Page 92 of An American in London

“I never returned it,” he says. “I hoped you’d be back to claim it.”

My apple-pie smile shines up at him.

“You’ve felt like mine since the first time you slipped on this ring. It was like an internal earthquake rattled through me, and I’ve never recovered from the seismic shift you created. And I don’t want to. I want to eat popcorn and watch movies in bed with you. I want to waltz around rose gardens. I want to hold hands in the back of taxis, build a swimming pool, have a family. I want to do life with you.

“Marry me. For real this time.”

It’s the traditional ending for a very untraditional love story.

“I want you to be my leading man forever. Not because you asked me, but because I want to marry you more than I’ve ever wanted to do anything. Ever.”

“Finally, you figured it out.”

“That you’re marriage material?” I ask.

“What you want.”

I nod. “And that’s you.”

The thunder cracks above us again, and Ben slides the ring on my finger, cups my face in his hands, and kisses me like the hero he is.

And for the final camera shot in our movie, I kiss him back.

Roll credits.

Epilogue—Almost One Year Later

There are a thousand people in the hotel suite, and I have no clue what at least half of them are doing. How did this wedding get so complicated? I just needed a dress and a ring. Maybe some flowers. Things have gotten a little out of hand. None of it is my doing. Ben and I met with the wedding planner, and every time she suggested something, Ben said yes to it. And she suggested a lot of things.

Even though I’d have been happy to go a different, much simpler route, I kind of like that Ben’s so completely into it. Strike that. Ilovethat he’s so completely into it. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have gone along with our ever-expanding plans, and Ben wouldn’t have wanted me to. Who’d have thought my haughty Brit would turn to mush so easily?

I smile at myself in the mirror, and Meera, the makeup artist, pauses in a silent admonishment. I drop my smile.

“Nearly done,” she says.

“Then it’s my turn,” Melanie says. “And I’m going to take until three days after the wedding is over because of this.” Yet again, she points to a zit on her forehead. “Do you have prosthetics? Like, could you put a layer of rubber over it to cover it up? Or maybe we should lean into it and make a feature of it?”

Meera laughs as my phone goes off.

It’s Ben.

Meera and Melanie continue to talk about her zit, and I send up a silent prayer that she doesn’t end up convincing Meera to cover it up with a picture of Captain America or something. I’m not concerned with a fancy wedding, but I’d really like a good picture of me, Melanie, and Ben.

“Are we allowed to speak?” I ask as I pick up the call.

“We’re allowed to do whatever we want. It’s our wedding.” Ben is steadfast in his independence and equally committed to me havingmyindependence. That doesn’t mean he won’t stand in front of a bus for me; I know he would. And I for him. I love him wildly. I love him fiercely.

I’ll love him forever.

Life feels so different from what it was before Ben. It feels like the sun shines a little brighter because I have my biggest champion right next to me. The past hasn’t been buried, but has been left in the past.

The door to the suite swings open, and my dad appears, followed by three people carrying flowers.

Dad’s already got his boutonniere. But there’s my bouquet, plus Melanie’s and Elizabeth’s. Nick’s wife has become one of my closest friends. She’s really good at translating American to British and vice versa—a much-needed skill I’m happy to take advantage of. Thanks to her, I don’t use the term “fanny pack” anymore.

“How is everything going down there?” I ask Ben.

“All that’s missing is you.”

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