CHAPTER 12: The Promises between pages
1290 Words
The spring wind moved gently through their apartment, ruffling the sheer curtains like whispered pages in an open book. Rachel stood barefoot in the middle of their living room, staring down at the index card that had rewritten everything.
"Let’s keep writing this story."
No diamond. No grand speech. No flash-mob serenade. Just Kevin, kneeling on the hardwood floor in scrubs, dark circles under his eyes, hope in his voice.
It was, in every way, them.
She hadn't stopped smiling since.
Now, the card sat inside her favorite poetry collection on the shelf—between Adrienne Rich and Lang Leav, tucked between lines of longing and rebirth.
Kevin emerged from the bedroom, towel around his neck, his hair still wet from the shower. He looked refreshed and nervous. A rare combination for someone who’d once faced down a heart surgery with a caffeine IV and a shaky intern.
"So," he said slowly. "Do we tell people?"
Rachel looked up from the cup of tea in her hands. “You mean our very unconventional, wildly non-traditional engagement?”
“Yes,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “That one.”
She smirked. “We should probably start with our parents.”
Kevin groaned. “My mom is going to cry.”
“And my mom’s going to assume we already eloped.”
"Maybe we should’ve." He leaned down and kissed her cheek. "Would’ve saved us the performance anxiety."
"You're lucky you're adorable," she muttered into her tea.
They told Kevin’s parents first. On a video call scheduled between surgeries and a column deadline, the announcement was met with gasps, tears, and a flood of questions.
“But how did he propose?” Kevin’s mother asked. “Was there a photographer? Fireworks?”
“There was a Post-it note and an exhausted man in hospital shoes,” Rachel said, grinning.
Kevin looked like he wanted to melt into the couch. “It was a card, not a Post-it.”
“Details,” Rachel said. “The point is, it was perfect.”
Rachel’s mother cried too. She didn’t even pretend to be composed.
“Oh, baby, I knew it,” she said, dabbing her eyes with a hand towel. “I always believed you’d find your way back to each other.”
They promised they would fly back to Texas before summer for a proper visit—and maybe even a small engagement dinner, if time allowed.
But as soon as the calls ended, the reality of what they’d just stepped into began to settle over them like early mist.
“We’re really doing this,” Rachel said aloud that night, brushing her hair in the mirror. Kevin watched her from the bed, propped up with a book in his lap.
“We are,” he said. “Scared?”
“Only of turning into one of those couples who fights about guest lists and floral arrangements.”
He chuckled. “How about we don’t? No wedding planner. No huge reception. Just us, a few people we love, and a venue with working plumbing.”
“Deal,” she said, setting down the brush. “Let’s not get married for the world. Let’s do it for us.”
Kevin closed his book and patted the space beside him. “Come here, future Dr. Marin.”
“Future Mrs. Cruz-Marin,” she corrected with a wink. “We’re hyphenating.”
He groaned. “I’m marrying a feminist.”
“Damn right.”
In the weeks that followed, life didn’t pause for their engagement. Kevin’s hospital rotation became even more demanding as he began mentoring a new group of surgical residents. Rachel juggled her column, edits for her second book, and book tour planning—all while navigating online fandoms, social media algorithms, and the strange pressure of being seen.
But under the weight of it all, something steady remained: their shared Sundays.
That particular Sunday, they found themselves on the rooftop of their building, picnic blanket spread over the concrete, a small radio playing old songs while they ate Chinese takeout from paper cartons.
Kevin fed her a dumpling with chopsticks.
She nearly choked. “Babe, you’re stabbing me with that thing.”
“Sorry, sorry,” he laughed. “I was going for romantic.”
She leaned her head on his shoulder. “You’re already romantic. You just don’t know it.”
The sky above them melted from blue to blush. Rachel reached into her tote bag and pulled out a small notebook—worn leather, gold-rimmed edges.
“What’s this?” Kevin asked.
“A wedding journal,” she said. “Or maybe just... a love log.”
He flipped it open and saw the first entry:
March 10
He asked with a card. I said yes with tears.
No one else on earth would understand us better than we do.
Isn’t that the point?
He closed the book, kissed her forehead, and whispered, “Let’s write the whole thing.”
But even love stories with the best intentions get shaken.
It happened on a Thursday.
Rachel had just left a lunch meeting with her editor when she got a call from an unknown number. Again.
She answered, assuming it was another press inquiry.
But it wasn’t.
“Rachel Marin?” The voice was male. Smooth. Familiar in a way that set her teeth on edge.
“This is she.”
“It’s Adrian Clark. We met at that publishing conference in L.A., remember?”
Her stomach dipped.
Adrian Clark. Acclaimed novelist. Widely respected. Rumored to be ruthless. He’d flirted with her once—subtly but clearly—after a panel discussion. She hadn’t thought much of it.
Until now.
“I read your book,” he continued. “You’ve got real voice. Raw talent. I’d love to collaborate.”
“Collaborate?” she repeated, suspicious.
“I’m pitching a co-authored anthology. A duet of essays. Two writers. One emotional dialogue. I want your voice beside mine.”
Rachel hesitated. “That’s flattering, but I’m not sure—”
“Think about it,” he said smoothly. “This could open international doors. NYT front page, not just back. You’re big, Rachel. You just don’t know how big you could be.”
He hung up before she could respond.
Rachel sat with the offer for days, unsure if it was opportunity or temptation. The idea of being seen—truly seen—in a global spotlight stirred something electric inside her.
But something about Adrian Clark made her skin crawl.
She didn’t tell Kevin right away. Not because she meant to hide it, but because she wasn’t sure how to explain it yet. It felt like saying the name out loud would give it power.
Instead, she dove into her work, into planning the next chapter—of her career, of their future wedding, of everything in between.
But one night, Kevin found the printed email on her desk.
“Who’s Adrian Clark?” he asked, voice careful.
Rachel looked up from the couch, surprised. “A writer. He offered me a collaboration.”
Kevin stared at the paper. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I wasn’t hiding it,” she said. “I just... wasn’t sure what to do. It’s a big opportunity.”
He nodded slowly, expression unreadable. “Do you want to do it?”
She hesitated. “I want to grow. But I don’t want to compromise who I am to do it.”
Kevin sat beside her, exhaled. “That’s what scares me. I trust you, Rach. I just don’t trust everyone else.”
She took his hand. “Then we face it together. No secrets. Not now. Not ever.”
- Writer
