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“No. Jesus, fucking God no. But I wanted to tell you that I was sorry, and I wanted to show you just how much I really mean it.”
“How can I even believe you?”
“You can’t—or at least, you have every right not to. When I went out and got drunk with those girls, a part of me knew how much it would hurt you, and then I kept drinking and telling myself that I didn’t care.”
She rolls her eyes and moves one foot up on the steps, so that we’re on an equal level.
“But I do care. I care so fucking much, Viv. It’s tearing me up inside to know that I hurt you…I realize that I did all that because I was scared. I was so fucking scared that anyone could actually love me for who I really am—and what’s fucking scarier was that I loved you, too.”
“Loved?” She asks, looking back towards the limousine.
There’s a coldness in her tone, a level of professionalism that I know she’s using to keep herself distant from me, but I know I can wear her down. I have to.
“No. Present tense. Now and forever. I love you so fucking much, Vivienne.”
“And you did all this…for me?”
“All for you. Only for you. Please Viv, don’t give up on me just yet.”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
It’s a valid question, one that I’ve been tormenting myself with over the past twenty-four hours. Why should she give me another chance? What have I ever done to deserve it?
“Because even if you can’t see it yet, I’ve changed. I want to continue to change so that I can be the man you deserve.”
I fumble inside my jacket where the velvet box has been burning a hole in my silk-lined pockets. I begin to drop down onto one knee, feeling the rain from last night’s shower soak through my trouser leg. But I don’t care.
When I pull out the velvet box, Vivienne’s eyes begin to go wide. When I open it up to reveal the glittering diamond that flashes in the mid-morning sun, I think she might faint.
“You’re a queen, Vivienne. It’s about time I treated you like one.”
“Are you serious?”
Vivienne looks around for the paparazzi or for someone to come out and tell her she’s been Punk’d.
“There’s no one coming. It’s just you and me. No cameras, no pretending for the media… I love you, Vivienne Taylor, so fucking much I think it might kill me.”
“David, I…”
“Will you marry me?”
