“That we're taking things slow.” I watched his profile, the way his jaw worked. “Why? You have a different answer?”
“Maybe.”
My heart did a stupid little flip. “Maybe?”
“Ask me again in six months.”
“Cal Sterling, are you planning something?”
“I'm planning on not having this conversation in a truck.” He pulled into the high school parking lot, which was already packed with cars and trucks. Friday night lights in full effect—the field blazing bright, the marching band warming up, the smell of popcorn and hot dogs drifting from the concession stands.
Walt's truck was three spots over. Barbara waved from the passenger window, already wrapped in a blanket.
Cal parked and turned to me, his expression suddenly serious. “But for the record? When I do ask, it won't be because Mrs. Clarke thinks we should. It'll be because I can't imagine doing life without you.”
My throat went tight. “Cal?—”
“And I'll probably mess it up somehow. Pudding will eat the ring, or one of your goats will headbutt me mid-proposal.”
“That's weirdly specific.”
“I've thought about it.” His ears went red. “A lot.”
“You'vethoughtabout proposing to me?”
“Daily.” He cleared his throat, looking anywhere but at me. “So. Nachos?”
I laughed, the sound shaky. “You can't just drop that bomb and pivot to food.”
“Watch me.” He opened his door, then paused. “Extra jalapeños, right?”
“You're impossible.”
“You love it.”
“I loveyou.” I leaned across the console, kissing him softly.
“Good.” He kissed me back. “Because you're stuck with me now.”
We climbed out, meeting Walt and Barbara at the front of Cal's truck. Walt was already adjusting the blanket around Barbara's shoulders, fussing over her like she might catch cold from the October breeze.
“You two coming?” Walt called.
“Need to hit concessions first,” Cal said. “Rosie needs her jalapeño fix.”
“We'll save you seats,” Barbara said, linking her arm through Walt's.
I watched them head toward the bleachers, Walt matching his pace to Barbara's slower gait. “I need to find Emily and Abby. They texted earlier that they'd be here.”
“I'll meet you there.” Cal pressed a quick kiss to my temple. “See you in a bit.”
I weaved through the crowd, catching snippets of conversation—who was starting at quarterback, whether the weather would hold, predictions about the final score. Mrs. Clarke waved from the ticket booth, her dog Pixie tucked under one arm. Frank stood near the entrance with a group of semi-retired folks, all wearing Falcons’ gear.
“Rosie!” Emily's voice cut through the noise. She stood halfway up the bleachers, waving both arms. “Up here!”
I climbed the bleachers, squeezing past families and groups of teenagers. Emily had claimed prime real estate—center section, five rows up, perfect view of the field.
“Finally.” Emily scooted over, making room. “Thought you got lost.”