I’m about to do what must be done to get to the bottom of this—namely, get out of line, find a quiet place to sit, and make a very detailed list—when a sharp bark of laughter echoes through the air.
It’s followed by another, higher-pitched giggle, and behind me, an excited murmur ripples through the crowd.
Probably another celebrity sighting. London airports are apparently full of them. There were two soccer players and a pop star here when I first arrived last week. I had plenty of time to witness the fuss everyone was making over them while filing the report on my luggage.
The murmuring gets louder.
More laughter.
Then two security guards rush past our line, radios crackling.
I turn, growing concerned, just as a Cockney accent rises above the crowd. “Aw, let him be, copper! Can’t you see the bloke’s in love?”
“Good Lord,” a woman gasps. “Is he in his smalls?”
Pushing up on tiptoe, I look where everyone else is looking, my heart lurching when I see the source of all the uproar.
It’s Oliver.
Jogging through the terminal in a Christmas sweater and…nothing else.
I mean, he’s wearing his boxer briefs, but no shoes, no coat, no suit pants or jacket. He’s basically half naked in the airport, holding what looks like a large piece of a cardboard box, while confused-looking security guards trail behind him.
Every cell phone in a hundred-meter radius is instantly out and aimed his way, documenting what appears to be the complete mental breakdown of the fifth in line to the throne, hot on the heels of the Lion King breakdown of the first.
But I know he isn’t having a breakdown.
I instantly understand what this is, and the sweet, crazy bravery of it brings tears to my eyes.
Someone at Heathrow central command must get it, too. Because a split second later, the opening notes of “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” crackle through the loudspeakers, and a happy sob bursts from my throat. It’s just like in Bridget Jones, when she runs through the snow in nothing but her knickers and a camisole to prove her love to Darcy.
And now…
Now, Oliver Featherswallow, my solar eclipse unicorn, is doing the same for me.
And it’s terrifying. And wonderful. And terrifying, and I’m pretty sure my extremities are going numb as I stumble forward, ducking under the ribbon of fabric keeping our line contained.
Almost instantly, Oliver spots me, his eyes flashing with relief as he changes direction, aiming himself my way.
I try to aim myself his way, too, only to find my legs petrified by fear.
What if I screw this up? What if I crash and burn in front of God and the people of London and the press who are always lurking nearby? Again?
Or, even worse, what if big romantic gestures aren’t enough to make this work? What if I end up getting on that plane this afternoon and flying away? What if this is the last time I’ll ever see Olly in person?
The thought is so horrible, it turns my stomach.
As I stand there, fighting the urge to be sick, Oliver closes the last of the distance between us without hesitation, clearly ready to fight for our future.
And if he can put it all on the line, so can I.
“I didn’t have time to write anything down,” he says, slightly breathless from his dash through the terminal. He lifts his piece of cardboard. “I barely had time to grab this, but if I’d had time to write a deck of posters to hold up outside your door, this is what they would say.”
I blink faster, my hand flying to cover my lips as I realize what this is.
Dear God, it’s a Love Actually and Bridget Joneshybridromantic gesture, and my heart will officially never be the same.
Never.
