He looked gorgeous.
He looked like every bad decision I had ever been lucky enough to make.
“We are in Vegas on Halloween,” I said. “At this point, not doing it would be rude. Besides, we both hate our parents. So… eloping makes more sense.”
Drew grinned. “That’s my wife.”
“Not yet.”
“Technicality.”
“You’re very confident for a man who cried when I showed him the chapel confirmation.”
His mouth opened.
I lifted one finger. “Don’t lie. I saw moisture.”
“I had allergies.”
“To commitment?”
“To your face. It overwhelms me.”
I laughed and looked out the window.
Vegas rolled past in a blur of neon, fake castles, fake pyramids, giant screens, drunk brides, superheroes, demons, showgirls, and one man dressed as a taco arguing with Elvis outside a casino.
Who else went to Vegas and got married on Halloween?
Us.
Obviously us.
Because after Colorado, we tried to be reasonable.
For about five minutes.
We went back to school. We survived spring. Drew chose his senior season instead of declaring late-round because he said if he was going to go, he wanted to go on his terms, not Richard’s timeline. I got back on the field in controlled minutes and cried in the locker room after my first scrimmage because healing was ugly and beautiful and humiliating and mine.
We fought.
We made up.
We learned how to tell the truth before it became a weapon. I mad my own money through NIL deals, sports tape and workout gear promotions.
I still wore the bracelet he gave me every day.
Drew wore the ring.
The Calloways and Montgomerys had opinions.
Jace had a group chat.
The internet had theories, mostly because Jace’s family Ring camera had captured in HD my snowstorm almost-proposal from three separate angles and he had absolutely no respect for privacy, romance, or emotional copyright.
And Drew and I had each other.
Messy.
