Chapter 2
two
. . .
Olivia
Now
“Livvy, honey, are you sure you’re okay?” My dad’s brows are furrowed, every line on his face full of concern.
I reluctantly rub my lips together, hating that I’m eradicating the taste of her, hating that I have to hide any of this from him.
But I’m the oldest daughter of Egyptian Orthodox parents, a daughter who has spent years prioritizing her parents’ beliefs and expectations, and even on my wedding day, things are no different.
“Olivia,” my dad repeats, his voice stern and serious. “What’s going on?”
Ignoring his question, I slide my arm through his. I need to focus on getting myself down this aisle, even if my tingling mouth solidifies that I’d fallen in love with Lux long before I realized it.
I shake my head and straighten my spine. “Nothing. I’m good.”
He gently removes my arm from his, then turns until he’s facing me. He cradles my face in his large hands, just like he did when I was a little girl. “There should be a smile as bright as the sun on your face right now, Livvy, but you look heartbroken.”
It’s only right that that was his word of choice, because I feel it too. I feel like my heart’s been split into two: everything I thought I knew, and everything I want to know.
“I’m fine,” I lie. “It’s just a little bittersweet, you know? I wish Mom were here.”
It’s cheap and disgusting, using my dead mother as an alibi for my heartache, but it isn’t entirely untrue.
I always miss her. When James proposed, she was the first one I wanted to tell.
And now I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place on my wedding day, wondering if her presence would be the encouragement I need or the deterrent I fear.
“How did you know Mom was the right one for you?” I ask.
My father’s head turns to the closed doors that will lead us to where James is waiting for me, then he looks back at me. “Are you having second thoughts, Livvy?” His voice is so gentle and full of concern. “If this is no longer what you want to do, you can tell me.”
“Tell me,” I say, the tone of my voice insistent. “Tell me how you knew she was the right one for you.”
Closing his eyes, my father takes a deep breath, and I watch as he transports himself to wherever the memories of him and my mother remain.
“She was my best friend,” he starts, and that one sentence is all the permission I need to let the tears fall down my face.
“Back when we were growing up, my parents didn’t understand friendship between opposite genders,” he explains.
“But she was, always, my best friend. Of course, dating was forbidden when we were younger,” he reminds me.
“Our parents were so strict, and in the eyes of the church, you had to be engaged before you could date without judgment.”
He stares into my eyes with a soft smile. “Very different from you and James.”
When I introduced James to my father, I think he was too relieved that he was also Egyptian Orthodox to enforce any archaic rules on us.
“But we managed,” he continues. “We started as friends, but then our friendship turned into late-night phone calls, into whispered secrets. Friendship turned into butterflies in my stomach, and checking out my reflection when I knew I would see her, making sure I looked just right.”
His voice cracks. “She became the person I wanted by my side, morning and night, rain, hail, and shine. She turned into the life I wanted.”
A heavy ache sits in my chest at my father’s words, knowing how much he misses my mother, knowing how much he loves her, knowing that a love like theirs was shattered because of a cruel, cruel world.
I try to swallow past the unfairness of it all. To lose someone you love so much … It seems like a sick joke to plan a life together one day, and have it ripped apart the next.
“Would you change a thing?” I ask, emotion coating every single word. “If you knew what the end would be for you two, would you change it?”
“Of course not,” he says quickly. “I could never imagine a world without you in it.”
I shake my head. “That’s not what I’m asking. I’m talking about you and her. Would you change anything, knowing you wouldn’t get to grow old with her?”
Confusion is etched into his features, but he answers my questions anyway. “That’s not how love works, Livvy. It’s ugly and messy and downright painful,” he says with complete conviction. “But it is the most honest, beautiful, and liberating feeling of your life.”
As eyes the color of my own hold my gaze, I know with absolute certainty that marrying James is the wrong thing to do.
I love him.
I do.
And at one stage, I can even recall being so deeply in love with him.
But it isn’t what it should be; it isn’t what my father described. With James, it was a well-oiled machine, one that worked out of comfort, familiarity, and ease. We’d had the same upbringing, so there was no culture shock and no discomfort.
But that also meant there was no fire. There was no passion. It wasn’t ugly or messy. It wasn’t pain and pleasure, or even high or low.
I don’t long for him.
I don’t miss him.
I don’t yearn for him.
I don’t want to burn the whole world for him.
Not the way I want to burn my whole entire world for her.