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Tyler had pushed for a diamond ring, wanting the best, but Jay liked my idea of environmental awareness as good publicity. So many diamonds came from war-torn countries, so I decided to go with something different.
Hell, Kate Middleton, the Duchess of Cambridge, rocked a sapphire engagement ring. The times were changing.
Actually, I just liked the pearls. It was Jay who was selling the war-torn story.
“You look incredible,” Tyler commented, his white tie matching my cream-colored dress.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
Over the past few months, we’d dived deeper and deeper into the campaign, but elections were still six months away, and I knew he was concerned that his life took too much of our time.
I looked down, running my thumb over the fff tattoo I’d gotten on the inside of my wrist when he’d proposed this past Mardi Gras at the very same annual ball where we first met the year before.
Family, fortune, and future.
He’d had the same letters tattooed, but his appeared on the outside of his wrist, right under where his watch sat.
To ensure that we never took our gifts for granted or lost track of what was truly important, we had promised each other to prioritize.
Family came first. Always first. We took care of each other and relied on each other. Without the family and without Christian, everything else would be worthless.
Fortune came next. It almost seemed shallow to have fortune before future, but we realized that fortune was more than wealth. It was health, goals, and maintaining what we had in the work we wanted to contribute to the world. Our fortune was the things for which we were thankful and the things we had to give.
Future came last. Private ambitions, plans for the years down the road, and other goals that could possibly take our attention away from each other and our jobs would be considered only if everything else was strong.
Christian had wanted to get the tattoo, too, but we’d told him that he had to wait until he turned eighteen.
And then Tyler took him to get the tattoo anyway.
That was fine. He could deal with Christian’s mother when she came home in July.
Tyler’s arm behind my back shifted, and I jerked, feeling his hand rub against my ass.
I cleared my throat, and I could feel his smile as he squeezed me.
Christian sat behind the camera, playing on his phone, while Jay stood off to my left, periodically instructing the photographer on what shots to take and what angles to shoot, as if she didn’t know already.
Walking up to me, he tried to pin something to my chest, and I knew right away that it was a flag.
I shot out my hand, shooing him away.
“Easton, really,” he chided.
“It’s tacky,” I burst out. “This is my engagement photo.”
I wasn’t turning it into a political statement. We’d already had that argument.
“Tyler.” Jay groaned. “A little help, please?”
Tyler simply shook his head, probably sick of Jay’s and my bickering.
“You’re handling the publicity,” I pointed out, glaring at Jay, “and I even let you pick the wedding date, because you whined about how good it would be for the campaign, but when you start to dress me, that’s when we have problems,” I snapped. “Capisce?”
“Everyone who’s anyone has a personal shopper, Easton,” he whined. “She can tell you which clothes are best for your coloring —”
But I yelped, cutting off Jay’s lecture, as my fiancé’s hands grabbed me and I fell into Tyler’s lap. His lips came down on mine, and I moaned, holding his face in my hands.
We pulled apart, laughing at each other, and I heard the camera click.
“Ah,” the photographer sang. “That’s the cover of New Orleans magazine.”
She looked at the screen of her digital camera, smiling.
“Now, Mr. Marek,” she instructed. “Would you stand, please, and move to your fiancée’s other side?”
Tyler rose from the chair and moved around to my left side, while I remained sitting.
She looked to me and asked, “Would you turn to him slightly and then cock your head a bit?”
I followed her directions, placing my arm around Tyler and leaning in to him as I tilted my head.
“Chin up,” she chirped, and disappeared behind her camera again.
Tyler’s scent invaded my head, and as much as I’d grown to love Christian, I was glad he was joining his friends in the country during spring break. Which started in a few days.
I still kept my apartment and would until the wedding in October, but it was getting harder and harder to stay there. Tyler and I found our time together when we could, and even though Christian wasn’t stupid – he’d caught me there early one morning, probably figuring out I had stayed the night – we did make a huge effort to not make it obvious or inappropriate.
I was still a teacher at his school, after all.
And I’d decided to stay there, even taking on tennis coaching responsibilities for the girls’ team for the next school year.
After the election, though, if Tyler won, we’d reevaluate whether or not we needed to relocate to Washington, D.C., for the length of his term.
For now, though, we simply worked on his campaign and planned the wedding, which we decided to have at Degas House to commemorate the paintings we discussed when we first met.
“I want my son in some photos as well,” Tyler said, and the photographer nodded.
I looked over at Christian, loving how close he and Tyler had become. They didn’t always have the same interests, but they’d found a lot of common ground and enjoyed doing things together.
