“How long’s ‘maybe’?”
“Marker’s been in my jacket for three weeks.”
“I’m rubbing off on you.”
“Don’t forget our deal, Stopwatch.” I lean in, my voice dropping an octave. “You’re rubbing me off later. And I intend to enjoy every stroke.”
Ivy playfully swats my arm, then uncaps the marker. After a quick beat, she scrawls something on the plastic casing, but curls the cord against her chest before I get the chance to peek.
“What’d you write?”
“A wish.” Her chin lifts in that defiant way I love. “And wishes don’t count if you tell.”
“The ball’s plastic, not magic.”
“It is now.”
I look at her—my bossy, brilliant, breathtaking woman, standing beside the dumbest object in California like it’s sacred. Because it’s part of my story.
The instinct hits clean and certain, like fate itself is whispering in my ear.
Now is the moment.
“New rules,” I say, my heart doing a heavy thud against my ribs. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
“What are you, five?”
Her expression changes. She’s almost considering it.
“Cole Hartwell,” she says, dropping into that low, warning register. “We are surrounded by people and cameras, and we are not giving the internet a show. Keep it in your pants.”
“Sounds like a private invite to me.”
“Oh, it is. And I dare you to beat your record.”
“I will… if you let me read your wish.”
“Deal.”
I scrawl two words on my cord.
We swap.
Ivy reads the cord, and her hand flies to her mouth.
I’m already moving. There’s a short length of copper wire near the base of the ball, some leftover scrap. I drop to one knee in the dirt and twist the wire into a small, imperfect loop between my fingers.
I look up at her with the rawest, truest thing I’ve got. My heart. No witty lines to protect me, just my honest self, kneeling in the dust behind a diner, holding a piece of scrap metal and feeling steadier than I ever have in my life.
“I don’t have a ring yet. But I’ll get you a real one. You can pick it out, reject all my suggestions, build a chart to cross-reference the cut and clarity, and pretend you aren’t enjoying the process. We’ll make a whole day of it,” I say with a smile. “I know in my gut that this is the moment.”
I hold up the copper loop.
“Will you marry me, Stopwatch?”
She makes a choked sound, her eyes shimmering. “Yes. God, yes—obviously yes.”
I slide the wire loop onto her finger. Her hands are on my face before I can stand. She pulls me into a kiss that tastes like key lime pie and the promise of forever.
