A/N: Just to warn anyone who has come to expect certain things from me: NOT A REAMY STORY . And title shamelessly stolen from Dr. Horrible. Yes, I am that big a nerd.
Liam proposes when you're twenty-one.
You're less than a semester from graduating with dual degrees - one in education and one in music - and you're freaking the fuck out over the term paper in your Advanced Music Theory class
(and yes, they make you write papers in music theory)
(and yes, it sucks as much as it sounds like it would)
and he's taken you out to dinner. You've been together since you were seventeen and this is the fanciest place he's ever taken you to. There's maybe four other people even in it and there's candlelight and a menu full of food you can't pronounce and prices you can't afford.
He bought you a new dress. Silk. Red.
(He's always been stuck on your prom dress.) (The one you wore when you kissed another boy.)
You're sure that the dress alone costs more than you make in a month at the UT-Austin bookstore. And it's easily the most beautiful thing you've ever seen or worn.
Until the diamond.
Or, more accurately, the three diamonds.
You're not an expert on diamonds.
(Other than the ones you've taken to looking at dreamily in shop windows ever since you two moved in together)
(Or, you know, since before that)
(But, you know, only since you were six or seven. Maybe eight.)
So, yeah, you're no expert, but you don't have to be a gemologist with a monocle and a measuring gadget to know that they're big and perfect and that they "sparkle like your eyes when you sing".
(His words. Not yours.)
(Really.)
And you don't need to be an expert to know that the way they're cut and set into the platinum band - the one you're sure has your initials and his etched into the underside of it - can mean only one thing.
(Besides that he's proposing. Because, well, duh.)
It means that Liam actually, you know, paid attention when you absent-mindedly - or maybe not so absent-mindedly - described your dream engagement ring.
When you were seventeen.
He paid attention. And he remembered. For four years.
Four fucking years.
And you remember the first time he ever said he loved you. Staring down a Nerf arrow, knowing he'd been caught in the worst betrayal possible, in front of the entire school.
You can't help wondering how you ever doubted him.
Even if you know exactly why you want to.
Wanted. Wanted to.
The ring is in his hand and he's on one knee in front of you and the whole restaurant - and yes, that means the whole restaurant, all four other people
(people you suddenly realize are your parents)
(and Shane)
(and Amy)
and they're all watching you and you haven't heard a word out of his mouth but you manage to tune back in just in time for
"This may be the last beautiful thing I can ever buy you."
And you suddenly understand why the dress and the restaurant and the ring and your family
(and Shane)
(and Amy)
it all becomes so clear.
After tomorrow, Liam's going to be cut off. After tomorrow, after he tells his father
(grandfather? you've never been good with this whole Booker family tree thing)
that he's leaving Squirkle, that he can't do it anymore, that he can't live like this and he's going back to art school?
Liam's done.
He's not leaving the company. He's leaving his family.
And, as if on cue…
"I know it took me a while, but… I get it now. It's you. You're the only family I need."
I'm your family.
And you blink your eyes against the memory and remember why you're here, now, and what it is Liam's saying and what he's doing.
If you say yes, you'll be Mrs. Liam Booker. But it'll be just a name. None of the riches. None of the power.
Not that any of that matters to you. It never has.
Once upon a time, Liam gave up the world - his world - for you.
You changed his life.
And as he waits for an answer, as you take one last furtive glance around the room at your parents and Shane
(at Amy)
you know the word bubbling up from inside you, the word you know you should say - because it's only fair, because it's only right - would change his life all over again.
His. And yours.
And you just can't do that.
So, of course, you say 'yes' with tears in your eyes.
(And if Liam isn't the one person in the room who could recognize those tears for what they really are?)
(You can't blame him. Not even a little.)
He did this all for you. The dress, the restaurant, your family
(Amy)
(Fucking Amy)
the ring.
He did it. He gave it to you.
Everything you ever wanted.
You buy your first house when you're twenty-three.
It's small and cozy and you and Liam seem to fill it up, all by yourselves
(even if you can't help but imagine there being kids here, someday)
(three of them)
(all blonde and snarky and, nope, not thinking about that)
and it's the perfect starter home, right on the edge of Austin so you're close to your mom and dad, but not too close.
It is, not surprisingly, right next to Amy's first house. Equally small, equally cozy, and equally filled.
Sometimes.
(Amy and Reagan are in something of an on-again / off-again spiral.)
(The off-again days are more frequent now, since you moved in next door.)
(You wish, sort of, you could feel guilty about that.)
(Sort of.)
Your one year engagement plan with Liam turned into two when he gets accepted to a prestigious art program on the other side of the state a week after you close on the house.
Long distance, you quickly discover, sucks.
But you make it through. You make it work. It takes lots of Skype and lots of lonely nights
(and more than a few weekends - when his plans to come home are scrapped at the last moment - curled up in Amy's arms with a pan of snickerdoodles and Netflix marathons you don't really watch)
(you're too busy being torn between missing him and, well, not)
but you make it through. And the day he comes home, the day he walks through your front door
(our front door, you have to remind yourself)
and says he's home for good, you launch yourself into his arms, leaving a smiling Amy sitting at your kitchen table, Reagan standing behind her with a possessive
(or at least you think it is)
hand on Amy's shoulder.
And that night, when Liam slips inside you and calls out your name and even - briefly - suggests maybe now you can start thinking about a family?
You smile. And nod.
(And call to refill your birth control the next morning.)
And when the call comes, two days later, that you're getting the chance to record a demo, that the record label Reagan works for wants to pay for it and give you studio time?
You know it's her. It's Reagan's way of trying to placate Amy. To try and win her girlfriend back completely.
But you don't care. Because this?
It's everything.
Everything you ever wanted.
You and Liam are still engaged when you turn twenty-four.
Your two-year engagement became three when you got the call about your demo. And it - essentially - became your fiance. And child. And, basically your life.
"It's fine, baby," he says so often that it's become routine. "You only get one chance like this. Us? We'll still be here."
And then he smiles and pulls you close and he's so much like the sixteen-year old boy you fell in love with that it breaks your fucking heart.
Because you left that fifteen-year old girl behind long ago, even if you never really saw it happening.
"I don't need a piece of paper or a priest - or whoever your parents want to marry us - to tell me that you're mine."
You bury your face in his chest and mumble something about not needing any of that either.
(Conveniently leaving out the part where you don't need any of that because none of it would make it, well, true.)
(Liam is yours.)
(But you… )
The demo takes months to get just right. The songs come in fits and spurts. Some days Liam goes with you to the studio and it's like digging through quicksand.
You can't find the words. You can't hit the notes.
Other days, Reagan's there. Even after she and Amy fall apart - for good this time - she comes to the studio. Offers suggestions. Mixes the music a bit.
And when you catch her gaze, you get it. You get what she's doing.
She's clinging to the only thing she has left, the one thing that can - maybe, almost, kinda - make the pain of losing Amy tolerable.
(You get that.)
(You so get that.)
And those days the songs come a little easier. The notes are a little more reachable.
Singing into the mike those days? Closing your eyes and spinning your stories of loves lost and found and all the things that should have been but can't ever be?
It hurts. It hurts so fucking much.
But it's perfect pain.
It's everything you ever wanted.
Your demo gets you a record deal when you're twenty-five.
And a three-year engagement heads for four as your career - and Liam's - start to slowly take off.
You've got a deal.
Liam has his family back. Sort of.
Three of his art pieces - large scale sculptures that he told you all about and described in exacting detail and you still don't know what the fuck they're supposed to mean - now decorate Squirkle's corporate HQ.
You suspect it has something to do with his 'momster' taking control of the company.
And maybe with their once a month lunch dates.
(Once a month that's slowly turning into two or three.)
(Two or three times a month that might have had something to do with him slipping up and referring to her as 'mom'. Just once.)
(For now.)
Your house is filled to bursting now. With his art. Your music. He turns the second bedroom into a work space. You turn the basement into a recording studio / rehearsal area.
You've got gigs. All over Texas. All over the south.
Next door, Amy's house is filled too. Mostly with you and Lauren. Amy's sister
(and yes, they're Sisters now, capital 'S', and as thick as thieves)
practically moves in after her romance with Theo implodes in spectacular fashion.
(You never get all the details. Just bits and pieces. Brandi. Naked. A bong the size of Lauren's head.)
(It's enough. Really.)
Having Lauren there seems to easy Amy's path through her break-up with Reagan - which is just fine with you, even if you'd like to have a bit
(more than a bit)
(everything)
to do with it. But then Lauren introduces Amy to Olivia
(which might explain some of why you don't like 'O' right from the start)
and even if you can't understand how a lesbian can have a three-year old daughter
(OK, you understand how - you did take Bio in high school)
(and yes, you got the lecture from Amy and Lauren - and even from Reagan, who you've become sort of friends with, before Reagan understood just who you were talking about - about bisexuality)
(and considering the thoughts - blonde and beautiful and so familiar - that often run through your mind while Liam - your male fiance - is fucking you, and you're enjoying it, you really should grasp the whole bi concept a little better)
you can still see that she makes Amy happy and so you carry on.
There's so much for you to carry on with. Recording an actual album. Gigs on top of gigs on top of gigs.
(Sometimes you don't see home for a week, maybe two at a time.)
Wedding plans. The perfect fiance, who doesn't cheat, doesn't smoke weed, doesn't fight with you about who you're friends with or blame you for confusions over your sexuality
(not that you have any of those)
and there's your perfect little dream house right next to your best friend and so, yeah, maybe you don't like Amy's new girlfriend.
But it doesn't matter. Olivia probably won't last.
It's not like Amy's going to marry her.
You score your first gold record when you're twenty-six.
It's your debut song off your debut CD and the day you get the news, Liam sends texts to everyone you know.
Except one.
Because this isn't texting news. Not for her. Not for Amy.
So you walk next door
(who the fuck are you kidding? You run next door. Like full sprint. Like the fucking Flash and Usain Bolt's genetically modified offspring breaking the sound barrier.)
and you're going to tell her and part of you - a small part, but one that's been growing a bit bigger every day
(every day you don't see her)
(every day she spends at Olivia's place instead of here)
(every day she spends with Sydney, Olivia's daughter, and with Rusty, Colt, and Spuddles, their three dogs)
(their three dogs)
that small part of you is thinking maybe the gold record won't be all you tell her about.
Maybe it's time.
Maybe it's long past time.
And when you reach Amy's front door and peer in through the glass, you see that she's not alone
(not that she ever is)
(not anymore)
and it's in that one moment - the one that looks so much like a night in a restaurant you had once, except this time you're the one watching - that you realize.
It's long past time.
It's long past too late.
Amy beats you to the altar by a year.
It's a year of touring and recording and slowly watching every single you release climb the charts, praying you won't be a one hit wonder.
(You're not.)
(You're not Taylor Swift, but you're working on it.)
It's a year of Liam discovering that yes, art is good. Art is fun and creative and he's good at it.
But it isn't business. It's not power.
It's sure as fuck not money.
And Liam misses the money.
(Or at least being the one making it.)
But he;s supportive. And never - outwardly - jealous.
And when the other girls on the tour see him, yeah, they might swoon a little.
(Especially when he does that cheesy fake British accent.)
And it's a year of remembering that there's something to be said for having the hottest fiance of anyone on your label. Something to be said for being the rising star.
They like you. They really do.
(And, to no great surprise, you find that you like yourself too.)
It's a year of planning and daydreaming and imagining but not actually doing one single concrete thing to move your wedding forward.
Amy doesn't have that problem.
You're twenty-seven when you take a week off from the tour and head back to Austin for the wedding.
Twenty-seven and still able to convince yourself, not unlike you did at fifteen
just not like that
that everything is right. Everything is how it should be.
You have everything you ever…
And you do an admirable job of it. You do a hell of a job fooling yourself.
Right up until the moment you can't.
You're twenty-seven when you stand up next to her, holding her bouquet, straightening the train of her dress
(because yes, Amy, the same Amy who once wore a suit to prom, rocks her wedding day in the whitest, laciest, most fairy-tale dress - with a ten foot fucking train - in the history of weddings)
and it's then that you can't do it anymore. And your mind can't help but wander during the seemingly endless vows Olivia wrote herself
("I never knew love until I knew you. I never knew anyone could love me until you did.")
and the seemingly even more endless vows Sydney wrote just for her 'Mama Amy'
("You're the best, mama Amy. The best. Really the best.")
(and you know you shouldn't think ill of a five-year old, but really?)
and you can't help remembering
Maybe we should just marry each other.
Kid's stuff. That's all it was. You were just silly little girls who didn't know anything.
They're scary because they're exciting
Karma, step off the edge with me
OK. Maybe Amy knew something. A little something.
But that's just memories now. And memories come unbidden. They're brought to the surface by the strangest of things. The oddest of connections.
And if maybe you're the only one in the church who notices Reagan slip in during the ceremony?
If you're the only one who sees her in the back row, clutching the pew like a lifeline? If you're the only one she makes eye contact with?
And if maybe - just maybe - you know the pain in her eyes a little too well? More than you should?
It doesn't matter.
Because this is Amy's day.
This is all she's ever…
No. Not all.
It's not all she ever wanted.
But it will be all she ever wants from now on.
And that…
Well. That's something Reagan's just going to have to live with.
And so will you.
You win your first Grammy at twenty-nine.
Your first daughter is born when you're thirty-one. Your second when you're thirty-three.
Grammys two and three arrive when you're thirty-four and thirty-five, respectively.
Farrah passes away - breast cancer - a week after you turn thirty-six. Amy and Olivia have a second little girl, named after Amy's mom, a year later.
You move to a bigger house outside Dallas.
Amy moves to a bigger house in San Antonio.
You see each other twice, maybe three times a year, when family and touring and recording schedules all match up.
Your kids know each other, vaguely. Like cousins they see at big family gatherings and holidays.
Still, even at forty, you;re not Taylor Swift. But maybe, on a good day, you're Carrie Underwood.
Liam runs Squirkle. He's rich and powerful but he - as Shane puts it - uses his powers for good.
He is, really, everything you thought he was before you really knew him.
And every year, like clockwork, he takes you to that same restaurant. And you wear that same dress
(or, more recently, a slightly glitzier more designer version of it)
(fame and money have their perks)
and he flies in your parents and Amy and Olivia and Shane, so it's just like
(almost just like)
that night. And he gets down on one knee and asks you all over again.
And you do your best, really you do, to stare into his eyes. To not look over his shoulder. To not see Amy and Olivia sitting at their table in the corner, not even giving you and Liam and your perfect fairy-tale romance a second thought.
And, eventually
(you always joke that you have to think about it, have to make him sweat a little)
the word comes bubbling up from inside you, the word you know you should say - because it's only fair, it's only right.
This is all you ever wanted.
So, of course, you say 'yes' with tears in your eyes.