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Grandpa joins us, reaches in the bag and pulls out a gold box with a white ribbon tied around it.
It’s a small box.
Theo takes it from him and drops to one knee. My eyes sting again, and I blink away tears.
“Aria Robinson. My love. My life. I almost said something earlier when you mentioned my eternal optimism. I almost told you just how much I’ve been thinking about eternal things. Like my love for you. My desire to be with you. I do love you, eternally. Will you please marry me?”
My “Yes, Theo” is drowned out by the clapping, whoops, and hollers of the crowd all around us.
But as I pull him to standing and my lips close around his, I lose all awareness of that.
I’m only conscious of one thing: joy rushing through me, reverberating a heady, peaceful happiness I’ve never known.
Because finally, finally, I get to marry Theodore Vincent Carter.
MyTheo.
***
Merre
It’s all very picturesque, the scene in front of me. People at the Charles Dickens Christmas Festival have gathered around, and many of us know what’s about to happen.
Aria doesn’t.
At least, I hope she doesn’t have any idea.
It was hard for Camilla, Howard, and me to keep it a secret these last couple of weeks at the bakeshop in the mornings. But we pulled it off, never mentioning what her boyfriend, Theo, had been scheming up. It was close a couple of times, but we managed.
And now, here we are, the festival videographer capturing everything. As soon as Theo pops the question and Aria says yes, Camilla and I will start passing out shortbread wrapped in jingle bell-topped bags. Jesse will play a medley of Aria’s favorite upbeat Christmas songs over the sound system, and we’ll have a big celebration.
There’s a lot to celebrate, actually. I finished pastry school in the spring, and recently received my certification in baking, which means I’ve been able to help Camilla expand. Plus, I’m boarding a plane in a few hours to go back to my family in Plano, Texas for Christmas.
“It’s snowing,” one of the children nearby announces right as Theo steps out to the middle of the room, beckoning Aria to join him. I glance out the window to see the fluffy, white snow gently falling.
It’s perfect. All of it. And because I’m sentimental when it comes to weddings and mushy love stuff, a ball forms in my throat.
All around the grand foyer, the growing crowd watches on. There’s a mix of people who are here for the engagement and those who happened to be at the festival as it winds down for the year.
A waving hand on the opposite side of the foyer catches my attention. The man, mid-twenties with dark hair, is staring right at me, his expression one of surprise. I begin to lift a hand to wave back to be polite when it hits me.
He mouths, “Merry?”
Instead of waving, I run a hand through my hair and turn my attention back to Theo, who’s now down on one knee.
I will not wave at that man. I will not give him the time of day. Waving at him, giving him the time of day, would mean I’ve accepted the past.
I have not.
Because now I know exactly who he is. Why he’s here, I have no idea. I’d be less shocked if the King of England himself decided to come celebrate this Dickensian festival with us lowly Coloradans.
It’s Noah.
Noah Elliot.
And I swore years ago I’d never speak to him again.
