I guess a lesser woman would have lost hope
A greater woman wouldn't beg
But I looked to the sky and said
Please, I've been on my knees
Change the prophecy
Don't want money
Just someone who wants my company
Let it once be me
Who do I have to speak to
About if they can redo
the prophecy?
Taylor Swift, The Prophecy
xxx
The sounds of merriment and laughter and music on the Madison Park Pavilion fade into the distance as Marian Paroo makes her way along the path to the secluded footbridge, accompanied by the soft rustle of leaves and the chirping of crickets. She'd barely managed to eat more than a few bites of the ice cream she'd promised to have with her mother and brother, what with the way her stomach's been flip-flopping, but at least she'd bought herself a little bit of time with the delay.
Over the past month, her life has changed in innumerable ways, and she's already done so many things she'd never pictured herself doing. But none of it compares to what she's currently preparing to do.
Marian's never really felt like a part of River City until this summer, but she's overheard plenty of conversations, especially between overly excited teenagers with little discretion. So, over the years, she's heard much about the footbridge, a slightly scandalous place where sweethearts meet to kiss and embrace while escaping the watchful eyes of parents and neighbors. But sweethearts and kissing have always been entirely foreign to Marian. It wasn't that she'd never been asked to the footbridge, but none of those propositions had ever been even remotely appealing until tonight - to say the least.
Now she's most likely mere minutes away from being kissed, for real this time, by the most handsome, charming, wonderful man she's ever met. And, what's more, she's going to tell him that she's fallen in love with him. She's not certain which order these events will take place in, nor which of the two she's more nervous about.
She's still flushed from their dance on the pavilion over ten minutes ago, not from the exertion but from the steady strength of Harold's arms around her, the heat of his cheek pressed to hers, the sincere warmth and joy in his eyes as he whirled her around. Marian wishes she could bottle that feeling and keep it forever, that she could live in his embrace, in his nearness, in his gaze when he looks at her like she's a miracle, a dream come true, the only thing that matters in the world.
(She knows that couldn't actually be what he'd been thinking, of course. She doesn't even allow herself to believe that he might be feeling that way unconsciously. But none of that changes what she saw in his eyes when he pulled her onto his knee at the conclusion of the dance, when for just a moment she thought he might kiss her in front of all of River City.)
Dream of a love song that might have been...
To kiss him will be - well, she's only ever dreamed of kisses in the abstract before, never wanted to kiss any specific man who actually existed, but there is nothing abstract about her attraction to Harold. Her entire body yearns for him in a way that really ought to shock her. She wants so badly to touch him, to be touched - to run her hands through his dark, wavy hair, to feel the broadness of his shoulders and the firmness of his chest for more than just a brief instant while dancing, to breathe in the delicious aroma of his aftershave and cologne until she nearly drowns in it. She wants to feel his hand moving in soothing strokes across her back as he holds her, wants to feel him nuzzle warmly against her cheek, how he'll slowly and gently tilt her face up toward his. And when their lips finally, finally meet, she can only imagine that it will feel like electricity, like fireworks.
Logically, Marian knows that Harold can't and won't stay here, that he'll never be her husband and there will be no consummation of this attraction, this love. And yet she has this deep, unshakable feeling that there's some fateful inevitability drawing them together.
The reason she's never been kissed, the reason no man has ever been good enough for her, the reason she's always been so lonely, is because it was always meant to be him. Her heart and her body both know it, in the way they respond to him and only him. Her mother had made the comparison to flint and steel, and Marian has learned very well tonight just how true that metaphor is for the two of them, but right now she's thinking about steel and magnets, drawn inescapably, inexorably together by their very nature.
Since the very first moment Harold Hill had stepped into her path and awoken those unruly sparks within her, everything that has happened between them has felt somehow inevitable. Of course, of course she's currently walking down the winding path to meet him at the footbridge on a starry summer night, for how could it have ended up any other way?
Forever, oh yes, forever...
Her mind, however, keeps sternly reminding her that this is all foolishness borne of an Irish imagination and too much sentimentality.
Because, despite all appearances, this is not a courtship. This will, in all likelihood, be their one and only rendezvous, the one and only time she'll ever kiss a man at the footbridge or anywhere else. If this really is all God's plan or fate or the grand design of the universe, why would she only be granted one brief taste of true love before promptly having it snatched away?
In fact, perhaps she'd be better off if she forgot about the whole thing right now.
In a matter of days - a week, at most - Harold will be gone from her life, and the thought is devastating, as much as she tries to convince herself that it isn't, that what he's left behind for her will be enough. She can yearn and she can dream, but there will be no cozy home with a porch swing, no spirited conversations about Shakespeare and Beethoven, no falling asleep and waking up in his warm, comforting embrace, no babies with her eyes and his brilliant smile. And there will be no band. There will only be tonight, one bittersweet memory for her to cling to in the years of loneliness to come. It sounds more likely to be a torment than a comfort. Is it even worth it?
It's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all, Marian attempts to remind herself. But she isn't so certain she believes it when faced with the actual possibility.
Her mind races with one doubt after another, her steps gradually slowing as she strolls along the path:
If he kisses you, it won't be real for him the way it will be for you. You'll remember him forever, but he'll forget you before long.
If you tell him you love him, you'll have to listen to him let you down gently. Wouldn't it be easier never to know what he'd say?
If he kisses you, it will only make it that much more painful when he leaves River City.
If he kisses you, he'll expect more, and he'll drop all illusions of caring for you once you've said no!
(That last part, at least, she doesn't actually believe - Harold is nothing like a Luther Griner or an Ed Gammidge, nothing like all of those men who see her as nothing more than an object, and he does care. He may not love her the way she loves him, and his intentions are clearly not pure, but she can tell that he cares, that something between them is real.)
But the next doubtful thought feels like ice in her veins.
What if he wants more and you don't say no? This is your one and only chance to ever know what it's like to be touched by a man, after all, and there's no denying how much you want that with him... it would be all too easy to do something incredibly foolish.
And Marian halts in her path, bracing her arm against a tree and drawing in a long, shaky breath. What is she doing? She can't go through with this. She wants nothing more than this one glimpse of happiness, this one chance to be held and kissed by Harold and tell him how she feels, but it's clear that the risks to her heart and her future are too great.
Harold Hill had looked at her several times lately like he wanted to pounce on her, like he wanted to devour her - even in front of the whole town, when he'd practically dragged her off the pavilion right after that exhilarating dance! - and the worst part is that she'd liked it in some strange, terrifying way. There was some small part of her that wanted to let him do that, that wanted to succumb to him like the world's most willing prey, and as long as there was any risk of that, she couldn't meet him at the footbridge, just couldn't.
This is a man who knows things, who's done things that she couldn't even begin to imagine, things he wants to do to her, with her - one hundred and two counties - no chaste white knight, but maybe she likes him that way - that voice and that grin and oh, so would I, the sensation of melting, melting, melting - her thighs tremble and her palms tingle and her breath catches - she's never felt anything like this in her entire life, never before understood the supposed dangers and temptations posed by men, never known what it would be like to have treacherous sensual desires threatening to overrule her morals and good sense.
So many things she's read about but can't truly comprehend, so many things he could teach her, gentle and patient and skillful, and she'd never want it to be anybody but him - inevitable, it was always meant to be him - and her face flushes with mingled shame and desire as all of these half-formed thoughts flit through her addled mind.
She wouldn't, of course, she wouldn't, she knows better than that, and if a mere kiss has the potential to cause such turmoil, how much worse would that devastation and loneliness after his departure be if she gave so much more of herself to him? No, of course she wouldn't. She won't. But the very fact that she can even think of such forbidden things proves that this is far too dangerous. How can she trust herself to do the right thing when she can't even think clearly in his presence, under his irresistible spell?
But slowly, that good sense of hers returns to calm her fears. She's being overly dramatic, isn't she? She's meeting Harold at the footbridge in the park, not in his hotel room, not at some distant, private hideaway where they could tryst without any possibility of interruption. As long as she doesn't allow him to spirit her away to another location, nothing more than kisses could happen, no matter how powerful the mutual desire between them. And she's simply not strong enough to say no to the opportunity to share a kiss or two or three with the only man she'll ever love, the man who's made her happy for the first time in so many years, the man who makes her feel things she'd never thought possible.
Before Harold leaves River City, she needs him to know that she loves him, deeply and truly. Whatever he chooses to do with that knowledge, she knows in her heart that she couldn't bear to let him go without telling him how much he means to her.
(She can't allow herself to hope that maybe, if he returns her feelings, there might even be some way he could stay, that maybe this isn't all preordained to end in heartbreak.)
There's no way she can control or predict what will happen next, but she refuses to flee at this pivotal moment and let this evening become yet another empty yesterday. If there's ever been a time to be brave, this is it. The coward dies a thousand deaths... The memory of his absurd misquote makes her laugh and warms her heart with affection, and something within her relaxes ever so slightly.
So, with a deep breath, Marian marshals her courage and continues walking the rest of the way toward the footbridge, toward the inevitability of Harold Hill.
xxx
Author's Note: Yeah so it's kinda physically painful to write about this stage of their relationship! Even though we all know it ends well and I've got 30+ stories already to prove it, I have got to follow this up in short order with something much happier and fluffier! This is the absolute saddest I can handle, I fear.
This is one of the quickest stories I've written in a long time and I hope I can keep that up! I have some new ideas already lined up but as always, if there's anything in particular you want to see that falls into my wheelhouse, I'd LOVE to hear your prompts or suggestions.