Page 817 of End Game

Where Dex has spilled beer on my notes twice despite insisting the second incident was not technically his fault.

There are five folders in front of us now.

Some of the relationships represented here have marriage certificates.

Some do not.

The paperwork does not make Micah my family.

It does not make Dex Griffin’s.

It does not make Cami more connected to me than she was this morning.

Love did all of that long before an attorney became involved.

What the paperwork does is make it harder for a hospital, a bank, a court, or a stranger with a clipboard to pretend otherwise.

I can live with that.

Chapter fifty-seven

Re-Roll For Vows

Griffin

There are easier ways to propose to a woman you're already married to.

I know this because I've considered most of them over the last month.

Dinner would have been easy. The house would have been easier. I could have waited until everyone else went to bed, pulled the ring out in the kitchen, and avoided spending the last forty minutes wondering whether Cami can somehow hear the small box rattling around in my jacket pocket.

Instead, I suggested a hike.

Not a real hike, according to Cami.

Apparently anything under two miles with a maintained trail and a parking lot is “aggressive walking with scenery.”

She's probably right.

Still, the view is worth it.

The trail opens onto a rocky overlook above a valley just beginning to turn fully green again after winter. Snow still sits higher on the mountains in the distance, bright against an absurdly blue April sky. The air is cool enough that Cami steals one of my gloves halfway up because she refused to bring her own.

“You know,” she says as we reach the overlook, “you could have just admitted you wanted to take pictures of mountains.”

“I can see mountains from our house.”

“Not like this.” She turns in a slow circle.

Her hair catches the wind and blows across her face. She's wearing leggings, hiking boots she bought three years ago and claims this justifies owning, and my old station hoodie over a T-shirt.

Nothing about the moment is formal.

Good.

Neither are we.

She walks toward the railing and leans against it, looking out over the valley.