I fling my bag on the bed, my too-small bed that lets my feet hang off in the middle of the night. I kick my work shoes off in the air and then sit with my heart puckered up in my throat and my insides feeling like melted plastic in the best of ways. Then I realize I can't sit, much less be still, so I go and pace by the window where a group of college kids are all posed like ninjas in the grass. I am grinning without even thinking about it, and I feel like I will burst if Mom doesn't get my question in the next, oh, five seconds.

“Um...that dress I bought you?”

Be coy, I think. The last time she found out she was in the middle of dyeing her hair and I lived in a walk-up above some smelly chinese restaurant. She seemed about as surprised as me telling her my hair gets frizzy when it rains.

“Nope. Think smaller.”

“Did you finally find a bra that fits?”

“Mo-om. Something visible.”

I pace, play with empty hangers in my closet, rearrange books on my desk, finger the picture of us taken a few weeks ago when we went for ice cream. He's so squinty his eyes look like they're going to disappear. I stare at my ring again. I can't stop looking. It's like this tiny drop of perfection on my finger. I want him to get here.

“Pam, honey, I don't know! Why do you need me to guess what you're wearing? Do you have a big class tonight or something? By the way, I hope classes are going well. You know I was talking to Dean at church on Sunday, and his son went to Pratt, and he said that it takes at least three weeks to be able to really tell if you're going to love – ”

“Okay, Mom?” I just want to tell her. I can tell that never again will I be angry or sad because this feeling is great enough to last until I'm sixty. “Think hands.”

“Hands, hands, hands – Pamela Morgan. Are you...”

“Wearing an engagement ring? Yes I am!”

“Oh my god! Honey!” She already sounds teary. “It's about time! When did he ask you?”

“This afternoon. At a gas station.”

“At a...what?”

“A gas station. The Speedway on Route 80. In a puddle of gasoline in the rain.”

Mom laughs. “Well that's certainly, um, creative. Oh honey, how do you feel?”

“I can't even... It's so hard to think. I am so happy I can't even think.”

All I can remember is the way he looked this afternoon kneeling by a pump in a puddle of gasoline. We'd gotten into the car, wetting down the seat. I needed to be by him. We slammed the doors and the rain came down.

I laughed at him and it seemed as if silence was necessary, needed to happen, so we could just sit and absorb. He smelled damp and leathery, kept leaning over the seat belts to kiss me, held my left hand and kept it on his lap. Then I started thinking about lunch. I couldn't help it. All I'd eaten was a pack of soy crisps.

So we ran inside the gas station, Jim holding his jacket over our heads, so giddy I felt almost dizzy, and we bought out all the Little Debbies, beef jerky, a Halloween's worth of Reese's and a strawberry Slurpee. I asked the cashier if there was such a thing as a discount for customers who get engaged at his gas station. He was an Indian man and all he said was, “Is very nice. Did you buy any gas?” But then we got back to the car and ate up all the crap we bought, then made out like we were teenagers, his wet hair dripping all over my wet hair and his cold hands slid up to my shoulder blades. I thought four times about skipping my class but Jim insisted I go and promised he would drive back tonight, even though it's a Wednesday, middle of the work week, and he's dealing with five big clients this summer.

So now I sit and wait for my fiance. A term I'd long ago retired, thought I might never use again. I used to hate the word when I was waiting on Roy to pick a date. Now I want to roll it over my tongue, let the vowels all melt together. I hang up with Mom, call Penny and Dad and Isabel, but then I've got all this weird nervous energy, this adrenaline rush, like I might die of excitement or happiness or both. I could call Alex, I guess, or Lisa, but I'd feel weird if they were here when Jim came.

Instead I peek down the hall to make sure no one's hurt or crying or drunk, that the homework is at least pretending to get done, that all is in order. It's weird to have so much responsibility in a place where I feel so out of character, but there it is. I am hall mother, privy to all toilet overflows, roommate hostilities and boys out past curfew. In reality I don't do squat. Still, I like to pretend I'm semi-important, that I at least have half a purpose here while squandering my way through Graphic Art 2.0 and Flash Properties for Beginners.

The universe appears to be clicking along normally in Wickham Hall. Mine on the other hand? Full-tilt upside down. Why has nothing stopped, why does everything still go on even when this day has altered my world...no pun intended? I am Engaged To Jim. At this epic hour, I leave my door half-open and pour soy milk over Cheerios for dinner. I eat on the floor, bowl between my legs. Girls are shrieking with laughter a few doors down, a microwave beeps distantly. Outside a hedge-cutter goes and a car alarm has been nudged off. It's six and lines of breathless artists, all too young to know anything but thinking everything a revolution, are streaming to the dining hall. I want to avoid the crowds. My phone stays silent and my cheerios grow soggy.

Finally, he comes. I'm still straddling the Cheerios when he half-knocks.

“Hope I'm not past curfew,” he says, standing in the doorframe, jacket dark with rain, a grin already plastered hard across his cheeks.

“Oh my god! About time!” I'm up, milk spilling, and stub my toe in the race to hug him.

We kiss and kiss halfway in the room until I shut the door with my toe, and he's mumbling around my mouth, 'traffic was awful, I hate bridge driving.' He lifts me off the ground and I press my forehead to his; it's cold and wet from the rain, wrinkled from his eyebrows up in a smile.

“Sit,” I say, already tugging him toward the bed. “Sit, sit. Are you hungry? Are you thirsty? Wanna stay in and make out or go out? Your call. ”

“Are you kidding me? We're going out. We are celebrating.”

“This?” I sit down beside him, wiggle my hand in his face.

He pretends like he's just noticing my ring for the first time. “Where'd you get that cool thing?” Jim says. “A gumball machine?”

“Actually, no, I got it from a pawn shop. And I'm not sure if it's real.”

Jim's face gets serious. “Oh it's real. It is very very real.”

“Can't take jokes about your ring, huh?”

“Definitely not. Do you know how hard it has been to hide that thing from you?”

“Where'd you hide it from me?”

“I was keeping it in my underwear drawer but clearly, you got rid of that place pretty fast. I've been carrying it around for a couple months, kinda waiting, and you have a tendency to feel me up, soooo...”

“It's been tricky?”

“Yeah,” he laughs. “And I definitely did not plan on today. At least not until 10 am when I decided I could not wait one second longer.”

“I'm glad you didn't,” I say, and then we're kissing again, long and slow, him pulling me into his lap and leaning us back against the pillows until I stop him. If we want to go out, we've gotta get off the bed. Because when you're living three hours apart and you just got engaged, your fiance against some sheets melts everything else away.

“How much do you think we would have to pay to make Speedway a landmark?”

I get up and peel off my socks, root around in my closet for a sundress. I choose something blue and flowy and flip my shirt over my head without a thought.

“You think I'm going to pay them? I'm just going to do it. Make a plaque, stick it...okay,” he stops. “You can't really expect me to just sit here while you take your shirt off, do you? We've been engaged for 6 hours already.”

“Actually...I do. Self control, Jim. I'll put my dress on quick.”

“Thank you.”

He looks so cute all sprawled on my tiny bed. If I don't fit, he really doesn't fit. He props his hand on his elbow and just smirks at me while I finish getting ready. I can feel the same delirious happiness bubbling up all over me.

“Ready Mr. Fiance?”

“Definitely. ”