Page 113 of The Accidental Text

“Tell me,” I say.

He taps a closed fist on my leg and I look down. He turns it over and lets his hand fall open. There’s a ring. A round diamond set on a gold band.

I take in a quick breath and then look up at him. His eyes are searching my face, looking for answers.

“Marry me?”

I look back down at the ring and then back up at him. “Are you … serious?”

“Would I have a ring in my hand if I wasn’t?” He smiles that half-smile, but this time it’s tinged with something else.

“Are you nervous?”

“I am a little, yeah,” he says, now tapping on my leg with his hand, the ring in his palm looking blingy and shiny.

“Are you seriously worried I’ll say no?”

“Well, I mean, I hope you’ll say yes. Would you just answer my question?”

I smile. “Yes.”

“Yes?”

“That’s one hundred percent yes.”

We both smile now. Big and wide and bright.

“I love you,” he says.

“And I love you,” I reply.

I hold out my hand for him to put the ring on my finger. I feel so many things in this moment. But mostly I feel peace. This is right; this is where I’m meant to be. I picture my mom looking down on me—on us—giving me that big reassuring smile of hers. I think she’d approve of Chase. I sometimes wonder if Chase getting her phone number was somehow her doing. It’s a silly thought, but one I like to entertain.

Chase stops himself before putting the ring on, and I look up at him.

“Kiss for good luck?”

I smile. “Well, it’s the rule.”

Bonus Epilogue

Chase

Four years later

The wind rustles my hair as I stand on the grassy, well-kept lawn. The fronds of a palm tree cast jagged patterns on the ground in front of me.

“Hi, Mom,” I say to the modest headstone, made of smooth granite with soft, rounded edges. At the top, there is an engraved bouquet of wildflowers—her favorite. The inscription reads:Heidi Marie Beckett, beloved wife, mother, and friend.

And now, she has another title: Grandma.

The bundle in my arms makes a soft whimper as my newborn daughter shifts against my chest. Her tiny face peeks out from the blanket, her skin tinged pink, a wisp of dark hair fluttering in the gentle March breeze.

I sniffle back emotion. It’s been four years, and this never really gets easier. The heartache has dulled over time, softened at the edges … but visiting the spot where we laid my mom to rest still leaves me feeling hollow. That’s why I don’t visit often.

“I want to introduce you to someone,” I say, stepping forward. In my mind, I picture my mom leaning casually against the headstone, a bright, proud smile on her face as she looks down at her first grandchild.

“This is my daughter, Kate.” My voice catches when I say her name. I swallow hard. “Katherine Heidi Beckett, actually.”

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