She laughs. “Right. But that doesn’t mean our relationship has to be. We’ve already established a friendship, and if that doesn’t grow over the next year, we’re doing something wrong.”
“I like that,” I say, although I think I want our “friendship” to grow differently than she might. “So, where dowewant to get married?”
“You said it has to be local, and you’re right. The town resents me enough. So it needs to be something in town, and something that would make sense and feel meaningful to anyone who questions our sincerity. Something real but romantic.”
“No pressure,” I tease.
And then something hits me.
“Can I show you something? A place I think might work?”
“Of course.”
She presses something on her phone, unlocking the car doors, and then she walks around to the passenger side of her Mercedes.
“Are you sure you trust me to drive your car?” I ask. “We can take my truck.”
She smiles. Retractable door handles extend, and she pulls on one, opening her door and waiting for me to open mine. “I trust you enough to marry you. Driving my car really doesn’t compare.”
She slides into the passenger seat, and a moment later, I’m getting into the driver’s seat.
I expect my knees to be halfway to my ears, but the legroom is unreal. I move the seat all the way back, and I’m shocked that my thighs don’t brush the dash. I don’t even have to duck to see the road.
“I’ve never fit in a sedan before.”
“See?” she asks, buckling. “We’re a good match already.”
I agree more than I should.
After only a ten minute car ride, I’m addicted to the eerie smoothness and handling.
“Honestly, I think I’d get married in this car,” I say as I pull up to our destination.
Kayla laughs, but she’s biting her bottom lip, like … like she’s glad I like her car.
I’ve driven us to the baseball stadium. We park far out in the lot, and Kayla looks around, like she’s waiting for a surprise.
“What are we doing here?”
“Follow me.”
We get out and meet at the front of the car. When Kayla starts walking toward the stadium, I grab her shoulders and point them in the opposite direction.
“Actually, it’s this way.”
I keep my hands on her lean, toned shoulders longer than necessary, but not as long as I’d like, either. And in only a minute, we’re walking into the old baseball diamond. The one we talked about earlier today.
I pull out my phone and am about to turn on the flashlight when Kayla gasps.
The field is full of lightning bugs.
Fireflies.
She grabs my hand and pulls me out to the pitcher’s mound. The fireflies drift lazily around us, unconcerned by our presence, like they’ve claimed this space as theirs but don’t mind sharing. All around, soft pinpricks of gold float in the dark, suspended like stars that got tired of the sky but can’t bear to touch the ground.
“Oh my goodness,” she breathes, dropping my hand so she can turn around in circles. Awe fills her face. “It’s beautiful.”
I know I should be watching the fireflies. I know I should be paying attention to all the details that make this moment so magical—the crickets and cicadas serenading us, the low babble of nearby Ridgeline Creek winding around town like a whisper.
