“Completely overdue,” he agreed, frowning at a tailgater in his mirror.
“Lucky for you, they live in West Covina. It’s on the way.”
He looked over at her, surprised. “Now? But they don’t even know we’re coming.”
“They’re my parents. It’s fine. And we’re engaged. If we put it off any longer, it’s going to be weird.”
Dragging his eyes back to the road, he chewed the inside of his lip. “I don’t have a ring for you yet.”
“I don’t need a ring,” she told him, laughing, finding his consternation sweetly hilarious. “I suppose you’re also worried because you didn’t ask my dad for my hand.”
“Maybe a little,” he confessed.
“Maybe we shouldn’t get married after all,” she groaned. “You’re so old-fashioned!”
He pretended to pout. “That hurts.”
“If I have to have a ring, buy me one of those candy rings. Or we can find a vending machine and get a plastic one for fifty cents. I honestly don’t care.”
He continued to brood while they drove past Ontario, so a few miles later, she said, “Exit here,” pointing to a mall called Montclair Place.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Let’s get a ring so you can feel good about meeting my parents,” she told him. “Kay or Zales—take your pick.”
“I can’t buy your ring at a mall,” he muttered.
“My ring, my choice.”
He sighed but exited the freeway. “We’ll just get something for now, and we’ll get a nicer one later.”
“No takebacks,” she needled him. “This is permanent.”
After they parked and found the store, she took the lead, asking the clerk lots of questions while Trip hung back, communicating mostly with nods. Imagining herself as a newly engaged, gum-snapping, ring-obsessed girl was a fun game, and Lark leaned into it, targeting Trip with her cheerfulness and knowing he’d come around.
Eventually, she settled on a tasteful diamond surrounded by tiny blue sapphires—despite Trip’s urging to get something bigger.
“I like it,” she told him. “It’s me.”
“At least the blue matches your hair,” he said, lightening up a little bit.
The clerk—who was almost beside himself to have such motivated buyers—told them the ring could be sized and ready in half an hour. Over Trip’s objections, Lark insisted they kill time at Cinnabon.
When the ring was ready, they took the jewelry box to a little bench next to a sparsely filled planter, under an atrium skylight glowing faintly red. Lark sat down primly and told Trip to kneel.
“What?”
“You heard me. On bended knee.”
Trip glanced both ways, tugged up his pant leg, and knelt. Opening the box, he took out the ring and slipped it onto her finger.
“I do!” said Lark loudly, trying to make Trip laugh and hoping someone would notice.
She helped him up and took a selfie of the two of them with her left hand splayed on her chest and the ring prominently displayed. Then she posted it to Instagram with the caption, I SAID YES.
“Montclair Place has taken a lot out of me,” said Trip. “I’m not sure I’m in the best shape to meet your parents.”
“You’ll do fine,” she assured him.
Lark may have been playacting during the ring purchase, but now that the glittering band was on her finger, she couldn’t stop looking at it. She even knocked on the door of her parents’ bungalow with her left hand, just to see the jewels sparkle in the porch light.
If she were alone, she would have simply walked in, but it didn’t seem fair for them to suddenly discover Trip in their living room. They were in for a big enough surprise as it was.
“Well, well, well,” said her dad, looking Trip over as he opened the door.
“Is Mom home?” she asked.
“Oh, she’s home,” he said, giving Lark a mischievous grin before calling over his shoulder: “Kalani! Lark’s here!”
He ushered them inside, waiting on introductions until they were all present in the cluttered but homey living room. Lark’s dad kept the garage and his basement workout room shipshape, a habit from his navy days, but happily allowed her mom to clutter the main areas of the house with books, magazines, yarn, and small dogs, one of whom began yapping at their feet.
Lark had just a moment to register that her dad was about two inches taller and thirty pounds heavier than Trip—he was only ten years older—before her mom came in from the kitchen wearing one of the flowing, Hawaiian-print housedresses that had made her cringe in middle school. Her mom was still willowy and slim with perfect skin, but her hair had turned gray prematurely, something she always laughingly blamed on her students at Mt. San Antonio College.
“At last we meet,” she said, offering a hand to Trip. “I’m Kalani Robinson.”
“Leroy,” said her dad when it was his turn.
“Trip Mitchell,” said her fiancé, holding the handshake just long enough that Lark could tell it was competitive.
“What a wonderful surprise,” said Kalani.
“You have no idea,” said Lark, grinning so widely her face hurt.
She could read so much in the eyes of her parents as they took in Trip’s age, whiteness, and wealth, which was obvious from the silver Rolex Submariner. Lark had focused her updates on how fun and spontaneous he was, but now, standing in the modest living room of the house they’d moved to when she was in sixth grade—and about to break the biggest news of her life—the differences seemed a little more pronounced.
Before she could say anything, her mom spotted the shine on her ring finger.
“Oh my god,” she said. “Is that . . . ?”
Lark nodded, her eyes suddenly wet, as her mom swept her up in a fierce hug.
“I feel like I owe both of you an apology,” said Trip.
“For what?” asked her dad, playfully gruff. “Proposing to my daughter? Is there a reason you shouldn’t have done that?”
“No—”
“You’re not married yet, right? Just engaged?”
Trip laughed, unable to get a word in edgewise.
Her mom shushed her dad. “Leroy, let him speak.”
“I’m just sorry that I haven’t been here to meet you sooner,” said Trip finally. “Things have been moving fast, obviously, and I honestly think
