“Gratitude is not a creative writing assignment. It’s a mindfulness practice.”
She nods like yeah yeah.
“May I go on?”
“Please.”
“I’m grateful to N95 masks for keeping us safe when we travel to meet each other. I’m grateful for frequent flier miles, which keep us from going broke. I’m grateful for beds, perfect for—”
“Okay, Casanova. I get it. You’re grateful for sex and travel.”
“Sex and travel with you,” I clarify.
“Are you done?” she asks.
“I’m just getting started.”
“Of course you are.”
“I’m grateful for the national park system,” I say, “for giving me an adventure with my woman. I’m grateful for cholla cacti, for making her eyes light up like a kid’s. I’m grateful for sauvignon blanc, because of the way it makes you agree to dance with me, even though, I will admit, you are terrible at it.”
“Is this a roast?”
“Only a little bit. To keep you honest.”
“Is it my turn now?”
“Nope. I’m grateful for cabins in little lake towns, where I spent some of the happiest days of my life. For high school reunions, for giving me a second chance with you. For all the wrong relationships that made me see this is the right one.” My voice cracks a little. I’m getting emotional, but I’m determined to get through this without crying.
Molly’s face has grown tense. She’s watching me intently.
“Seth,” she says, “I love you, but the food is going to get cold. Let’s eat.”
But I’m in it now. I couldn’t stop even if I wanted to.
And I don’t want to. I only want her.
I take a deep breath. “I’m grateful for all the years we spent apart, because they helped us become the people that could be together.”
In the distance, I can hear the music starting, right on time. She hears it too. She looks at me with this terrible expression. “Okay,” she says. “What’s going on? Seriously.”
There is flight in her eyes. Like she knows exactly what’s going on and is frantically running through her options for making it stop.
My stomach turns over. I have never prayed harder than I am in this moment, hoping this will turn out okay.
“I think it’s coming from outside,” I say in a voice much calmer than I feel. “Let’s go look.”
Molly stays planted. “What are you doing, Seth?”
“Come on,” I say, forcing a grin and taking her hand. “There’s something I want you to see.”
She doesn’t move. There’s a wild look in her eyes, like she’s a cornered animal.
“Baby,” I say. “Just trust me. Come on.”
She lets me lead her through the living room and out onto the front porch. In the yard, in a clearing among the Joshua trees and ocotillos, a string quartet is seated in front of a ten-foot-high screen projecting a starry night’s sky. At the sight of us, they break into “I Found a Love” by Etta James.
It’s one of our songs. One we played over and over at my cabin that first week we spent together.
Lights that I had brought in from LA go on all around us, projecting vertical beams into the sky.
Molly covers her mouth with her hand. Her eyes are filled with tears. In the darkness, I can’t tell if they’re happy ones. All I can see is the sheen.
I rummage in my pocket for the ring I bought her at Roman & Roman. It’s an antique Georgian-era cluster of diamonds forming a flower on a delicate gold band. It reminds me of the charms on the many strands of necklaces she always wears.
“Baby,” I say raggedly, “I’m so grateful I get to share this holiday with you. For the chance to make new traditions with you. And for the chance to honor old ones. Like this one.”
I bend down on one knee.
At that cue, the lights begin to change colors, projecting a swirl of beams into the sky. Behind the musicians, the projector lights up with images of fireworks. (The real thing is illegal in Joshua Tree; this is the best I could do.)
“Molly Marks,” I say. “I’m so grateful I found my soul mate. Will you marry me?”
The music swells and tears stream down Molly’s face.
I reach out for her left hand. It’s limp, and clammy.
She pulls it away.
