Page 37 of Come Back To Me

“Marry me, Yara.”

I thought he was just throwing out an idea, and I was just about to shoot it down when he produced a ring from the bottom of the M&M bowl. My mouth fell open.

We knocked the bowl over as we both stood up and jewel colored ovals skittered across the floor. I turned my head to watch them, my shock palatable.

It was a mistake—saying yes. I knew it even as my eyes traveled from one M&M to another: red, and blue, and yellow. I’d remember them scattered across the floor like that forever, his proposal still wet on his lips. The earnest fire in his eyes.

“We’re precise chemistry, Yara. We’re so good this feels like a dream. I want to marry the shit out of you.”

And in that exact moment, I thought of Petra, the way she was creeping toward him, and my mouth opened to say yes.

“Yes, David,” I said, my eyes filling with tears.

And then he slid an oval diamond onto my ring finger. I stared at it as it caught the light, too beautiful for words. He kissed me and I wrapped myself around him, euphoric, my Monday memo forgotten—everything forgotten.

There once was a girl who never dreamed of a wedding. Weddings, and marriage, and commitment were for people who wanted the same thing for a long period of time. The same person. I mocked that sort of mindset, the basicness of it. Those dreams were sweet vibrations of stability that lulled you into a deep, psychological sleep. I didn’t want sleep. And it all started with flowers, and silk, and stiff-faced cake toppers holding hands. I knew that I wanted to be awake. I wanted my wit and my sense, and by God, I wanted to own my own heart. So when David asked me to marry him, I was surprised when I said yes. And not just any yes, but the type of yes a girl who’s always dreamed of a wedding would say. I let him slide the ring on my finger, and then I threw my arms around his neck, climbing his body in excitement until my legs were wrapped around his waist. I held up my hand behind his head so I could see my new ring. And then I rewrapped my arms around his neck and squeezed and squeezed until he told me I was choking him.

“Get used to it,” I’d said. “This is your life now.”

We got matching tattoos the next day to celebrate. David suggested it and I liked the permanency of my mark being on his body. They happened on our shoulder blades, his right and my left.

“Now there is love marked on your skin,” he said to me after, kissing the spot.

“Are you sure?” I kept asking him.

For weeks after he gave me that ring I was still asking, “Are you sure?” on a daily basis like he was the one doubting rather than me. Our tattoos scabbed and healed, and I’d ask him,“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” he’d say—steady, anchored—completely and unequivocally sure. We decided we didn’t want a large wedding. I didn’t have much in the way of family, just a few close friends I’d collected over the years, and David had a very large family, most of whom he said would either get too drunk or not drunk at all.

“I’ve seen them ruin weddings before,” he told me. And then he listed them off like he did every time: “My cousin Lydia, my brother, my great aunt Angela…they get drunk off their asses, or judgmental off their asses, and start fighting about stupid shit. And then there’s Sophia, but that’s a whole other issue.”

And then like always, fascinated by the concept of family, I asked: “And what did they fight about? What did the bride and groom say? How long did it take for them to reconcile?” I was most interested in Sophia, so I asked about her too.

He answered all of my questions patiently, his voice rumbling in his chest, even though I’d already asked them a dozen times before. As his full lips formed words, he traced the spaces between my knuckles with his fingertips. We were always touching, we couldn’t stop touching. I’d never been in love before, not like this. I thought I had, but everything before felt like a lie.

“My cousin Sophia had an abortion when she was twenty, she marches in pro-choice rallies,” he explained. “My aunts are Catholic. Sophia’s own mother has disowned her. Sophia refuses not to come to family things because of them. I think you’d appreciate her—she has the sameI don’t give a fuckthing you have going on.”

“How do they treat her when she shows up?”

“They ignore her, whisper, make rude comments.”

“And how does she react?”

“She doesn’t. She just lives her life.”

Sophia was stronger than me, I decided. I wouldn’t even bother going. If my family treated me that way—with conditional love—I’d disown them too. She was the one showing real love: showing up, not retaliating.

“And what do you say about all of that?” I asked him.

“I don’t think there’s anyone right or wrong. We have to let people be who they are. Sophia does a good job of that, you know? She doesn’t fight with them or condemn them. She leaves them be.”

“But, what about your aunts? To them she committed an atrocious sin. You can’t ask them to come down to her level, a level they don’t believe in.”

“I’m not. No one is. I’m asking them to come up a level actually. To show love instead of judgment. Because if they’re right about their belief system, there is an ultimate judge anyway, isn’t there? We don’t need human judges.”

Fact: I liked him more every day. Usually the more time I spent with someone the less I liked them. A good sign. By the time we were sixty I’d be so full of love I’d be ready to burst.

I bought my wedding dress from a consignment shop in Queen Anne: white lace with long sleeves and a deep V-neck that almost reached my belly button. There was a spot of blood on the hem—two dark red droplets. When I told Ann she made a disgusted face.

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