I start pulling at the vine, trying to detach it from the tree it's been climbing. It's more stubborn than it looks, and I end up having to twist and yank until it finally gives way with a satisfying snap.
"Careful with the leaves," Liv warns, heading for another promising cluster. "We need them to look fresh and full."
Within twenty minutes, I'm buried under an increasingly ridiculous amount of foliage. Ivy drapes over my shoulders like a green cape, wild grape vines are wound around my arms, and I'm pretty sure there are at least three different types offerns tucked under my chin. Liv keeps adding to my collection, stepping back periodically to assess my mobile garden with a critical eye.
"More ivy," she decides, pointing to another vine. "That section there."
"Liv," I say, my voice muffled by the vegetation, "I think I've reached my carrying capacity. I can barely see where I'm going."
She glances at me and starts laughing—really laughing. I must look absolutely ridiculous, like some kind of swamp creature.
"We're almost done and I’ll carry the rest," she says, but she's grinning now. "You look very... cute." She pulls a few more vines from a tree, cuts them and drapes them around her shoulders. "There. That will do."
As we walk back toward the car, me stumbling under my botanical burden and Liv picking her way carefully through the underbrush in her impractical heels, I can't help but admire her determination. She could have easily said this was impossible, that there wasn't enough time or resources to pull off a proper wedding. Instead, she's moving heaven and earth to make it happen.
"Just put everything in the trunk," she instructs as we reach the car. "Try not to crush the delicate stuff."
I start transferring the foliage from my arms to the trunk, and Liv transfers her own before helping me untangle vines that have gotten wound around my limbs. Her fingers brush against my arm as she works, and I feel that same electric awareness from last night—though thankfully, this time she's sober and I don't have to exercise quite as much self-control.
Two small white butterflies flutter past, and one lands briefly on the car's hood.
I'm reaching for another armload of ivy when I notice Liv has gone completely still. Her hands are gripping the edge of the trunk, her knuckles white.
"Liv?" I ask. "What's wrong?"
She doesn't answer, just stares at the butterfly with pure terror.
"Hey," I say, moving closer to her. "It can’t hurt you."
"I know that," she says through gritted teeth. "I know it can't hurt me, but I can't?—"
The other butterfly returns and lands on my right wrist that still has ivy tangled around it. Instead of shooing it away, I keep very still.
"Look," I say softly. "See? It doesn't even know we're here."
"Blair, please make it go away." Liv’s voice is tight with panic.
"Watch it for just a second," I say. "Really look at it. See how delicate it is? Its wings are so thin you can almost see through them. It weighs basically nothing."
I watch her force herself to actually look at the small creature on my wrist. Her breathing is still fast, but she's not backing away anymore.
"Something that fragile could never hurt you." The butterfly flutters its wings once, then lifts off, floating away toward the trees along with its companion.
"There," I say. "They're gone."
Liv lets out a shaky breath, her death grip on the trunk finally loosening. "God, I hate that I do that."
"Phobias aren't rational," I tell her, stepping closer. "You can't logic your way out of them."
"It's so stupid?—"
"It's not stupid." I reach out to brush a leaf from her hair, and my fingers linger against her cheek. "Everyone's afraid of something."
The way she's looking at me right now—vulnerable and grateful and something else I don't dare to speculate about—is making me pause.
"What are you afraid of?" she asks.
I'm quiet for a moment, my thumb tracing her jawline. I should deflect. But I haven't felt this pull toward someone in years, and it makes me want to be honest. "Right now? I’m afraid of you."
