Limits. Part 9

She explained about the lazo that will bind our wrists and the thirteen gold coins of 'earnest money' I'll pa.s.s to her. Which, frankly, were as foreign as the traditional Jewish vows and the whole walking around me three times thing she'd be doing.

I go to temple and all that, but I'd only been to a handful of weddings as an adult, most of them pretty secular. Anyway, I hardly ever paid attention: the vows were just the part I had to sit through before I could hit the bar and flirt with some bridesmaids.

"So...great." She toys with the straps of her backpack and edges toward the door. "I've got cla.s.s until four. Do you want to, um, get dinner? Or something?"

I stand up close to her and fix one of the twisted straps that's cutting in at her shoulder. "Dinner would be great. Would you like me to pick you up?"

"Sure. Yeah. That works." She's so close, I can smell the strawberry gum she popped in her mouth the minute she got to my room. The wrapper is still on my desk, and I love that there's a tiny trace of her left in my room, even if it is just a stupid wrapper.

"I'll make reservations." I want to take her somewhere nice for dinner, somewhere fancy. I'm going to drain my savings anyway, so what's one more excellent dinner? Luckily, Genevieve always dresses up, and today is no exception, so I can take her somewhere a little more upscale than our usual In-N-Out dates, and she won't feel underdressed. "You look great."

"Oh." She glances down at the dress she's wearing, kind of purple. It's a really pretty color on her. I should tell her that, but I feel stupid enough for my last blurted compliment. "Thank you. Thanks."

She leans in, and I do, too, but I wind up kissing her cheek and she gives me an awkward hug.

It's so painful, I think we're both relieved when she walks away from my room.

"d.a.m.n it, d.a.m.n it, d.a.m.n it," I mutter, banging my head against the doorway of my room. What the h.e.l.l am I doing? This is the girl who's going to be my wife in a few short days, and things are getting more awkward by the second. At least when we were hanging out before there was some nice s.e.xual tension that led to flirting. Now it's like every word in our conversations trips and tangles, and we can't even figure out how to say good-bye.

This isn't my idea of a good beginning for a marriage, and it sure as h.e.l.l isn't what Genevieve deserves.

I half wish I had a big list of things to worry about for this wedding, like Genevieve does. I think it's probably the one reason she hasn't come to her senses and cut me loose. She doesn't have a second to form that thought. Luckily, even though all I have to worry about officially is making sure my suit is clean, I have a full afternoon of worries ahead of me. I start by pulling two of my older microscopes off the shelf and heading to the p.a.w.n shop.

They aren't worth a ton, but the p.a.w.n guy I deal with when things get slim knows the market for geeks is a good one in this area. I walk out with enough to get a respectable ring for Genevieve.

The scientist in me wants to get her a moissanite ring. What's the point of a diamond ring, aesthetically? It's supposed to s.h.i.+ne, sparkle, and wow people with its brilliance. The problem is that diamonds aren't really the most stunning gems. The flaws in natural diamonds are numerous, and the harvesting methods aren't ethical. The fact that moissanite is made in a lab actually appeals to me. More control, more quality, a great product made by science.

But scientist aside, I know that Genevieve will not think that way. I look through the cases at three different jewelers' stores, but I don't see a d.a.m.n thing that will work. The thing is, I don't know what I'm looking for. I just know it's not what I'm seeing.

Something brings me to a little hippie-looking shop on the outskirts of town. I recognize the name from Genevieve's wedding list. It's Deo's mother's shop, where we're getting flowers from. I know Genevieve is close to her, though I cringe to think that it's probably because she spent years imagining the woman as her future mother-in-law. I'm running out of time quickly, and I need help, so I swallow my pride and go in.

The shop is filled with the smell of spices and the soft metallic ringing of bells. A woman with long, wavy hair looks up and smiles, then narrows her eyes and points at me.

"Welcome. Why do I feel like I know you?" She wrinkles her nose, and I feel suddenly at home.

"Maybe from Cohen and Maren's engagement party?" I offer. "I carried-"

"The knishes!" Her smile has the same bend as her son's, but with more mischief and less c.o.c.kiness. "They were to die for." She hops off her stool and comes around the little counter in bare feet. "And now we're going to be practically family." I have no idea why my marrying the little sister of her son's best friend makes me and her 'family,' but there's something about the way she holds her arms out that makes me feel like a d.i.c.khead for even considering not going in for a hug. "I'm a hugger." She shrugs and waves me over.

This is strange. Very strange. But I let her wrap her thin arms around me, and I hug the mother of the guy my fiancee might still be in love with. And it feels...d.a.m.n good.

She pulls back and her grin is contagious. "Adam, is it?" I nod. "I'm Marigold."

"Nice to meet you." I pull my arms back and stick my hands in my pocket, but there's this whole tingle of general goodness coursing through me, and I'm hopeful Marigold can give me some direction about the ring. "I actually hoped you could help me. Maybe."

She trains her eyes on me, looking instantly concerned. "Anything I can do, I'm happy to help."

"It's, um...it's embarra.s.sing because, I really care about Genevieve. And I want to marry her. But we did things in a little bit of an unorthodox way. I guess. What I'm trying to say is that I have no ring. And didn't actually ask her to marry me. Not the way I wanted to. I have money for a ring, but I've been to a few places and nothing looked right."

"That's because her ring is right here," Marigold says calmly, going behind the counter. She pulls a small velvet pad with jewelry on it out and sets it on the gla.s.s top. I stare in confusion.

"Wait. Genevieve picked out an engagement ring already?" I ask, totally puzzled as I step forward and look at the ring Marigold holds out.

As soon as I look at it, there's no doubt in my mind. It's Genevieve's.

The entire ring is a contradiction. The setting is sleek and modern, but there are soft flourishes and engravings in the metal. There is a large, round purple stone that glistens and s.h.i.+nes. It's a subtle, watered color that makes me think of the way Genevieve's eyes look when she's happiest and the velvety gray of her irises seems to soften. Its sparkles are intensified by a ring of what looks like diamonds.

"Genevieve didn't pick this. It picked her. Am I right?" Marigold asks, dropping it into my palm. "The girl who designs these..." She clutches her hands to her heart and shakes her head. "She's going to be so famous someday. The eye she has for design gives me chills. I bought a few of her pieces when I was in San Francisco, and I asked if I could sell some in the store. This batch came in a week ago. It's funny, because everyone admires this ring and asks about it, but no one's bought it yet. Like they all knew it wasn't meant for them."

"Er, sure," I say uncertainly. I flip the tag on the ring. It's priced at exactly what I got from the p.a.w.n shop for my microscopes. Down to the dollar. "This is the price?" I ask, just to be sure I'm not going insane and seeing things.

"Weird, right." Marigold's smile makes me feel like she can see inside my head and knows exactly why I'm feeling like this is a little freaky. "The designer forgot to add the tax in. I do it upfront, so that's the total, with tax. It helps both of us for record keeping."

"Ah," I say, pulling out my wallet. "I'm so glad I stopped by."

"Of course," she says, taking my money and leaning her arms on the gla.s.s. "Adam, can I ask you something?"

"Sure." I let her take the ring and put it in a small wooden box that she drops in a paper bag.

"What do you see when you look at Genevieve?" She rings up the purchase and writes out a receipt for me, like she's asking what the traffic is like or how the weather is.

Instead of stumbling over what I want to say, it comes out with surprising ease. "I see Genevieve as someone who's incredibly strong, but who has this sweet, sensitive side to her, too. I see someone who doesn't give herself enough credit. She has amazing potential. I hope I can help her develop that more. I see someone who's fighting hard, with herself, and her goals, and everything around her. And I see her coming out on top, because she never gives up."

"I love that." She hands me the receipt and holds my hand tight. "You deserve her. I know her well and love her like the daughter I never had. And I don't say this lightly: you absolutely deserve her, Adam."

Those words rip the air from my lungs, make my knees feel like they're about to buckle, make my heart beat like mad. I nod, thank her, walk to the door. But I stop before I leave and ask her nonsensical but amazing question right back.

"What do you see when you see Genevieve?"

She slides the velvet pad back into the display case, takes something out of a drawer, and tosses it my way. I catch a small gla.s.s bottle marked "Eros Balm."

"I see you. And that makes me very happy." She winks. "Use that wisely. It's supposed to be a strong aphrodisiac. Try it out and come tell me if it helped you do the feather-bed jig. I'm always looking for good customer reviews of new products!"

"Uh, sure." I rush out of the store, feeling a little sh.e.l.l-shocked. Did that sweet woman seriously just ask me to test out some s.e.xual lubricant and report back to her with the results?

I make it back to my dorm in time to shower and change, and I check the box a thousand times, just to make sure it's really there. I really bought a ring. I'm really asking Genevieve to marry me. Tonight.

By the time I pick her up from cla.s.s, I feel buzzed and edgy. I had wanted to go to dinner first, but it was impossible to get a reservation until later on such short notice. Now I'm relieved. There's no way I would have been able to eat with the ring burning a d.a.m.n hole in my pocket. I drive straight to where I want to go, and she stops her monologue about the girl sitting across from her in British lit who was painting her toenails during lecture and looks around.

"Are we at the Getty?" she asks.

I jog to her car door and pull it open, offering her my hand so she can step out.

"Yes." I pull her towards the elevators, paying for parking before we get on one.

"Adam, what are we doing here? Why are we going to the Getty? I thought we were going to grab dinner?" She tilts her head and looks at me, her brows pressed low. "You're wearing a tie. You didn't have cla.s.s this afternoon. You're wearing a tie for me."

Her eyes flutter down and she shakes her head, like she's putting puzzle pieces together, one by one. She snaps her neck up and her mouth hangs open, about to say...something that will ruin the (admittedly lame) plans I tried to make. I shake my head, wanting to say something, anything. Maybe it's the look on my face, but she puts on a neutral expression, and we walk to the little tram in silence.

"It's gorgeous here." She squints out the window into the sunset. "The last time I was here, Cece took me. She was coming to hear some architect who was speaking, and I just wandered the grounds forever. It's one of those afternoons I remember with all this very specific detail."

"Are you and Cece close?" I ask to make conversation. Sometimes this all feels so rushed, I'm afraid to ask anything because I can barely keep the bare bones of the facts straight. But I do want to know everything about her eventually.

"She and I are really close, but I think that may be a Cece thing, you know?" She tilts her head and smiles, and I nod at her, even though siblings are something I have less than zero knowledge about. I don't even have any close cousins or really tight friends. I've been a loner my entire life. "Cece is that sibling who's so laid back, so funny and sweet and comforting. She's one of those people that, when you spend time with them, they make you feel like you're the most important person in their life. But, she has that knack with everyone. I think all four of us might love her best. Even Lydia!"

"Lydia seems wound pretty tightly," I observe.

Genevieve's mouth pulls into a frown. "She's under a lot of pressure at work," she defends. "I know she can come off as harsh, but she puts so much on herself, and it makes her keyed up. I swear, she's got a really good heart."

"Of course."

I realize that I probably shouldn't talk about Genevieve's family unless I have something neutral or nice to say. As chaotic as the Rodriguez family seems, I get that they're fiercely loyal to each other. I admire that. It's an entirely alien concept to me, but I still recognize that it's an incredible thing.

The train ascends the hill, then stops smoothly. The doors open and Genevieve steps out like she has a destination in mind. Which is fine by me. I figured I'd just pick a pretty spot, get my courage up, and ask. But I'm happy to follow Genevieve's lead. We walk down the gravel path, leaving the colossal white travertine museum behind us and entering the sprawling gardens.

"It always makes me think of a place Lewis Carroll would have designed." I brush the back of my palm against the back of hers, and tug her hand into mine.

She stops on a little bridge that overlooks a koi pond. "I agree. It's like a place that makes believing in magic seem totally logical."

I don't say anything, because it's disconcerting to have someone take the words directly from my brain and speak them out loud a few seconds before I was going to.

We keep walking, admiring the gra.s.ses and sculpted topiaries, the flowers and trees, the fountains and the formations. We finally come to a small arbor with sweet, white blossoms all over it. "I love this place," she says. "It seems like the perfect place to-"

And I think I might be taking the words directly from her brain in that moment.

Which is why I slide my hand along her cheek and kiss her, mid-sentence.

My lips meet hers, and there's a blip of a second where she goes stiff and doesn't kiss me back right away. But I'm nothing if not determined. I press my mouth against hers with more pressure, moving my other hand up along her jaw. I rub my thumbs along her cheekbones and knot my fingers in her silky hair.

She whimpers and wraps her arms around my neck, her mouth parting slowly. My tongue traces the seam of her lips, and when she opens wider, I lick against her mouth. My brain, so often compartmentalized and controlled, short circuits at the taste of her. The way she tastes makes me think of the way the air smells before a thunderstorm. It's exciting, and I want to keep tasting further, see if I can pick up traces of it on her skin. Every inch of her skin.

"Adam," she sighs when she pulls away.

There are people milling around, but no one on this length of path. I don't know how long that will last, and I don't want to waste the coiled energy that's unfurling through me after that kiss. So I drop to one knee.

Maybe she knew. Maybe she figured it out the same second she noticed my tie in the parking garage. But she presses her fingers to her lips like she's completely shocked. Whether or not she's faking it, I appreciate that look. It gives me the loophole I need to push my courage through and take the box out.

"Genevieve. I don't deserve someone as smart and funny and beautiful as you are. I know that. I also know that I'll devote my life to living up to the honor of being your husband if you'll agree to have me. Will you marry me?"

I open the box and she gasps, her eyes so wide, I can see the spike of every eyelash.

"Is that for me?" she gasps from behind her hand.

I s.h.i.+ft on my knee, pretty sure a piece of gravel is dislocating my knee cap. I don't give a d.a.m.n. I just want to hear her answer. "Yes. Whether you say 'yes' or 'no' to me, it's yours. But it would make me so d.a.m.n happy if you'd say 'yes.'"

"Yes. Yes, of course, yes!" Her voice jumps on the back of shaky laugh.

I stand and pull her left hand to me. I feel like Marigold is leaned over some herbs in her store right now, chuckling like a white witch, because the ring slides on and fits Genevieve's finger perfectly, like it was made for her exactly.

I'm tempted to ask if she's seen this ring before, but she holds her hand out in front of her and squeals. "Adam! It's gorgeous! This ring is absolutely perfect. Where did you find it?" Before I can answer, she takes a picture of it, and then pulls me over, kisses me hard on the mouth, and positions her camera out for a shot. "It's not official til it's online, right?"

"Yes," I agree, because she's happy and smiling, and she said 'yes' when I was so d.a.m.n scared she'd come to her senses and say 'h.e.l.l no.' No reason to tell her I don't do social media or that I think it's a stupid waste of time. If it's important to her, I'll white lie my way to happiness tonight. "Do you want to walk around some more? We have reservations tonight, but they're not for a while yet. I hope you like steak?"

"Who doesn't like steak?" She takes my hand and threads our fingers together. The ring turns on her finger and digs sharply into mine, but she's so happy, I keep my mouth shut.

I realize there are a lot things I never would have seen myself doing before, but I'm more than happy to do them for Genevieve now.

Like ignoring minor pain on my end to enjoy major happiness on hers.

Or splitting a huge order of mashed potatoes-which I think are bland and have the consistency of wallpaper paste-just so I can watch her enjoy them.

Or getting up in front of a restaurant full of people and slow dancing to Ray Charles's "Come Rain or Come s.h.i.+ne" because it was her parents' wedding song.

Or making out for an incredible half an hour in the car while she straddles my lap, runs her hands through my hair, and loosens my necktie. But then stopping before things go too far because I respect the h.e.l.l out of her and want to wait for our wedding night.

Genevieve Rodriguez is making me a better person. It's exciting and completely, and utterly terrifying.

10 GENEVIEVE.

"Still time to back out," Lydia sing-songs in my ear as she sprays the tiny flyaways around my face into place.

She grips the sides of her strapless black gown and tugs up slightly. We didn't have time to choose official bridesmaids' dresses, so I just asked my sisters and Maren to wear black, since I thought it was a color everyone would have in her closet already, and it would make a nice, crisp-looking lineup.

I realize now it looks like they're in mourning. Also, Lydia's juice cleanse has made her so thin, she's almost gaunt. The dress barely stays on her now-nonexistent b.o.o.bs.

"I don't want to back out," I say through tight lips, looking at my reflection in the long mirror propped against a work table.

My simple white dress has great lines and a clean, fresh look. It's airy and understated and...nothing at all like what I wanted.

I wanted to wear a corseted, beaded, extravagant number, and Adam said to do it. He even gave me his credit card-the one he uses only after carefully deliberating every purchase-and named a jaw-dropping budget.

I went to the bridal shop, his credit card tight in my hand, and I found The Dress.

The One.

It fit like a glove, and looked like the designer had crawled into my head and took notes on every detail I'd ever longed for in a wedding dress. It was also just under Adam's extremely generous number. The sales girls all sighed and gasped and told me it was made for me and I better not even think about walking away without it, because it was clearly fate that led me to That Dress.

I twirled around in it, eyed it from the front and back, fell in torrid, head-over-heels love with it, imagined Adam's face when he saw me walk down the aisle in it...and then I thought about the very practical fact that I'd wear it exactly once. I thought about all the extra hours Adam would have to work to pay it off. And then I marched right to the winter sales rack-blinking back tears as I left my corseted, mermaid-style, perfect gown hanging, dejected, in the tiny fitting room-and I chose a different dress.

Lydia drapes the lacy veil, pa.s.sed down from my mother, over my hair and slides the bobby pins in. "Okay, but if you did, no one would care. I mean, you hardly know this-"

"Stop, Lydia. Please, today of all days, just stop," I plead. I'm stressed enough, I don't need my sister badgering me on top of everything else.

"Your dress is so lovely, Genevieve," Maren sighs as she comes into the room. She looks gorgeous in her black dress, accented with splashes of pink to match my accessories. I manage to quirk a nervous half-smile at my brother's sweet fiancee, who-I know for sure-will make him beyond happy. "And Adam sent you this."

"Me?" I ask, as she hands me a white box with a pale pink ribbon tied around it.

"We'll give you a few minutes," Cece says, squeezing my shoulders and kissing my cheek. She takes Maren and Lydia by the arms and leads them out of the tiny room cluttered with surf boards and sand.