Laura Miller: For All You Have Left

“You ready to get married?”

I force my eyes to his.

“More than ready,” I say.

He stands up and holds out his hand. I rest mine — the one with the little diamond on my ring finger and the big blue jewel on my thumb — in his. He helps me to my feet, and we start off toward his bike in the driveway. But we only get a few yards before I hear his soft voice again.

“You tell your parents?”

I feel my lips instinctively push to one side as I shake my head.

He doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t ask why. He already knows why.

“You?” I ask.

“Nah.”

I slowly nod my head. I already knew his answer too. And it’s not that I didn’t want to tell my parents. I did. I really did. And it’s not that they don’t love Andrew because they do. And it’s not even that I don’t think they would understand because they will. My mom and my dad got married when they were eighteen too. And they were nineteen when they had Hannah. My mom was a freshman in college, but after she had Hannah, she never went back to school. I think that everyone might have that one what if in their life, and I think a college degree is my mom’s. And I know she wants that for Hannah and me. I know she wants us to become teachers or doctors or something like that. And I wish I could tell her that I can still do something like that — get some degree that will make both of my parents happy— and be married to Andrew and have them believe me, but I know they’ve got good reason not to. That’s why I didn’t tell them though. And I’d ask Andrew why he didn’t tell his parents, but I already know the why to that too. He was afraid they’d tell mine.

“You still want to do this?” His voice is timid and almost broken.

I immediately stop walking and narrow in on his face. He’s looking at me through hooded eyes now. And even though I can’t tell if he looks more nervous or sad, I just want to comfort him.

“Andrew, I love you so much. I just can’t wait another day. And plus, I imagined myself probably a million times in the last few days standing with you in front of that judge in this dress on this exact day. It already feels so real; I can’t even imagine not actually living it.”

I make sure to look deep into his soft, brown eyes. “I want to spend forever with you, Andrew.”

A moment passes between us in silence before I instinctively squeeze his hand.

“Wait, you’re not having second thoughts, are you?” I ask.

Andrew looks down at the ground and then back up at me. There’s a second where I think I might have stopped breathing, but then I spot a soft, sexy grin returning to his face.

“You’re kidding, right?” he asks. “If it weren’t for parents and high school and a dumb, unspoken rule that says you have to be a certain age to marry the girl you’ve loved since you were a kid, I would have already married you, Logan. You know that.”

I let go of a thankful breath as I rest my head on his arm and start walking again. I do — know that.

“I just don’t want you to have any regrets, that’s all,” he adds, kissing my forehead.

I lift my eyes to his again because I know what he’s not saying. He doesn’t have to say that he worries I’ll regret not telling my parents. And he doesn’t have to tell me that he worries how I would feel if they disowned me or us if we go through with this today. He doesn’t have to say any of it because I can read it all on his face.

“Andrew, my parents love you. And they know how much I love you. And they’ll still love us both after today too. I know that.”

I stop walking and rest a hand on either side of his face. “And I’m marrying you today no matter what. Nothing else matters. Nothing else means more to me. I promise you that anything that I could ever regret about today will never mean more to me than you.”

I lower my hands and shrug my shoulders.

“So, the way I see it, the worse thing that comes out of today is having to decide who gets to drive the Hoveround when we’re eighty.”

Andrew holds a long, fixed look on me. I can tell he wants to smile, but he’s not quite sure yet.

“You know I get to drive it, right?” he asks.

“Who says?”

“The mailbox you drove my bike into last weekend.”

“I scuffed it,” I correct him. “I scuffed the mailbox, and there wasn’t even a scratch on the bike. And if you wouldn’t have been distracting me with all that gears and clutch mumbo jumbo, I would have had it all under control.”

There’s a second where he’s glaring at me with his mischievous boy-grin, then in the next second, he scoops me into his arms, and I feel a high-pitched squeal push past my lips.

“Babe, all that gears and clutch mumbo jumbo was what you needed to actually drive the bike,” he says, laughing softly into my ear.

I flash him a confident glance. “Well, maybe you should have been telling me more about the brakes mumbo jumbo, sweetie.”

He slowly nods his head. “Touché,” he says, before planting a wet kiss on my lips. And soon, a grin returns to his face. “Well, babe, you look as sexy as hell behind the handlebars of my bike.” He sets me down onto the part of the leather behind the driver’s seat and swings his leg over the bike. “But you look even sexier behind me behind the bars.”

There’s a smirk on my face now; I can feel it.

“Sexier and a whole lot safer, you mean?”

“Exactly,” he says, handing me the pink helmet he bought for me the day he got his motorcycle license almost a year ago. “Sexier and a whole lot safer,” he confirms.

I squeeze the helmet on over my thick hair, and then he hands me a backpack, and I throw that on too. And after he kicks up the kickstand and starts the bike, he twists around and catches my gaze.

“Now, let’s go get married,” he says.

“Give me your hand.”

He looks at me for a moment and smiles, then holds out his left hand.

I position my hand on top of his and snap a photo of the new rings resting at the bottom of our ring fingers.

“Are you happy, Logan?” he asks me after I lower the camera from my face.

I look up at him.

“It’s just another day with you — the best day of my life,” I say.

He searches my eyes for a moment, then kisses the top of my forehead and presses his lips hard against mine. And when our kiss breaks, he smiles at me. And it’s not just any smile. It’s his smile — that one that holds a lifetime of promises that I know he won’t break, that one that says: I’ll never leave you. I’ll never let you go. I’m here forever. I love you. I love that smile.

“You ready?” he asks.

I nod my head, and he lifts me up and sets me onto the little backseat. Then, he swings his leg over the bike and straddles it, while I make sure my sundress is positioned just right.

“You know they’re going to kill us,” I whisper into his ear, as I hand him the camera.

He’s quiet for a moment — but only for a moment.

“Babe, if I die tomorrow, I die a happy man — with your ring on my finger.”

He reaches back and squeezes my leg.

“Your helmet, Wife.” He hands me the pink helmet.

“Thank you, Husband.”

I take the helmet and squeeze it over my head.

“Husband,” I say again, just to feel it on my tongue.

I hear the click of the helmet’s strap under my chin and watch as Andrew slides the marriage license and the camera inside the backpack and zips it closed.

“Guard this with your life,” he says, angling back toward me.

I force my arms through the bag until it’s resting on my back.

“Oh, and I put my sweatshirt in there too just in case you get cold on the way back,” he says. “Let me know if we need to stop, so you can put it on.”