Veronica took our empty containers and crammed them into the small trash can beside the door.

I picked up my wallet and phone.

“You’re leaving?” she asked.

Weston answered for me, “She has a hair appointment with Julianne. I wouldn’t let her cancel.”

“Of course not,” Veronica said. “I raised you.”

I chuckled and started for the door, but Weston tapped his cheek. I rushed over to give him a peck, but he turned and kissed me square on the mouth, gently holding my wrist so that I lingered there for a while.

For the second time that morning, my cheeks burned with embarrassment. My eyes didn’t meet Veronica’s when I walked out.

As I turned the corner, Veronica scolded her son, “You didn’t ask her, did you?”

I paused and then pressed my back against the wall just outside the door. It was quiet for several seconds, and then I had to strain to hear Weston’s answer.

“I’ve already asked her, Mom.”

“Is it official?”

“Yes, we’re going to prom.”

“And?”

“I don’t know. Don’t ask me about Erin, Mom. It’s weird.” After a short pause, he continued, “I heard you, by the way.”

“The teddy bear story? Sorry. I couldn’t help myself.”

“And the other one.”

“About you claiming her as your future bride?”

Veronica mumbled something else.

Then, Weston spoke again, “It’s okay. I’m glad she knows.”

“So, you did. You meant Easter.”

“That’s not her name anymore, Mom, but yes, I meant her.”

I heard the bed crumple.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, son.”

“Stop,” Weston warned.

“I just don’t want either of you getting hurt,” she said sincerely.

“I’m just going to hold on until she’s gone, Mom. That’s all I can do.”

Veronica didn’t respond, so I walked toward the elevator, trying not to trip over his words on the way.

Chapter Two

“I LIKE IT,” Weston said, twisting the lid off my Fanta Orange bottle.

The familiar sounds of fizz and cars passing beneath us made my entire body relax. Sitting on a denim quilt in the bed of Weston’s red Chevy pickup, sipping on a cold pop, and feeling the sides of the gritty bed liner scratching against my shoulder blades were comforting. It was much better than joining everyone else at the parking lot of the baseball field.

“It feels really short,” I said, running my fingers over the wavy ends of my chestnut tresses. The stylist had cut off over nine inches of my hair, but it still fell a bit past my shoulders.

“It’s shinier and bouncier, and it looks darker.”

“All good things,” I said.

I pressed the gritty liner into my skin as if it would help me to remember the details more. Happiness didn’t feel happier than this, and even if the rest of my life was storybook perfect, I knew I would want to remember every second of our nights on the overpass.

Lightning bugs were buzzing over the top of the newly emerging wheat in the fields bordering both sides of the bridge. Even in the twilight, the fields looked like miles of plush green grass. The mosquitoes were hovering, but we just waved them away, choosing the unusually hot spring air instead of the mosquito-free cab of the truck.

“You’re wearing the necklace.”

“I took it by Gose Jewelers after my appointment. You were still waiting to be discharged.”

“That took forever,” he grumbled.

“At least you’re better. You’re better, right?”

“Right as rain,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. He leaned forward, his palms flat on the quilt, and his nose gently moved my head to the side while he simultaneously tasted my neck.

“Salty,” he whispered after his tongue had teased my skin.

“Not as good as ice cream,” I said with a smile.

“Actually, I think it’s better.” His lips traveled to my ear but moved on too quickly to my cheek, and then the gentleness went away, and he ravaged my mouth.

Never before had we made better use of his truck, grabbing at buttons and zippers and yanking fabric up and then down. The moment Weston’s breathing became a bit labored, I froze.

“What?” he asked, hovering above me.

“You’re wheezing.”

“I have my inhaler.” He chuckled. “I’m fine, I swear.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better anymore.”

Weston’s muscles relaxed, and he caressed my cheek with his forehead. “Would it make you feel better if we went slow? Or do you want to stop?”

“Maybe we should give you at least forty-eight hours after your near-death experience?”

His head fell past my bare shoulder, his forehead touching the bed of the truck. “What if I promise I’m okay?”

“How do you know? Did you know you were going to have an attack at the game?”

He didn’t lift his head. “I ignored it.”

“Are you ignoring it now?”

“No. I don’t know. No.”

“We should wait.”

Weston took in a slow deep breath, and then he let it out even slower. He nodded. “Whatever you say, baby. This is your show.” He sat up and handed me my bra with a forced grin.

“Don’t be mad.”

He laughed. “I’m not mad, Erin. Swear. I’m just in my prime, and I’ve been looking forward to this for a while. Weeks. Long, long weeks,” he said more to himself than to me. He handed me my shirt and then slipped his over his head.

I frowned as he covered up the perfect contours of his torso.

“What?” he said, freezing when he noticed my expression.

I shrugged. “You should leave your shirt off all the time. I’ve got to find an excuse. Maybe I’ll burn all your shirts.”

“I don’t appreciate being objectified,” he said, lifting his chin. “I’m a person!”

“You’re my person.”

“Damn right,” he said, scooping me into his arms. “Now what?” he asked just inches from my face.

I wanted to beg him to finish what we’d started, but I could tell he was tired, and he likely needed rest.