Page 125 of Stuck with Doctor Grump

“I know,” she whispered back. “I love you more.”

She tucked her head against my shoulder, and I looked out over the garden—the center we built, the life we shaped, the people we fought beside. It wasn’t perfect.

It was better.

And as Ruby slipped the ring onto her own finger with trembling hands, I knew we weren’t just promising a future.

We were planting it.

One root at a time.

The garden buzzed long after the proposal, but eventually, Ruby and I made our way back inside the center, soaked and grinning like fools. Someone had handed us towels—Hazel, probably—and now we sat side by side on a bench near the welcome station, trying to dry off and wrangle our emotions back into something resembling composure.

I lifted a glass of sparkling lemonade, condensation trailing down my fingers. "To rainstorms, chaos, and women who say yes anyway."

Ruby clinked her rosewater cocktail against mine, eyes still sparkling. "And to flower crowns on grumpy surgeons."

We laughed—loud and easy. The kind of laughter that comes only after you’ve been wrung out emotionally and realize you survived it, together.

“Do you realize how muddy our shoes are?” she asked, nudging mine with her own, both of which were now permanently stained Cedar Springs brown.

“Good,” I said. “Proof we were present.”

Just then, Eleanor—dry and composed, as always—called for everyone’s attention. “Now that the thunder has offered its applause and our future bride has finally said yes,” she said with a twinkle in her eye, “it’s time for the final surprise.”

Ruby and I exchanged a glance.

Hazel stood beside Eleanor and tugged at the linen curtain covering the north wall of the common room. “This,” she said, “is for both of you. But especially you, Ruby.”

The curtain dropped.

The crowd gasped. Ruby covered her mouth. I stared.

A mural, sprawling across the wall, bold and beautiful. Vines twisted through anatomical hearts, each one slightly different in shape and color, blooming with wildflowers. Sunflowers, poppies, daisies, roses—messy and radiant. Painted by local kids, the strokes were uneven, but the soul behind it was unmistakable.

Across the top, in curling script, it read:

Where love heals every kind of wound.

Ruby stepped closer, fingers brushing over the textures.

“They worked on it in secret for weeks,” Hazel whispered beside me. “Right under your nose.”

I recognized Ava’s tiny initials near a bright yellow marigold. A scribbled heart labeled “NANA” in bold purple. And smack dab in the center—a red anatomical heart with a crown of wild daisies.

Ruby turned to me, teary again. “This is... too much.”

“It’s perfect,” I said. “It’s us.”

She turned back to the mural. “I always wanted to create something that would matter even when I didn’t feel like I did.”

“You’ve been doing that all along,” I told her. “This just puts it in paint.”

The room broke into spontaneous applause, and someone passed around more lemonade and cookies shaped like stethoscopes and tulips. I didn’t even ask.

Marge raised her glass. “To love, medicine, and miracles. And to Ruby and Damien—who proved you can be both a healer and a hurricane.”

Everyone cheered again, and this time, I didn’t flinch at the attention.

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