A/N: I'm cheesy. Sue me.

I am 10 when our parents die in a car accident. I sob and I bawl and I am a zombie for six months, with red-rimmed eyes and lips sewn shut and bleeding nail beds. Mrs. Reynolds provides an endless supply of hugs and peanut butter cookies, but I don't wrap my arms around her, and I eat nothing. Aunt Catherine would be upset if I wrinkled my black dress, or got crumbs on the new carpet.

I am 12 when Aunt Catherine buys me a puppy. She's tiny, a purebred, comes from, "a long line of champion show dogs." I call her Fran, and Aunt Catherine is displeased, but Will tells me not to mind. Fran hates her collar and loves barking at dogs much bigger than her. She wanders, and gets lost, but always comes back to me.

I am 14 when Fran, Will and I move to England; Witney. He's going to school near there; we move in with Aunt and Uncle Fitzwilliam and our cousin Richard. Its cold and it rains too much and I miss white sand and sunshine. I do nothing but complain until I meet Anneliese. We're fast friends; we both have too-long names and too-big feet. She convinces me to join band. I spend Year 10 banging on a Baby Grand in the basement.

I am 16 when I meet Lizzy. She and her older sister move in with their Aunt and Uncle. Just like us, I think. I don't speak to her for a while, or see any more than the back of her head, even though they live across the street. She's older than me but younger than Will. He says he sees her at school sometimes. "She's first-year; premed," he tells me. "They're Swedish or something. Charles is completely infatuated with her sister. They're in the same Jurisprudence course," he adds, as if I know what that means.

Charles - Charlie - is his best friend. Its his birthday today, and I'm making a cake for him. It was Will's idea, but since he can't boil water he asks me to do it. I accept, in exchange for control of the remote for the entire week. He agrees. He sits at the island with a thick book open, highlighter in hand, "supervising" me.

Richard walks in. "Carrot cake for Carrot Top," says he. I laugh, not because its particularly funny, but because you just can't help laughing at anything Richard says. But I stop laughing, because I don't have enough sugar for the icing. I'm frazzled, frustrated and full of flour, and Rich suggests I run across the street and ask our new neighbours. I don't realize how cliche it is until I'm at the doorstep, ringing the bell, standing on their faded welcome mat. It is well-worn and most of the letters are faded. It is a warm thought: that they have so many visitors, so many friends and family, their mat is threadbare.

A waif in a white t-shirt answers the door. She is freckled all over and wears a smile. I introduce myself, and she shakes my hand, pretending not to notice the flour. "I'm Elizabeth," she says, "well - Lizzy."

I ask to borrow sugar, finally. We both laugh a little. She invites me in and scurries away to fulfill my request. When she comes back, bag of organic beet sugar (I almost snort) in hand, there's a blonde with her. She's the most beautiful person I've ever seen, I think. She's tall, they both are, but her wide eyes are blue, not brown like Lizzy's. She says that she's Jane, she's delighted to meet me, and she gives me a hug. I decline her invitation to have tea, tell her I've got something in the oven, smile apologetically. I leave with the sugar after many minutes of listening to them - their light and lilting voices, their proper pronunciation (definitely Swedish.)

"Our neighbours are literally Kate Moss and Karen Mulder," I declare after getting back home, getting back to work.

"Literally?" mocks Richard. I wrinkle my nose at him, but nothing more. He continues, asking which one is Kate Moss.

"Elizabeth," answers Will. I stare at him, quirk a brow. He looks up from his textbook, and shrugs, as if its an explanation.

It will not be the last time I hear her name come from his mouth.

When I'm 17, they are finally together. She no longer hates him, he's no longer cold, but he still stares at her; just from next to her, now, and not from a corner.

It is late June and the sun is setting and we're on the grass in our backyard. Will is under the ash tree, with Fran. The others - Charlie, Jane, Lizzy - are in a circle, dancing and laughing and singing. It is the 25th, Midsummer, and they are trying to teach him the "Frog dance." He is failing miserably, and so he's elected to be the maypole. The sisters gambol about him, flitting and frolicking, singing, "Små grodorna är lustiga att se!"

Lizzy skips over to where I am and pulls me to my feet. I don't feel nervous and my cheeks don't turn red; I dance and I act silly and I am light, for the first time in a long time. As light as Lizzy.

She manages to persuade Will to join us, although I'm not sure that's a considerable feat; all it took was her hand in his. He'd follow her anywhere, I think.

I'm proven correct when I'm 18, and Lizzy pulls him across the world with her. They go to Turkey, to Morocco, to Bhutan, to all places bright and beautiful. And finally, they go to Sweden; to Gothenburg, where she was born. She takes him to her favourite haunts, and he steals kisses in the Design Museum (I learn all of this through postcards and phone calls from Lizzy, of course. My brother would never tell.) They get home and William doesn't stop smiling for a week.

When I am 19 they're in the front row of my university's production of Anything Goes. I am Reno Sweeney, and I am a bundle of nerves throughout the entire show. Afterward we get chips and Lizzy compares me to Sutton Foster. I snort, and deny it, but I'm flattered.

I am 20 when Will turns 30. We have a huge, tacky party for him, complete with balloons and banners and blowers. Lizzy makes him wear a birthday hat, and teases him the whole night, calling him Farfar (there are six years between them, and she likes to remind him of this fact.) He scowls for a good portion of the night but when its done, and I'm cleaning up, he hugs me tight and mumbles, "Thank you."

Then when I am 22 and graduated, living with my best friend and performing on the West End, I don't think my little life can get any better; until my brusque big brother gets down on his knee and asks Lizzy, in terms short but sweet, to marry him.

And now I am sitting in Room 99 in the Islington Town Hall watching them marry. Its a quiet affair, and it suits them. Lizzy's mother weeps, her father's eyes twinkle, and beside me Aunt and Uncle Fitzwilliam grasp hands; as do (the recent) Mr. and Mrs. Bingley. I'm clutching the fabric of my dress, watching him put the ring on her finger, watching them say, '"I do," watching them kiss and hug and then kiss again. I laugh, and I cry, and as we leave I watch them; her with her scalloped skirt and flowing hair, he with his soft smile and clear eyes. She's holding his hand with both of hers, and as we walk I think that I have never seen something so perfect, so warm. Its beautiful. They're beautiful, in their happiness, and I can't help but feel the same.

I am 23, I am Georgiana Darcy, and I am happy.