Proposal by Meg Cabot

awkwardness over it, since Maria, too, believed she’d been stood up at the altar.”
    I winced again. I was the one responsible for Maria being stood up twice —­once by Jesse, and then by the guy with whom she was two-­timing Jesse. I’d be glad never to cross paths with her again.
    â€œBut she acquiesced in the end. And my mother ended up leaving the ring with our parish priest, along with the letter, saying that no matter what the reason for my disappearance, she forgave me. She wanted to make sure I knew that, Susannah. That’s why she left the ring—­and the letter—­with the priest, and not my father or any of my sisters. She knew my father would burn the letter, or order my sisters to, as well, if he ever learned of them having it. But he could not order the priest to. The priest would keep it—­and her secret—­forever. And he did—­at least until he, too, died, and the ring and letter passed down through many other priests who kept my mother’s secret until at last the diocese folded. Then it must have fallen into the hands of whoever was trying to sell it online . . . and finally into those of one who knew what to do with it, Father Dominic.”
    I’d continued to keep my arms wrapped around his waist during the entirety of this speech. But now I simply couldn’t stand it anymore. I dropped my arms and took a step away from him, allowing the cold wind to seep in between us.
    â€œNo, Jesse,” I said. “No way that story is true. That is just too many coincidences. And you know I hate coincidences. They make no sense, and I hate things that don’t make sense.”
    â€œI hate coincidences, too, Susannah.” Jesse set his jaw, but wouldn’t let me go. He reached out to grasp both my hands in his, the ring box hard as a stone in one of them against my fingers. “And I’m not particularly fond of miracles, either, except the one that brought you to me. But this isn’t a coincidence, and it isn’t a miracle, either. It makes perfect sense. And do you want to know why? My mother wrote about it in her letter. She said she knew someday I might lose faith in our family. She knew how much I disliked Maria, and didn’t want to marry her, let alone be a rancher for a living instead of a doctor.
    â€œBut she also said that she knew the one thing I’d never lose faith in was the church. That’s the other reason she left the ring—­and the letter—­with the priest. She said I may have stopped speaking to my family, but I’d never stop speaking to God, and that though I might never come home to her, I’d come back to the church someday. And when I did, I’d find her letter—­and the ring. And she was right, Susannah. I never lost my faith. And through it, I met you.”
    My eyes stung. “Jesse,” I said, though my throat was clogged suddenly with so much emotion I could hardly speak. “That’s not—­come on. That’s not how this happened. I mean, eBay .”
    His grip on my fingers tightened. A dozen yards away, the Pacific kept up its rhythmic roar, and above us, the stars burned down in a night sky that was as cloudless as if Mark’s storm for Jasmin had never happened at all.
    â€œLet me finish,” he said, his hands warm on mine. “After more than one hundred and fifty years of living alone in the darkness, I met you, Susannah, and through you, I met Father Dominic. Everything my mother said in her letter came true. It wasn’t the same church, and it wasn’t the same priest. But the letter and the ring were there, all because of you. And now I want to give that ring to you.” He opened the ring box and dropped down to one knee before me in the sand. “So will you, Susannah Simon, kindly do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
    Tears were streaming so thickly from my eyes that I could hardly see. The