“I knew this would happen,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. We are sitting perched on top of a snow-covered mountain, alone, the wind whipping around us.
“What?” I ask, shivering. “You knew what would happen?” I pause to peer down the steep, slippery ski slope below. It’s a long way down to the bottom. How did he get me up here? I hate to ski!
“My sister. You know, she was right after all,” he says, smiling down at me, stroking my head, my hair tangling in his large, commanding hand. “She was the one who told me to call you. She said we were still meant to be, even after all these years apart.”
He turns and grabs my hands in his, rubbing his thumbs back and forth on mine. A wish on a genie’s lantern. “She told me within three months, we would be engaged. And married a month after that,” he says, laughing nervously. Its sound echoes in the thin, frigid air, growing like a snowball, tumbling down the mountain.
Months later, I’m at the beach eating frozen yogurt with his sister. We are giggling in between spoonfuls, convulsed in easy contagious giggles, like fourteen-year-old best friends. Laughing for the love of it, for the sheer awesomeness of it all.
And the ring sparkles on my finger in the summer sun, a large emerald-cut stone set in an antique filigree design. His grandmother’s, on his mother’s side, he tells me.