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Is that what the rest of the world feels like? I realize that I am living in a world of privilege, but right now I find out that even though one may have problems, too many problems, life-threatening problems, nature and freedom can cure you.
They are curing me right now.
As I trail my oar in the still water, clouds mirrored on its silver surface, it feels like everything else melts away, all my problems, my fears, all the unfinished business of my life. The lies just slide away: they can’t touch me here. That’s what beauty will do for you.
I might actually do this, I decide.
I won’t stop here. I’ll do it all, as long as Marco still wants to come along: Vermont. The movies. The cheese. If I’m going to die, I won’t die while I’m on the phone with the palace, listening to their ridiculous rules and receiving lukewarm apologies about things that won’t get fixed with apologies.
I’ll spend my last few hours here, in Vermont.
Alone, with a boy I barely know, and his Ducati.
But in the past day, this boy I barely know has defended me against Angel’s cruelty, has wiped my tears, has let me make my own decisions. This is more than anyone has ever done for me. I’ll take it.
(I have no other choice.)
“Hey, do you see that?” I ask Marco, my voice hushed, trying not to disturb the stillness.
“Yeah,” he says, glancing over in the direction I’m pointing. “Don’t worry about it, we’re too far away from them to see us.”
It’s a wedding party.
Someone is getting married by the water, on the other side of the lake. I can see the white of the bride’s dress, and the line of girls in pastel dresses reflected on the water. There are fairy lights and a wooden platform under a flower arc, but I can’t make out anything more, because we’re too far out on the water.
“Can we row closer please?” I ask. “Or would it be weird?”
“It would,” Marco says, “and we can.”
“Yay!” I don’t even get embarrassed that I literally said ‘yay’ in front of him. I row as fast as I can, my eyes glued to the wedding, watching for details on the white dress, the flowers, the guests, the looks the bride and groom exchange. I wish I could see the rings.
At some point, I glance at Marco: he is watching me as he rows, looking half-amused, half-disgusted. And fully mocking.
“You like this sort of thing?” he asks, and I get momentarily distracted by the sight of his muscles bulging and relaxing as he moves the oars. Ugh. Why is he perfect in everything he does?
“What sort of thing?” I reply. “Weddings?”
“Lies. Fairytales.”
I smile. Of course he would think that.
“I love it,” I say. “I love the lie of a wedding ceremony, the thought that everything is beautiful and perfect and people are the best versions of themselves in that moment. The stupid hope that this one, this couple, this marriage, these two… that they will be different. That it will last, and it will last well, and they will be happy and not bored or rude to each other or silent, and that they will look forward to every day.”
He's stopped rowing and is just looking at me. I stop too. The water laps against the canoes, and I get lost in his eyes. The bright orange of his life vest clashes with his aquamarine eyes, and they take my breath away.
“Childish, right?” I say.
He shrugs. “As long as you know it’s a lie, then you can daydream as much as you want,” he says. “It’s believing it that’s the problem. Expecting it.”
Right.
“And speaking of fairytales, I know exactly where to take you next,” he adds.
A shiver of excitement runs through me, one I haven’t felt since the last summer I spent with Angel. As if something good is going to happen to me.
‘Where to take you next.’
‘To take you.’
