I open my door and step out as he rushes around to my side to offer his hand, smoothing my dress as I follow him toward the house. My heels click against the pavement, and I try not to trip on anything in the dim light as we head to the side of the house.
We walk past trash cans, recycling bins, and a riding mower before I stop in my tracks, breath catching in my throat.
Twinkling lights. Hundreds of them.
The backyard is positivelyglowing, strands of tiny lights hanging from trees, looping across the fence, and draped over his sister’s playset in the far recesses of the yard.
My eyes strain, making out a table. It’s set near his mom’s shed, white linen and candles flickering in darkness, the soft hum of instrumental music playing in the background.
“Easton…” I breathe, turning to face him. “This is incredible.” I am at a loss for words. “How…?”
He grins down at me, pleased with himself. “I called in a favor.”
“A favor from who? When did you do this?” How did he manage?
I can’t tear my eyes off the scene before me. It’s something out of a dream—one that I never want to wake from. I half expect a fairy to flutter out of one of the trees next to his mom’s shed.
I’m tempted to twirl around with my arms outstretched.
“I take none of the credit. That goes to Phoebe and my mom. I, uh—called them from the gym and they masterminded everything.”
“You called them from the dance?”
“Yeah. Half hour ago, maybe?” He shrugs, looking bashful. “Before I found you and said I wanted to whisk you away.”
More butterflies. More tingles. “This is unbelievable.”
Heart-stopping.
A fairy tale.
I look up into his face; it’s lit by the soft glow of the lights. Chiseled jawline. Straight nose. Gorgeous lips. In this moment, everything feels right. It’s not about the perfect prom night or the fancy dress—it’s aboutthis.Him making this effort.Showingme how he feels.
“Why did you do this?” I ask, reaching for his hand.
“I wanted to,” he says adamantly. “Youwere the person I wanted to share this night with—not Maddie. I should have told her no from the start, and I should have asked you sooner. I let my stupidity get in the way, and for that, I’m sorry. I was an idiot, but now I want to make it right. I want to make this night what it should’ve been all along—with you.”
As he leads me toward the makeshift dinner table, my lipspart.
“Wake me, I’m dreaming,” I whisper as a laugh bubbles from my throat despite the lump forming there. The thought, the effort—it’s too much. “Easton, I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t say anything,” he murmurs, pulling out a chair for me with a flourish. “Sit and enjoy. Oh—I hope you haven’t eaten yet.”
The truth is, I have eaten already. My dad fed me before I left the house—but looking at the cutlery before me, I would never admit it to Easton. This moment is too perfect to ruin over something as trivial as a meal.
Smiling to myself, I lower myself into the chair, the weight of the evening’s spell settling over me.
Then.
As we relax into our seats, a small figure emerges from the shadows of the back porch.
It’s Phoebe.
She approaches with the seriousness of a professional, faceset in a determined expression, a napkin draped over her arm like she’s a seasoned server in a high-end restaurant.
“Good evening! Bona sara.” She mispronouncesbuona serawith a formal air she must have picked up watching TV. “I’m Phoebe, and I’m your server. Can I start you with drinks? We have anexcellentselection of water—both coldandroom temperature.”
She’s wearing a white apron that’s far too big for her and holding two glasses of water. Gingerly, Phoebe places them on the table as if she were setting down two precious artifacts.
