a montage flashes before my eyes: I do break my ankle, actually. And Marco has to lift me into his strong, capable, famous arms and rush me off to the hospital. As I lie there, monitors beeping around me, he strokes my hair away from my face. You’re so brave, Nadia. I let out a beautiful, ragged cough. I’m sorry . . . I was . . . so . . . cough . . . awkward on the boardwalk. I’m . . . kind of . . . poorly . . . cough . . . socialized . . . like a Chihuahua . . . He laughs and says, No. You’re perfect. Then, we get married.
