He gapes at me. “Because you’re going to be with one person for the rest of your life, and that for the rest of your life decisions are going to be based on what’s best for not just you but for you and her. You can’t just do whatever you want anymore.”

“Have I ever really been with anyone else though?” I ask. “I mean relationship-wise.”

He shrugs. “No, I guess not, but still. It’s such a huge responsibility and there seems like there should be a little panic involved, even if it’s for a minute.”

“Not really,” I say. “At least if it’s the right person.”

He takes in my words with a perplexed look as he stares at the ground. Finally he shakes his head and then looks up. “And what happens if Ella tells you that she doesn’t want you going on that Slam Tour or whatever.”

“Then I won’t go,” I say. I told Ethan the other day, while we were cleaning up the house the morning after the party about my dilemma, because I needed to get it off my chest.

“You’d just give up your dream?” he asks.

I nod. “Yeah, pretty much.”

“And what happens, like, five years down the road when you look back and regret it?”

I kick the tip of my boot at the snow. “Why are you pushing this so hard? I mean, I know you’re not a fan of Ella, but it’s like you’re trying to talk me out of marrying her, which will never happen.”

He abruptly halts near the edge of the curb and I slip on the ice as I slam to a stop beside him. My hands go out to my sides and I quickly regain my balance.

“I’m not telling you not to marry her,” he says with a frown. “I’m just telling you that since you’re going to marry her, you need to talk to her about the tour and make the decision together whether or not you’re going to go. Otherwise you’re going to get married in a few days without talking about something major and that could lead to problems.”

“You’re so weird, sometimes,” I tell him, pulling my hood over my head. “You give relationship advice all the time, yet I’ve never seen you in a relationship except for with Lila, but somehow your advice makes sense.”

He shrugs, staring at the single-story brick home across the street that is covered in flashing red and green lights. “I watched my parents do the wrong things for years and years, so I know what doesn’t work,” he says as we cross the street. “Now, whether or not my advice is the right way to go, I really have no idea.”

I hop up onto the curb, stuffing my hands back into my jacket pockets. “I’ll talk to her tomorrow.”