did he propose to her, and why won’t he propose to me? It was way past my deadline to not be worrying about it. We’d lived together over a year and a half now. We’d had at least three stilted conversations around the subject, though he’d gone super quiet about it recently. Was he going off me? Surely he had enough information to make an informed decision about whether he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me? How much longer would this audition go on for? I was running out of lines. Going a bit mad. Whenever a wedding came on our TV, I’d stiffen like a rabbit in headlights, moving only my pupils to try to read his expression, because SURELY A PART OF HIM WAS THINKING ABOUT IT? But no. We were so good together. We got on so well. What more would he want? How much more of my life was I willing to waste waiting for him? Was it because he still loved Tiffany? The even crazier part of me was starting to worry it was Jessica’s arrival that had derailed him—had made him see how much better other women were, out there.

“Has it ever occurred to you that you could propose?” Heather had said, rolling her eyes as I brought it up for a sixth time. “It being the twenty-fucking-first century and all.”

“I can’t,” I said. “And before you get mad at me, it’s not a feminism thing, but a Me thing. I’m too insecure... If I proposed and he said yes, I’d worry for the rest of my life that he only said yes because I’d asked.”

She rolled her eyes harder. “The dude teaches psychology, Fern. I don’t think he’s the sort of person who’d say yes to marrying someone to get out of an awkward conversation.”

“You say that, but...”

“I mean, if at this point, you’re still too insecure to discuss it openly, then why are you even together in the first place? Fucking hell, by date four with Katie, we were discussing who would carry and birth which baby.” Heather looked genuinely flummoxed. “What does it mean to you anyway? Like, if you’re happy together, which you always tell me you are, why does marriage matter?”

“I don’t know. I guess someone proposing to you means being...” I tailed off, too embarrassed to say it, especially to her.

“Chosen,” I whispered to myself, staring at Tiffany’s smug grin. The smile of being chosen.