Oliver resituates, propping himself up on one knee as the colors rain down, sheathing the diamond in dazzling hues, while illuminating the look of awestruck whimsy on his face. “Sydney,” he says, linking my fingers through his unoccupied hand as he holds up the ring. Oliver finds my eyes, my weeping, lovesick eyes, and holds tight. “I loved you then, I love you now, and I’ll love you until my dying day. You’re my best friend. You’re my queen,” he whispers, words spilling out like poetry. “Will you be my wife?”
