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She eventually runs
to her bedroom to grab her phone and figure out where exactly France is, leaving Cory and me in the kitchen. My racing mind ends up at an old promise we made when we weren’t much older than Lizzie.
“We did it,” I say and hold Cory’s gaze.
“We did it,” he repeats back to me.
I’m not sure we’re talking about the same thing, and I want to be sure because this next part is going to be super important. More important than even the movie finally getting screened. This could change everything.
“I mean our promise. You became a famous director. I starred in your movie. It’s finally going to get shown in a theater. Now there’s only one more thing we have to do.”
Cory pulls me in closer. Our lips are close. “Oh, what’s that?”
Is he stringing me along, acting like he doesn’t remember? Or has he actually forgotten?
“It was your promise,” I say, my voice having naturally dropped to a whisper. Like we’re sharing something confidential.
“If it was my promise, it must have been a good one.”
“It certainly was crazy,” I say. “At the time.”
“And now?” he asks.
“Now I’m hoping it comes true.”
Lizzie appears at the bottom of the stairs, yet another question on her lips, when Cory drops to his knee. He’s holding my left hand in his, and with his right, he’s pulling something out of his pocket.
“Augusta Summers,” he says, and I feel a hiccup of emotion lodge itself between my chest and my throat. “I’ve made you wait a long time for this.”
Then he produces a little blue box that swings open. And the shimmer of a perfect diamond ring is looking back at me. It’s not huge, but it's here. That’s all that matters to me. It could be made out of aluminum foil for all I care.
“Yes,” I manage to get out between the happy sobs.
Cory raises his eyebrows. “I haven’t even asked the question yet.”
“Sorry,” I mumble. My hands are shaking but Cory’s holding me steady. A bleary-eyed glance at Lizzie shows that she’s got her phone held up now, recording my whole emotional meltdown.
“But hey, it makes asking the question a lot easier when you already know the answer.”
“Just ask her!” Lizzie shouts. It's hard to tell, but she may be crying too.
“Augusta Summers. Will you marry me?” He lets out a little snort of air. “Now you can answer.”
“Yes. Yes!” The moment he slides the ring over my finger, I throw myself at him. Lizzie wriggles her way between us, and soon we’re on the ground, laughing mostly, but also sniffling. Lizzie’s got my hand and is admiring the ring on my finger.
“When’s the wedding?” she asks.
“Oh, honey. That’s going to take some time to—”
“Tomorrow,” Cory interrupts me. We both look at him as though he’s just suggested that we have the wedding tomorrow. Which is exactly what it sounded like. “Unless you’ve got other plans.”
“I have school,” Lizzie says.
“You’re taking a sick day, kiddo.”
“But what about all the planning? We’re just going to go down to city hall?” I hate that this idea disappoints me. I mean, just a minute ago, I was thinking it didn’t matter if the ring was real or a toy, but I’ve always dreamed of an outdoor wedding.
“I’ll admit that was my original plan, but Sarah was there when I got the news about Cannes. When I said I have to get a ring for you, she helped pick this out. And when I said we were just going to get married at city hall, she said that was unacceptable. And, well, you know her. If there’s one thing she knows how to do, it’s plan a party.”
