It’s been almost a week now and I’m still trying to process. We’ve had such a story, he and I. A tumultuous one filled with mountain top moments and deep despairing valleys. When the proposal finally came, for us it would mark a massive and miraculous triumph, bringing an end to a long and, at times, back-breaking battle. I wanted it to feel like a victory cry and I wanted us to metaphorically cry that cry together, to the world, at the top of our lungs.
We sat on a bench in our favorite not-so-secret secret garden in Queen Anne, enjoying the sun. He said casually, “Oh I finally did some modeling for Zulily, I’ll show you.” Surprised and genuinely interested I began scrolling slowly, per his directions, to find the photo of him. He told me it would be subtle. It was not. A large, grinning Tyler with a sign in his hands that said, “Chelsey, will you marry me?” The caption read, “I do—Do you? The deal of a lifetime.” I thought it was a joke and then I knew it wasn’t.