"Nothing. I just don't want it anymore."
I'd barely reached the elevator when I heard footsteps behind me.
Desmond had chased me out. He grabbed my wrist.
"Go back inside and apologize to Beverly."
"Did you really have to embarrass her like that, in front of everyone?"
"You made it look like she was the one who came between us. What are people supposed to think?"
His grip on my wrist hurt.
"So you chased me out here to make me apologize to her?"
His face stiffened, then slid straight back into irritation.
"Is it really that big a deal?"
"You just went looking for a fight, trying to force some kind of reaction out of me."
"I never said I wouldn't marry you. Can you please stop pressuring me?"
For a moment I couldn't speak.
Pressuring him.
So eight years of waiting came down to that one word.
I stayed with him from twenty-three to thirty-one.
One by one, our friends got married, had kids.
And Desmond always said,
"Let's wait a little longer."
"Now's not the right time. I'm under a lot of pressure."
So I waited, and waited, until all that was left was that word. Pressuring him.
Seeing that I said nothing, his tone softened a little.
"Ramona, that's not what I meant."
"I just don't think we need to make this ugly."
"Go back inside, okay?"
"Everyone's still in there."
I pulled my hand free and said quietly,
"I'm tired. I'm going home."
I stepped into the elevator and didn't look at him again.
The cab was pulling away from the club when my mother called.
"Mom."
There was a beat of silence on the other end.
"Ramona, are you really not going to think about coming home?"
"That position at the city hospital, if you don't confirm by tomorrow morning, it goes to someone else."
I gripped the phone and didn't answer.
As if afraid of pushing me, she quickly added,
"I'm not rushing you."
"I just want to ask, this Desmond of yours... what does he actually want?"
"If he really wanted to marry you, he wouldn't have dragged it out this long."
"All these years, how many times have your dad and I asked to meet him?"
"Not once. He never came."
The tears came all at once.
On the other end, my mother's voice broke too.
"Ramona."
"It's okay if you don't get married."
"Your dad and I can take care of you."
"Don't do this to yourself over a man who won't give you an answer."
Outside the window, the streetlights slid past one by one.
And it hit me that these eight years had been one long dream.
It was finally time to wake up.
I wiped my eyes and said softly,
"Mom."
"Hold that position for me."
"I'm coming home tomorrow to sign."
My father's voice came through the phone.
"Ramona's coming home?"
My mother laughed through her tears.
"Yes. She says she's coming home."
I closed my eyes.
"Mom."
"I'm coming home."
After I finished the paperwork to resign from the hospital and went back to the apartment Desmond and I had rented for five years, I started packing.
We'd taken this place together the year we graduated.
Back then he held my hand and said that once we saved up enough for a down payment, we'd buy a home that was truly ours.
The living room would have the white couch I loved, the balcony would grow mint and cherry tomatoes, the study would have one whole wall of photos.
He said that when we were old, we'd flip through them one by one and show our kids.
While clearing the bookshelf, I came across a thick kraft-paper photo album.
Desmond had made it for me by hand, the year we graduated from college.
