“Wow. Not into that—”
“Excuse me.” Dylan clears his throat over the noise of Ben’s laughter. “My forever wife.”
Samantha breaks into a grin.
“You too, MacArthur Seuss Award. Get in here.”
Samantha grabs my hand. “Our paparazzi awaits.”
It’s the kind of joy that’s almost too bright to look at straight-on. How could I ever ask for anything but Ben’s hand on my waist and the click of this camera? Documented proof that this moment existed, that Ben and I belonged to each other.
Evening fades into night, one happy blur of food and flowers and dancing. I spend all of it in Ben’s arms, already missing every single moment that passes.
“Want to walk somewhere?” he asks, sometime after the cake’s been cut—which is how we end up back in the tree-lined alcove at the edge of the yard, where the posed photos were taken. The music sounds almost otherworldly from here. We’re completely alone, face-to-shadowy-face. Nothing between us but our own intertwined hands.
I wish I could stay here. I want to lock myself inside this moment. I keep imagining future me, alone in my dorm room, trying to dream myself back into it. I wonder if Ben will miss me this fall. Will we still be together by then? We could make it work this time, right? Long-distance isn’t the end of the world, and Connecticut is so much closer than Georgia. We’ll just do the train thing . . . for three years.
“Hey.” Ben tugs me closer. “What are you worrying about?”
“Oh, I’m—just. I don’t know. I’m glad to be here.” I smile up at him. “I still can’t believe it.”
“That Dylan and Samantha are married?”
“That too.” My heart skitters. “But no, I mean us. That we’re, you know, back together . . . I guess?”
“You guess?” Ben tilts his head, and I laugh.
“I don’t know! Are we? How does this go?”
The music shifts—and even from across the yard, I recognize the song from the very first measure. Pretty sure I’d know this one in my sleep.
“Marry You.” Bruno Mars.
Ben bursts out laughing. “Wow, is there, like, a flash mob coming, or . . .”
I cover my face. “I didn’t plan this. Oh my God. Universe, what the hell? Take a day off every once—”
Ben kisses me.
I look up at him, startled. “Okay, then.”
He kisses me again, his hands running down the sleeves of my jacket, leaving fields of goose bumps in their wake, even through layers of fabric. My arms hook beneath his, hugging him closer, holding his lips against mine, because air is good, but Ben’s breath is better. His hands change course, trailing back up to my shoulders, to the back of my neck, and I can’t stop thinking about how many stories these hands have told on tiny square keys. His fingertips find the skin just above my collar and just beneath it, tracing around the tag of my shirt—didn’t even know that was a move, but it definitely is.
The way his touch lights me up, leans me forward. I think he’s italicizing me.
“Look,” he says, his voice breathless from kissing. “Here’s the thing about do-overs. You have to try something different, or—you know. There’s no point.”
My heart sinks. “So you don’t think there’s any point—”
“No—God. Sorry. What I’m saying is—Arthur, fuck.” He draws in a deep breath. “I’m saying yes—holy shit—I want us to be back together. We never should have broken up. Arthur, we chose wrong last time. Let’s try again. I don’t care about the distance. We’ll make it work, okay?”
“Yeah. Let’s—yeah.” Suddenly, I’m crying and laughing all at once. “Here’s to do-overs, right?”
“Here’s to us,” he adds, hugging me. I bury my face in his jacket.
“I’m so happy.” My voice, muffled by fabric, is a jumble of tears and choked laughter. “This is my favorite day.”
“Favorite until tomorrow,” says Ben.
I wipe a tear from his cheek with the heel of my hand. “Please tell me you can spend the night tonight,” I say. “Does Dylan need you for . . . I don’t know—”
“His wedding night?”
“Look, it’s Dylan.”
He laughs. “I’ll tell him I’m needed elsewhere.”
“Good, because Uncle Milton’s horse paintings have been asking about you.”