I take the For Sale sign down from the front of Drew’s mom’s house. With all of the upgrades Drew’s done, the house has sold in just a few weeks.

Rich doesn’t think it’s the upgrades that sold the house. He thinks it’s the heart of the place that sold it, and that the upgrades were just an added bonus.

I’m not sure who’s right, and it doesn’t matter. There’s room for all of it inside the house, and the new owners are a young family from the city, excited to move in and give their two sons a backyard and a place where their dogs can run around.

“Honey, you don’t have to do that,” Drew says, jogging up next to me and taking the sign from me.

“I want to. You already put so much work into fixing up the house. And selling it.”

“Yeah,” Eric says as he exits the new screen door Drew installed. “I bet you never thought you’d use that broker’s license again, huh?”

“Nah, I thought I’d left that all behind. Traded in my small-town deals for bigger fish. But it’s good that I had it.”

“Yeah, you’re a real Renaissance man,” Eric quips.

After we moved into the Brooklyn brownstone, Drew was able to rent out my former unit in the building to another young professional. It happens to be Mrs. Martinez’s granddaughter. I usually go over to Mrs. M.’s place on Wednesday nights for pasta with her and Anna, and afterward, we always catch some old sitcoms on TV.

Drew always comes to pick me up and drive me home with him, even though I’m just traveling a few blocks. He likes to drive his car in Brooklyn. He says that it gives him an opportunity to slow down and take in the neighborhood on his way back from the weekly meetings he, Sarah, and Eric have every Wednesday night while I’m at Mrs. M.’s for dinner.

Drew’s still learning the neighborhood, and even though owning a small residential building is a step backwards for him in a lot of ways, he loves being able to get his hands dirty and help out around the building.

He’s even installed a garden out front, which some of the older tenants have adopted as their space, spending their time there, puttering around, playing chess for hours in the afternoon and tending to their flowerbeds.

Drew told me it would be a way to upgrade the building without changing its essence.

On Thursdays, I have my mom and dad over for dinner at my and Drew’s new place. They’re happy that I’ve quit my job at the paper, and even though they were always proud of me for setting goals and following through on them, they’re even happier now that I’ve decided to take a little bit of a risk and start a blog featuring stories about the people and places that make my neighborhood great.

It’s not a full-time living for me yet, but now I don’t have to pay rent. And anyway, it’s growing, and I like working for myself and being my own boss. I’m hoping to use the blog as a jumping off point, and look for a job at a magazine in a few months.

“Should we keep this For Sale sign as a souvenir and put it in our house, Mol?” Drew asks, holding it up with pride.

“Yes, take it with you,” Drew’s mother says as she comes down the stairs and takes in the sight of the house.

“I can’t believe you’re actually doing it, Ma. You’re actually moving to Florida after all these years.”

“I’m happy about it,” Rich says, putting an arm around Mrs. Anderson. “Our condos are going to be in the same development.”

“It’s a good thing, too. If I ever need a light bulb changed, I’ll have my guy over in minutes.”

“That’s what good neighbors do,” I say, beaming at Rich and Mrs. Anderson.

“You’re a good neighbor, Mol,” Drew says, looking down at me.

“You’re a good neighbor, too. I still can’t believe you bought the building,” I say.

“I can believe it,” Drew’s mom says. “No matter what crazy thing Drew does, it’s never shocking. He has a proven track record of doing outrageous things, and making them seem natural.”

“Like taking over the job at Rich’s building,” Eric chimes in. “I mean, I thought that he needed to get his head examined when he told me what he was doing. But it actually made sense.”

“You know what else makes sense?” Drew asks, taking out the box he made in woodworking class, the box he presented the keys to the house to me in.

He bends down and puts a knee on the ground. Thank goodness he’s wearing old jeans and not one of his suits.

Wait, what the hell?

I try to apply logic to the situation. In one second, I’m gaming out every eventuality in my head. I’m predicting what’s going to happen, and I’m trying to figure out if what is occurring before my eyes is real.

That’s one of the things I learned in journalism school. How to be careful. How to be prepared. How to predict the degree to which a source will be reliable.

Oh, crap. Who am I kidding? I was overly cautious and too careful long before I ever wanted to be a reporter.

I feel like I already know what he’s going to do. Ever since he told me how important that little keepsake box was to him, I’ve imagined that he would propose to me some day, put a gorgeous ring inside it and ask me to be with him for good.

I can’t apply logic to this. It defies all that. The who, what, where and when of the situation don’t matter, because everything is blotted out by how I feel. Everything hinges on the why.

I guess I never thought my wish would materialize so quickly, but the way my heart is beating out of my chest makes me unable to dwell on how crazy it is and just feel my emotions - and how right it feels.

“Drew, really?” I ask as he holds the box in both of his hands, his green eyes flashing, all of the people who are most important to him standing behind him.

“Yes, really. It’s not like me to take a long time to make decisions. And I know that sometimes I should slow down and take everything in. And Molly,” he says, slowly standing up and slipping his hands around my waist, pulling me close, “that’s what I’ve learned from you. I always said that I wanted to go to New York City and make something of myself. It was my goal. And I reached it. But there was always something missing. It was heart. It was you. You’re kind. And pure. You give a shit about people. I know that. I’ve seen it. And I need more of that in my life. For good.”

“I thought you had something that you wanted to ask me, Drew,” I say, weaving my fingers through his.

“That’s right. I wanted to know if you’d like me to pick up a six-pack of beer from this really nice brewery that just opened up in town. Now that you like beer, and all.”

Eric snorts and laughs from the porch behind Drew, as his mom slaps her hands down at her sides and rolls her eyes.

“Ask the lady the question, Drew,” Rich says. “I thought you were this direct, to-the-point guy.”

“Right,” he says, getting down on his knee again. “Molly, this is for you. Marry me. Be my better half.”

“Not better. Fifty-fifty. And yes, Drew. I will. I’ve learned a thing or two from you, too, you know.”

He gets up and swings me around in the air. When I finally touch down again, he parts my lips with his and slips the ring onto my finger mid-kiss, just like it’s belonged there all along.

* * *