Kade proposed on a Tuesday.
Not because he had planned it meticulously, though he had. Because Tuesday was the day we had first worked late together over those falsified documents, which was the night he had told me he remembered the East River, which was, in his particular and infuriating way of thinking about time, the night everything had actually started.
I was eight and a half months pregnant and wearing a sweater that I had stolen from his side of the wardrobe and sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of decaf that I was drinking with the mild resentment of someone who missed real coffee deeply.
He came in from the terrace and sat across from me. He put a small box on the table between us.
I looked at it. Then I looked at him.
"Now?" I said. "You're doing this now?"
"Yes," he
