OMETHING’S DEAD IN ME. Now that’s a pleasant thought to have on a romantic weekend with one’s gorgeous boyfriend, isn’t it?

Ryan and I check into the SoHo Grand Hotel, a place so stylish and swanky that the maids are better dressed than I am. But apparently Ryan is a regular, because the concierge greets him with, “Wonderful to see you again, Dr. Darling.”

We are shown to our painfully chic hotel room, a corner suite with minimalist furniture and stunning views of the city. “This is beautiful, Ryan,” I say after he’s tipped the bellboy/aspiring actor who is nearly as handsome as Ryan himself.

“Well, I wanted it to be special,” he acknowledges a little sheepishly. Then he kisses me and glances at the bed. “Care to…?”

“You know what, Ryan? I’m a little tired,” I say. It’s not a lie. The truth is, I’m tired of comparing the two men in my life. Correction. There aren’t two men in my life, are there? There’s just this one.

We lie on the beautiful, sleek bed, holding hands. I tell him a little bit about where I hung out when I was a graduate student, places I ventured when I worked in Newark and came to the city for fun. He talks lovingly about his endless residency at Columbia Presbyterian, his horrible hours, the little Thai place that he frequented, the parts of Central Park where he relaxed.

Looking at Ryan, I don’t feel the soul-wrenching ache I feel—felt—for Trevor. There’s a lot to be said for that. If I’m not mistaken, Ryan is going to pop the question this weekend, and I’m going to accept. Enough beating of the poor proverbial already deceased horse. The dead thing in me will harden and crumble away into tiny bits. Just like it did for Mom.

We have drinks in the lounge, stylish, deliciously expensive drinks (who knew a martini could cost $25?) and head up Broadway to see Wicked. It’s wonderful. I love the show. Ryan agrees that it was excellent. Then we have a late dinner at yes, the Rainbow Room. Because my boyfriend is a wealthy surgeon, I feel no compunction about ordering filet mignon and another gold-standard martini. Later, we dance to the orchestra and, of course, Ryan is a smooth dancer.

“You’re good at this,” I say, smiling up at him, since I had the sense to wear flats.

“Ballroom dancing lessons were part of my education. Seventh grade,” he confesses.

“I’ve never danced with a guy who really knew what he was doing.”

“You’re pretty good yourself,” he says, giving me a quick kiss.

“I love you,” I tell him, more for my sake than his.

“I love you, too,” he says. “In fact—” he releases my hand to reach into his breast pocket “—I’m hoping you’ll do me the honor of being my wife.”

What song is playing? I don’t recognize it. Ryan smiles beautifully and slides a chunky diamond ring onto the fourth finger of my left hand.

“It’s gorgeous,” I say, and it is, platinum with an emerald-cut stone flanked by two smaller diamonds. Stunning, like something out of the New York Times magazine.

“Will you marry me?” he says, more for protocol than anything else.

“Yes,” I say, and I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him, and the people around us applaud and smile.

This will be my life, I think as we stroll a few blocks. The air is dry and clear, a light breeze swirls through my hair, the smell of bread perfumes the air. All around us, Manhattan sparkles and hums. I hold up my hand to inspect my ring, and Ryan grins. “My parents will be very pleased,” he says.

“Really?” I say, and he laughs and squeezes my hand. Visions of Thanksgiving and Christmas with Dr. and Mrs. Darling (and Bubbles) float through my head, as surreal as a Salvador Dali painting. “Mine will be, too.”

“Of course,” Ryan says. I try not to roll my eyes. Instead, I picture Ryan holding his own at our Thanksgiving touch-football game which, though it sounds Kennedy-esque and good-spirited, rewards creative, dirty, after-the-whistle type hits. Of course, we wouldn’t want to injure Ryan’s gifted hands, so he might have to excuse himself. Still. It could be fun.

We sleep in the next morning, go out for brunch and spend the afternoon shopping at Saks, mostly for Ryan, to be honest, who needed a few new suits, though he very kindly buys me some fabulous underwear and a pair of peach silk pajamas (perhaps a comment on the ancient Yankees T-shirt I usually wear to bed). We return to our hotel, where I call my mom and tell her the news.

“Oh, Chastity!” she cries. “Honey, that’s wonderful! Wonderful!” She offers to invite the boys and their families over for dinner the next day so Ryan and I can come and announce our engagement live and in person.

“Sure,” I say. “Sounds great.”

Ryan calls his parents, too, and I talk to Mrs. over the phone. “Please call me Libby,” she says. “And I can recommend some very good designers for your dress, darling.”

Dr. gets on the phone, too. “Welcome to the family,” he says heartily, and I try to forget that he’s seen me naked.

Then Ryan takes the phone and fields questions about dates and locations and that kind of thing. I drift over to the window of our swanky room and gaze out at the Empire State Building.

Is this really me, I wonder? It doesn’t quite feel real. I don’t belong in a hotel like this one. The ring, though it sits well on my finger, looks like a prop from a movie. Though we’ve been gone less than twenty-four hours, I miss home. I miss Buttercup.

“I better call my dad,” I say when Ryan hangs up from his parents. I glance at my watch. It’s after five, and Dad’s on nights this week, so he should be at the firehouse. With Trevor, as usual. I don’t think about that.

“Well, actually, your father knows,” Ryan smiles. “I asked for his permission.”

“Oh,” I say. “Well, that was…old-fashioned of you. But nice, I guess.”

I dial my father’s cell. “Are you happy, Porkchop?” Dad asks. In the background, I can hear the crackling of the radio, a few voices.

“Oh, yes,” I say. “Definitely.”

“Trevor, guess what? Chastity’s marrying her doctor,” Dad calls. I wait for the stomach pain. None comes.

“Best wishes, Chas,” I hear Trevor say after the briefest pause.

“Trevor says ‘best wishes,’” Dad relays.

“Thank you,” I say steadily.

“She says thanks,” Dad calls again. “So. Put my future son-in-law on the phone, will you?”

Dad and Ryan talk a minute, Ryan ever respectful, calling Dad “sir” and thanking him for his blessing. Finally, our families alerted to our impending nuptials, Ryan and I—my fiancé and I—look at each other.

“So. That went well,” he says. “Any ideas on where you’d like to eat?”

I remember the little Italian restaurant on Thompson Street, where Trevor told me he was marrying Hayden. Maybe we could go there, replace that awful memory with this happy one. But I say no, no ideas. Anywhere he picks will be fine with me.

THE BOYS HUG ME, the Starahs exclaim over the ring, my little nieces ask if they can be flower girls. “Of course!” I say. “Absolutely! And boys, you can be in it, too, however you want. As long as you don’t hit or bite, okay?”

“That takes all the fun out of it,” Jack comments. “Congratulations, Sis.” He envelops me in a hug, and my throat grows tight.

Elaina is waiting for her chance. When I excuse myself to go to the loo, she pounces, following me right in.

“Lainey, I really do have to pee, so—”

“Honey, are you sure about this?” she asks, sitting on the edge of the tub, nibbling her fingernail.

My breath catches. “Are you kidding me? How can you ask me that?” My voice is bouncing off the avocado-colored tiles. “You’re the one who’s been telling me what a great thing this is,” I growl in a quieter voice. “‘Don’t mess this up, querida. Get over Trevor, querida.’”

“Okay! Yes, so I said that!” she snaps. “Big deal, you know? Chas, are you happy?”

“Yes!” I insist. “I—definitely!” My jaw clenches. “Elaina,” I say, and my voice is now a harsh whisper. “This is the best I’m going to do. He’s a good guy. We’ll be very content together. He loves me. I love him. Okay? Please don’t say anything else.”

“Okay,” she says. She starts to say something, then pauses.

“What, Lainey?” I ask. My head is killing me, and we haven’t had dinner, and I’m starving and just want to go home and curl up with Buttercup.

“Have you told Trevor?” she whispers.

“He knows,” I say, turning away. I pretend to fix my hair in the mirror, but I can see Elaina’s worried eyes reflected back at me.

“What did he say?” she asks.

“He’s all for it.” I turn back to look directly in her face. “I told him I loved him and he said to stay with Ryan.” My face contorts.

“Shit,” she says. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry, honey. It’s okay.”

“Will you be my maid of honor?” I weep.

“Of course,” she says, her big dark eyes filling, as well.

An eternity later, filled with the goodwill of my family and my mother’s freakishly good chicken piccata, Ryan and I drive back home. Buttercup comes loping sloppily toward me, and I gather her tight against me, burying my face against her cheek. “I missed you, Miss Ugly Head,” I say.

“Aaaaroooroorooo!” she bays happily. Right back at you, is what she’s really saying.

“My condo doesn’t allow dogs,” Ryan says, stepping back to avoid a string of drool. “She’ll have to stay with your brother.”

I glare at him. “She stays with me. And who says we’re moving into your condo? Huh? I love this house. Maybe we’re staying here.”

A little smile pulls at Ryan’s mouth. “Why would we stay here when we could live at my condo? This place is cute, Chastity, but it’s not where I plan on living,” he says in a deliberately contemptuous tone, and before too much time has passed, we’re having post-argument sex upstairs in my room.

When Ryan is sleeping, I grab my robe and pull it on, intending to go downstairs for some Oreos or a Pop-Tart or two, maybe three. But at the top of the stairs, something catches my eye. Turning in disbelief, I push the bathroom door all the way open.

It’s done. My bathroom is finished. Gleaming pedestal sink, the smooth gray tiles of the floor…the tub! The Jacuzzi tub is in, and not only that, there’s a fern sitting on one corner. And all my stuff is unpacked. The pale green towels hang from the racks that I chose so long ago, the little antique porcelain soap dish sits on the glass shelf above the sink. The pounded silver light switch cover is in place, the framed picture of the tree shrouded in mist is hung. The light fixtures are up.

It’s done. It’s beautiful.

I catch a glimpse of my reflection. My cheeks are flushed, and my mouth is hanging open.

The boys didn’t say a word about this. They must’ve wanted to surprise me. I can’t believe it.

I hear the door being opened and a repetitive clacking noise as Buttercup’s tail begins whipping some poor piece of furniture downstairs. “Hey, gorgeous,” Matt’s voice says to her.

I glance in at Ryan, who is still asleep, picturesquely sprawled on his back. I pause a second, looking at his Adonis perfection, then close the door and go downstairs. “Matt,” I say, my voice thick with emotion, “thank you for finishing the bathroom. It’s beautiful!”

“Oh, yeah? You like it? Cool.” He opens the fridge, takes out a beer, offers it to me. I shake my head. “Actually, I wasn’t the one who did it, so I can’t take any credit.”

“Oh. Lucky then?”

“Trevor, actually. Just came in here Friday morning and got to work. Didn’t take that long, once he got going. It looks great doesn’t it?”

“Yup,” I breathe, sitting in a kitchen chair. “It’s great.”

“So. Is the doc here?” Matt asks.

“Yes. He’s staying over, if that’s okay.”

Matt pulls a face. “Sure.” He grins. “Just don’t make any unnecessary noise, okay? You’re still my little sister, even if you are old enough to be engaged.”

“Ha,” I attempt. “Right.”

“Nice chunk of jewelry he got you,” Matt says, swigging some of his Adirondack pale ale.

“Thanks. You know what? I think I’ll have a beer after all,” I say. We end up playing Scrabble until midnight, Buttercup’s head in my lap, Ryan sleeping undisturbed upstairs.