“And just look at where that love has led us. We have four wonderful sons and three wonderful daughters-in-law.” I inwardly cringe at this mathematical proof that I don’t measure up. The youngest Lawson boy, still a disappointment. “Five grandchildren, with another on the way, and more friends than we can count.”

Dad’s voice cracks, and he pauses. My mom steps in to take the mic, and I marvel at the way they instinctively know what the other one needs. My chest tightens with the longing I try so hard to ignore—to have what they have. To know like they know.

“What my Jimmy is trying to say is that we love you all like crazy. Thank you for being on this ride with us. Now let’s get back to dancing. DJ, hit it!”

The DJ starts playing “This Magic Moment.” Mom throws her arms around Dad’s shoulders, and they kiss as they sway to the beat. Other couples join in, and soon the dance floor is filled.

As wonderful as the moment is, it feels like too much. I lean down to Josie and whisper in her ear, “What do you say we get out of here?”

17

Josie

None of this is going as planned.

I had it all mapped out in my mind: we’d make polite conversation in the car, head to the anniversary party—where I’d hang out in the background and maybe share an obligatory dance with Ryan while keeping a sizable distance between us—then call it a night and go to bed early.

I never planned on his entire family being so excited to meet “Ryan’s new girlfriend” that I wouldn’t have the heart to explain that we’re not even friends. I never planned on them being so welcoming I forgot to be nervous, or dancing with his sisters-in-law and nieces and laughing myself silly.

And I certainly never planned on Ryan Lawson in a suit.

All night, I’ve been staring at him. His shoulders, how they seem even broader; the strain of his shirt buttons across his chest when he moves; the crisp white collar and the tie knotted just below his Adam’s apple.

I meant to come here and tilt him off his axis, not the other way around.

I also never imagined this: walking down to the beach with him, holding my shoes in one hand while he carries a bottle of champagne and two plastic cups he swiped from the bar. The salty air nips at my bare arms; the sand is cool on my feet as we sit on a patch of dry sand.

Off in the distance, a few fireworks explode. I’m right at the earliest stages of tipsy—warm and relaxed, soft around the edges. The ocean breeze washes over me, crisp and a little smoky.