When we got to the house, Jojo was standing in the kitchen window, mixing dough with flour all over his nose. He saw us and lit up, waving so wildly he almost lost the bowl.
“He’s going to cry,” I said.
“Bet you five dollars Rawley will cry harder,” Macon replied, and for the first time, I believed him.
The morning felt new and bright. The sun caught the ring on my finger and sent a tiny, hopeful flare back toward the sky.
We went inside together, and for the first time, I wasn’t scared of what would come next.
Macon didn’t waste a second.
The moment we stepped inside, he slung the picnic stuff on the counter, then barked, “Jojo! Get your shoes and jacket.” The command landed like a brick through a window.
Jojo, cheeks still streaked with flour, poked his head in from the pantry, lips parted in a perfect O of surprise. “Um? Where are we going?”
“Town,” said Macon, already heading for the stairs. “You’re witnessing something.”
Jojo blinked, the realization dawning in real time as his eyes ping-ponged between us. He glanced at the ring on my finger, then at the identical one on Macon’s, and clapped both hands to his mouth.
For a second, I thought he might pass out from excitement. Instead, he did a little hop, scattering flour like pixie dust, and sprinted for the mudroom.
I had a second to breathe before Macon reappeared at the top of the stairs, already changed into a shirt with actual buttons and a collar, which must have taken years off his life expectancy. He looked ridiculous and perfect. He pointed at me. “You good to ride?”
It took a beat to realize he meant the truck, not the other thing. “Yeah,” I said, then, “Can we take five minutes to at least rinse the river gunk off my jeans?”
He nodded, grinning like he’d just won the lottery.
I scrambled up the stairs and found a pair of clean pants and a soft blue t-shirt, neither of which matched, but both of which fit. My hands shook as I pulled the jeans up over my belly.
Thank God for elastic waistbands.
I took a quick glance in the mirror: face flushed, hair wild, lips still pink from the river wind. I looked—happy. Not put-together, not presentable, but happy.
It was new, and I liked it.
When I got back downstairs, Macon was waiting by the door, fidgeting with the keys. He slipped a hand around my waist, careful to avoid the part of me that was still tender, and guided me out to the truck. Jojo was already in the backseat, bouncing with so much energy I thought he might rupture something.
“Rawley?” I asked, just as Macon started the ignition.
Macon snorted. “He’s finishing a call. If he’s not out in one minute, we leave him.”
Jojo leaned forward, voice at a whisper. “Is this really happening?”
I twisted to face him, and the look in his eyes was so pure, so unfiltered, that it made my throat ache. “Yeah,” I said. “It’s really happening.”
We both looked up as the front door banged and Rawley stormed down the walk, hands shoved in his jacket pockets anda scowl parked on his face. He got in, shut the door with surgical precision, and glared at Macon. “You could have waited.”
“We did,” said Macon. “For a whole sixty seconds.”
Rawley looked at me, at the ring, and at Macon’s hand on my leg. His mouth did a weird, twisty thing, but he just said, “Let’s go.”
Macon peeled out of the driveway like he was responding to a code red.
The ride to town was fast and silent, except for the radio, which played nothing but country ballads and intermittent static. I spent the drive half in a daze, my hand never leaving Macon’s.
The world outside blurred into new-green fields and distant fences, the sky so clear it looked like a stage backdrop. Every minute, Macon would squeeze my hand like he thought I might vanish if he let go.
Jojo hummed along with the radio. Every time I glanced in the rearview, he gave me a thumbs-up.
