Chapter 30 #2
I just wanted to reach my car. Call her again. Maybe leave a message this time.
Tell her I missed her. Tell her I wasn’t okay. Tell her?—
I froze.
My breath caught mid-step.
And suddenly, everything else fell away.
Because right there, just behind the barrier, half hidden in the sea of fans?—
I saw her.
Natalie.
Standing in the crowd like it was the most natural thing in the world, like she hadn’t just turned my entire reality inside out.
Her blonde hair shimmered in the late afternoon light spilling through the studio gates, and her blue eyes—locked on mine—held the kind of intensity that knocked the breath clean out of my lungs.
And then I saw the sign.
A giant, glittery thing held high above her head, sparkling like it had been crafted by a lovestruck middle schooler on a sugar high. The words blazed in bold, sparkling letters:
Marry Me, Easton!
For a second, I just stared…jaw slack, heart pounding, brain trying to catch up. Then a laugh burst out of me, sharp and full and so stunned it made a few heads turn.
Because Natalie hated glittery signs.
She mocked glittery signs.
She had once said they were the handwriting of emotional chaos.
And now she was holding one. For me.
Shock and disbelief and relief tangled in my chest, but so did something warmer and wilder…because I knew exactly what this meant.
This wasn’t just a grand gesture.
This was her grand gesture.
The woman I loved was standing in a crowd of strangers, holding up everything she usually rolled her eyes at, choosing me in the loudest, most gloriously Natalie way possible.
I’d never seen anything more perfect.
NATALIE
Here’s what I knew about grand romantic gestures.
One: They look a lot easier in movies.
Two: They involve a deeply concerning amount of public humiliation .
Three: TSA is not amused when you try to smuggle glitter into an airport.
But I wasn’t thinking about those things as I clutched a glitter-covered sign with shaking hands, and I burst through the airport doors with heart palpitations and a cardigan that I instantly regretted wearing in seventy-degree weather.
The sign read Marry Me, Easton!
And it was bedazzled within an inch of its life.
People were staring.
A little boy had already pointed and said, “Mom, is that lady okay?”
I wasn’t. Not even a little.
But when you break up with your movie-star boyfriend at eighteen because you’re scared and then spend almost two years pretending you’re over him only to have him walk back into your life at your sister’s Christmas wedding looking like a wet dream and saying things like I’ve never stopped loving you —you make the sign.
You board the flight. You risk arrest by carrying a glitter bomb.
I hopped in a cab and nervously told him to head to the film studio where Easton was finishing up today.
“You one of those movie-star ‘stans’?” he drawled as he eyed me and my pink dress like I was about to lunge over the console and…well, do something.
“Something like that,” I mused.
We drove to the lot where a small crowd was gathered, something that Easton told me he was annoyed to deal with after long days on set.
It was warmer than I’d anticipated. I mean California cold wasn’t real cold, but the combination of nerves and sweating wasn’t doing me any favors.
A security barricade cut a crooked line through the sea of screaming girls and grinning paparazzi, all pressed against it like salvation lived on the other side. I stood near the back—my hands gripped around the sign .
I could feel people staring.
I could hear them whispering.
“That girl with the sign…She looks unhinged.”
“Who does she think she is?”
“Like he’d notice her.”
Maybe I was unhinged.
Or maybe I was in love with a boy I’d let go too soon—a boy who became a movie star, then walked back into my life and kissed me like I still belonged to him.
The sound of production crews shifting filled the air—equipment rolling, assistants barking orders, someone yelling about a drone shot.
The crowd pushed closer.
People cheered, and the doors opened.
And then he stepped out.
My Easton.
Wearing sweats that hugged his frame like it had a personal vendetta against my self-control, his hair a mess…He looked equal parts wrecked and godlike. His face was tired. There were smudges under his eyes. But even exhausted, he was stupidly beautiful.
Screams went up around me.
People surged forward, shouting his name.
You could see him take a deep breath and turn on the movie-star smile, even though it must have been killing him.
He started walking, his eyes scanning the crowd half-heartedly.
And then…
He saw me.
His gaze landed on mine like a magnet snapping into place, and I watched as his eyes widened and he gaped at the fact that I was such a glorious, sweaty, nervous, beautiful mess.
Or at least that’s what I was imagining was going through his head at the moment.
It took half a second .
Then his eyes went up to the sign I was holding above my head.
Slowly his face broke into a wide grin. Not the practiced, charming one he’d been giving a second before.
The smile he’d only ever given me. Realer. Like a secret he was thrilled to keep.
The noise around me began to shift. The fans closest to me turned, eyebrows raised.
“Wait…is he looking at?—”
“Who is that?”
“Why does she look familiar?”
“Wait…is that the girl he was photographed with over Christmas?”
More heads turned.
More eyes landed on me.
But I didn’t move. I’d suddenly forgotten how to breathe, and my whole life suddenly hinged on Easton taking one step forward.
Then another.
And another.
Making his way through the crowd…straight to me.
His eyes were soft.
They stayed locked on me like I was the only one here. Not the swarm of fans. Not the paparazzi. Not the guy with an I Love Easton shirt standing awkwardly to the left.
Just me.
He moved past the velvet ropes. Past security, who opened the barricade without question because, apparently, being Easton Maddox came with Jedi-level authority.
And then…he was standing right in front of me.
Up close, he smelled like stage makeup, sweat, and the cologne he always wore that made me lose IQ points. Not the worst combo, actually.
“You’re a menace. I’m just saying,” Easton said .
“You’re just saying that because I’m better at making sparkly proposal posters.”
He eyed the sign. “It’s objectively horrifying.”
“I went through three glue sticks.”
“Of course you did.”
We stared at each other.
“Hi,” I whispered. My voice cracked like a middle school trumpet.
His smile softened. “Hey, Nat.”
He said it like it was only ever going to be me. Like he’d walked off a movie set and into his actual happy ending.
Glancing at my sign, he raised an eyebrow. “You stole my thunder, Trouble.”
“I…What?”
“I was going to propose to you.” He crossed his arms. “I had a whole plan. A ring. Lights. A scripted monologue. And you have the audacity to show up with a glitter poster.”
“Oh my gosh," I whispered.
“You ruined my dramatic return,” he said, mock stern. “You realize that, right?”
A few fans were filming now. I could feel a camera lens trained on my right cheekbone, but I didn’t care.
Plus, that happened to be my good side, so that was helpful.
“You were going to propose?” I asked, my heartbeat going at full throttle.
“You don’t seem to have been listening very well to what I’ve been saying over the last few weeks, baby.”
I stuck out my tongue. “Well, listening is pretty difficult sometimes, Maddox.”
“I even practiced my speech on the flight out here,” he said, his voice getting softer.
“Oh my gosh,” someone whispered from the crowd. “It’s like Notting Hill but hotter.”
“Okay,” I managed, breathless, as I lowered the sign and tried to find my voice. “Tell me about this supposed proposal. ”
He stepped closer, his sweatshirt stretching just enough over his chest to make my brain malfunction, his hair damp and messy, like he’d run his hands through it a few too many times. Every inch of him radiated unfairly hot.
And then he smirked . Like he knew he was about to ruin me.
“Well,” he said, his voice full of smug affection.
“There was going to be a snow machine. Possibly a string quartet. Definitely champagne. The ring was going to be inside one of those ridiculous oversized champagne poppers, and when it exploded, confetti would rain down, and the ring would land perfectly in your glass. Very subtle.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess. You were wearing the sweater.”
He nodded solemnly. “The one that makes me look like a cable-knit Viking.”
I lifted a brow. “That sweater should come with a warning label. It’s unfair to the general population.”
Easton smirked. “I know.”
He leaned in slightly, his voice dipping. “Picture it—snow falling, soft music, you standing under the lights trying to pretend you didn’t put effort into your outfit when you very obviously did. And me, about to completely ruin your life in the best way.”
I felt myself swooning. Actually swooning . In public. But I obviously didn’t care.
“I had a speech, too,” he added, and there was a sudden seriousness in his tone that made my chest squeeze.
My breath caught. “Do I get to hear this speech of yours?”
He glanced at the crowd, still hovering, still watching. Then he looked back at me, and the rest of the world may as well have vanished.
“You really want me to give you the speech right here?” he asked, his voice just for me. “With half of Los Angeles filming it and someone in the back crying like this is the season finale of The Bachelor ? ”
I snorted—not the most romantic sound. But fitting. And very us.
“Yeah,” I whispered, smiling through the sudden lump in my throat. “I’m holding a glitter sign in front of a hundred strangers. I think the bar for dignity’s already gone. Give me the speech, Hollywood.”
He laughed once, then nodded. “Fair enough.”
Then he inhaled, his chest rising like the moment had finally settled into him.
“You once told me love was just a chemical reaction,” Easton said, his voice low and steady. “That it faded or burned out or exploded. That it wouldn’t last.”
My throat went tight. My heart was beating far too fast.
Because I remembered saying that. I remembered believing it.
“And maybe back then,” he continued, “you were too young to believe in forever. Maybe you needed to protect your heart more than I needed to convince you otherwise. So I let you believe it.”
His hand reached out, slow and reverent, and his fingers brushed the silver chain at my neck—the tiny constellation pendant now resting over my heart.
My breath caught.
“But, Nat,” he whispered, his thumb tracing the stars, “if love really is a reaction, then you’ve been the spark in every single one of mine. Every laugh. Every fight. Every godforsaken moment I’ve missed you.”
He took a shaky breath, and when his eyes met mine, they held galaxies.
“I used to wish for this,” he said quietly. “When I thought I’d lost you for good. I’d lie awake and picture you—older, somewhere out in the world—and wonder if you still remembered that night in the truck.”
My throat tightened. Because of course I remembered. Every second.
“You looked up at the stars like they were the only thing that made sense,” he went on. “And when I told you I thought you were my one…you didn’t say anything.”
His smile flickered. Familiar and aching. With something deeper than memory.
“But I meant it. I still mean it. And I don’t need stars or fate or anything else to tell me. I just need you.”
The lights, the noise, the crowd—gone. Just him and me and the echo of everything we’d survived to get here.
He took one step closer, his eyes steady. “Just in case you’re still wondering whether soulmates exist after all this time…I know they do. But not in the perfect, easy way people talk about. I think they’re rare. Messy. Stubborn as hell.”
His voice softened, tugging at something deep inside me.
“They fight. They break. They find their way back, sometimes more than once.” He shook his head, his eyes never leaving mine.
“You’re my soulmate, Natalie Bennett.”
A pause. A breath.
“And I was made to never stop loving you.”
A tear slipped down my cheek, and I had to laugh because I was dangerously close to ugly-crying in front of a crowd of strangers.
He exhaled, blinking like his own throat was tight. “So. What do you think?”
I wiped at my eyes, breathing hard. “It was fine.”
He blinked again. “Fine?”
“You’re gonna need to get on one knee if you want to propose properly.”
He tilted his head. “You’re literally holding a glitter sign. Glitter, Nat. That’s how you were proposing.”
“Glitter is the emotional equivalent of being on one knee, Easton. Everyone knows that. You gotta meet me halfway.”
He huffed out a laugh—low, incredulous, completely wrecked. “Unbelievable.”
But then, slowly, without looking away from me, he dropped to one knee. The crowd gasped, but he barely seemed to hear them. His gaze was steady, soft, shining.
“Natalie Bennett,” he said, his voice steadier than mine would ever be, “will you marry me?”
I didn’t hesitate. Didn’t breathe.
“Yes,” I whispered.
And the second I said it, the crowd erupted —cheers, clapping, camera flashes—but all I saw was him, still kneeling, looking up at me like I held the stars in my hands.
I dropped the glitter sign and dove straight into his arms, and I felt the universe finally exhale around us.
And right there, tangled against him and the aftershock of everything, I whispered the only thing that mattered.
“I’m yours .”