Page 55 of Crushes to WHAT

For her sake, and definitely not for the sake of my rapidly galloping heart, I dive into a different topic—one I think a little kid would find grossly fascinating.

“Poem told me she’s serving lime chips and peanut butter at her wedding.”

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Twenty minutes after my ridiculous proclamation—which Poem doesn’t refute, despite it being a load of malarkey—Sterne shows up with two family-size bags of lime potato chips, an industrial tub of beer, and a case of juice boxes. He drops the bags in the center of the picnic tables where we all convened after Wolfe and Dad brought the food over. (Food enough for even Emerson to get plenty and us still have leftovers, I noted happily.)

Instead of finding an empty spot on the bench, Sterne shoves his hands into Amia’s armpits, lifts her in the air as she squeals, then places himself in her spot with her in his lap. She giggles and grins, gap-toothed, up at him.

He ruffles her hair.

“Finally!” Poem proclaims, diving for the chip bags. “Now we can really have a barbecue.”

Everyone’s eyebrows reach for their hairlines, and several soon-to-be victims look at me.

I smile benignly.

When they look away, I turn to my side, pull Emerson’s ear to my mouth, and whisper furiously, “Do not eat the chips and dip. No matter what Poem says.”

He nods, then twists his head until his beard scratches my cheek and his lips graze my earlobe.

My breath catches in my throat.

“Sterne’s here,” he says, nonsensically.

I blink, wondering what stinky Sterne has to do with anything.

“That means the whole family’s here,” Emerson continues. His voice deepens. “That means we’ve officially done all our Meet The Family duties, and there’s nothing standing in our way for tomorrow.”

I begin to understand what stinky Sterne has to do with anything, and I could place a crown atop his ginger head for eliminating this last obstacle.

“And that, my beloved Almond, means it’s time.”

He drags his nose across my cheek when he retreats to wink at me, stand, and hold his hand out to… Sterne?

Amia giggles again when her human seat shifts her bottom to one leg so that he can reach into the pocket of his jeans and produce a pink velvet ring box.

My eyes widen, and my lungs cease. “Oh my gosh,” I mouth as my eyes well.

Poem quickly shoves a peanut-butter-covered chip into her mouth to free up her hands. She claps excitedly, wiggling on the bench beside Fox.

“Oh my gosh,” Mom whispers. “Oh my gosh!”

Sterne hands the box to Emerson, and Emerson steps over the picnic bench to kneel beside it.

I twist, pulling at my skirt when it snags in the weathered wood of the bench.

“Almond,” he starts, rubbing a thumb over the velvet box but not opening it yet. “I love you,” he says. Just like that. Out there. Openly.

I press my hands against my wet cheeks and take in a ragged breath.

“You own this,” he rumbles, covering his heart with his hand. Then he pushes harder—deeper. “And that beneath it. My heart, and my soul, and anything more that I can offer you. My time and my attention. My words and my thoughts. My expertise and my work. Anything you want, and anything you need, and anything I can think to give to you, I’ll gladly hand it over. I’m yours, and you’re mine, and I hope you’ll be okay with me officially fake-breaking up with you so that we can move on to our next trope—happily ever after.”

He flips open the ring box to present a big, sparkly ring. My hand shakes vigorously when I hold it out to him with a watery, vehement, “Yes.”

Once the gold band is over my knuckles, I hold my fingers aloft so that I can get a good look at it. I realize quickly that I’ve already had a good look at this ring, about a thousand times.

“I stalked your Pinterest, too,” Emerson says when I blink at the marquise diamond, surrounded by clusters of smaller marquise and round-cut diamonds. I have this exact ring saved on Pinterest, photographed at every angle, in a folder all its own titled “DREAM RING.”