As I walked in, I spotted a giant hollow rock on the beach filled with ice and a bottle of champagne. Yogi handed me a flower crown and a white bouquet, both of which she’d handmade herself, yet still, the bridal nod was lost on me. Surprised and a little confused by what I thought was an incredibly sweet but unnecessarily extravangant send-off by the hotel staff — there were two deck chairs, a blanket with pillows and two champagne flutes placed next to a tray of canapes, and our names were written between hearts in the sand — I turned to my boyfriend, expecting an equally puzzled look on his face. Instead, he was down on one knee holding a dark blue box with a shiny, princess cut trilogy ring inside. The sky was pink and purple, and the crashing sounds of the waves had eased in time for him to ask me to be his wife. I was still in shock, still processing how he’d been secretly conspiring with the resort staff all week to pull this off.
