That was why I didn’t just want to call her.

I wanted to give her the surprise of a lifetime.

First I went to a luxury boutique downtown, where six months earlier she’d stared at a limited-edition designer handbag through the glass. Some women would cry to own something like that, she’d said, with a soft smile.

I bought the bag.

Then I ordered two hundred pink roses, her favorite.

And then I called an exotic-car dealer and bought the thing she’d once laughingly called her “ridiculous, perfect dream car” — a custom, hot-pink luxury SUV, absurd and eye-wateringly expensive.