So when he started talking about “when we’re married…” it didn’t come as a surprise to either of us. It’s just as natural as the air we breathe. That’s not to say he simply assumed it without my consent. Once he realized how assumptive his phrasing was, he stopped short and looked deeply into my eyes, then uttered the words I knew were coming.
“Will you marry me?”
Of course I gave the only answer there could be: yes! And sometime in between our training sessions, he managed to slip out and buy me the most beautiful, jaw-dropping ring I’ve ever seen. Rose-gold with a gigantic pink diamond. It’s more than even a princess could ask for. And our wedding is going to be absolutely gorgeous. At first, we toyed with the idea of simply eloping, but now we’re planning the big wedding of my dreams.
“I hope your parents will be pleased,” Max says, worry etched across his face. I lean over the coffee table to kiss the concerns away.
“As soon as they see how happy I am, they’ll understand,” I assure him. “Besides, how could anyone not love you? Especially with everything you’ve done for me.”
“I just don’t want to be the source of any disputes or anything,” he says. “I don’t have much by way of family, and the last thing I want is to ruin things for you. I know how much your family means to you, Liv.”
“Don’t worry, okay? This is a good thing, and my parents will see it the same way, I swear,” I tell him earnestly. At first, I was a little worried that my mom and dad would be put off by our age difference. But I’m old enough and mature enough to know what I want. They know how headstrong and intelligent I am. I wouldn’t decide to do something like this on a whim — I’ve always been cautious in life and love, and I know without a single shred of doubt this is what I want: to be with Max forever.
I just had no idea how short forever could be.
24
Liv
I stand in front of a floor-length silver mirror in the back alcove of a tiny historic chapel on the outskirts of Paris, surveying my own reflection in mingled astonishment and joy. I am nineteen years old as of one month ago, with my first semester abroad finally over. I take a deep, slow breath, blinking in disbelief at the way I look — so foreign to my own eyes.
Not much about my physical appearance has changed, of course. I still have the same long, wavy auburn hair and huge cinnamon-brown eyes. But right now my hair is parted down the center, the smooth waves decorated with a delicate crown of little white flowers. My eyes are wide and luminous, accented by expertly-applied smoky eye makeup and mascara, courtesy of my wonderful French makeup artist. There’s a deep, raspberry-red stain to my full lips, and they part to reveal a glittering and white, yet slightly anxious, smile.
I look beautiful in a way I never could have predicted. And more importantly, I actually feel beautiful — truly and unabashedly. It’s not the professional makeup job that’s caused my transformation, however. It’s the love which beats like a second heartbeat beside my own, filling me with light, making me glow.
It’s an appropriate look for a woman about to walk down the aisle.
My body is adorned in a gorgeous, pearly-white lace gown designed by Lili Hod, with a silky, scalloped swath of fabric draped from my breasts to dangle over my abdomen, smoothing out to a floor-length rippling skirt. The dress is much more expensive than my plane ticket here was, more expensive than my rent back at the flat I would have shared with Maggie, had I gotten the chance.
I am proud of her, though. Despite everything that had happened to her over the course of the semester, she didn’t cower in fear and shrink back into the smothering arms of her parents like I feared. Instead, she pulled a total one-eighty. After spending nearly a month in a hospital being treated for her extensive injuries both physical and psychological, she emerged standing tall and proud. The day before her release, she called me and asked for me to be the one who would pick her up, and not to tell her parents yet that the doctors were letting her out. She wanted to have a chance to breathe the free air and walk the streets of the city which had scarred her without her parents hovering around. So I obliged her happily, a little uncertain of what she would be like when she came walking out of the hospital.
To my relief and happiness, Maggie looked even better than she did when I first saw her on the campus green. She was still thinner than before, after the starvation under the thumb of the Chechens. Her cheeks were a little hollow, her hair slightly limp. But there is a sparkle in her eye now, a kindling of a powerful fire ignited by adversity. In fact, she is now bolder and more open than I am.