Page 228 of Rising Heat

“If either of you touches this dress again before we get out the door,” I say, looking at both of them in the mirror, “I will go to dinner alone.”

Tyler’s hand slides slowly up the silk anyway, making Mack smirk.

I swat him away against my better judgment, and we make it out the door.

Barely.

The restaurant sits on a corner in the North End with all the doors thrown open to the summer evening. Warm air moves through the dining room carrying fresh basil, garlic, and the smell of freshly baked bread, making my mouth water.

The original bones of the building are still visible beneath everything newer

dark wood, a marble bar, black-and-white photographs lining the walls. I step inside behind Tyler and stop so abruptly that Mack nearly plows into me.

Coop’s already halfway out of his chair at the far end of the room, grinning so hard he looks physically incapable of sitting still. Marco’s beside him nursing a beer and looking entirely too calm for whatever is clearly happening. Trick lifts one hand from the end of the table.

Then I see Ryan near the bar.

And Bex beside him, wearing the dress she’s been texting me screenshots of since April. She supposedly needed another month before fully moving to Boston, and now she’s looking at me with a smug smile like she knows something I’m only just catching up to.

Story of my life.

My parents are there too, standing two feet away talking to the MacAllisters like this is somehow a completely normal Tuesday night.

My mother keeps rubbing her thumb against the stem of her wineglass. My father shoves both hands into his pockets and gives me a glossy-eyed smile the second he notices me staring at him.

Oh my god.

The first phone call after West Chester lasted almost two hours. My mother barely spoke for half of it. My father asked if they made me happy, and I said yes so fast I surprised myself. After that, there were more calls. Then the weekend me, Mack, and Tyler drove out to Pennsylvania and sat in my parents’ kitchen while my mother asked increasingly direct questions and my father argued football with Tyler for so long they missed half a movie afterward.

“In this house,” my father told them at one point, raising his beer bottle for emphasis, “you are either Steelers fans or you are wrong.”

Mack had agreed without hesitation. Tyler just said, “We’ll work on it,” which my father decided was acceptable diplomacy.

Now my mother’s standing beside Carmela discussing restaurant lighting while my father laughs at something Jim says near the bar.

Everybody’s here.

Station 37, Bex, Ryan, my parents, and theirs.

All of them.

I can already feel myself starting to cry.

“Surprise,” Mack says against my ear.

My eyes go wide.

“What is all of this?”

“We’re getting to that,” Tyler says with a small nod past my shoulder. “Stay right there.”

Mack’s hand slips away from the small of my back as he and Tyler move in front of me together. Around us, the conversation starts fading out one voice at a time until the whole room’s watching, Coop included, which honestly feels historic.

I rub my palms against the sides of my dress, suddenly very aware of what my hands are doing.

Then they’re both dropping down on one knee.

My hands fly to my mouth before I can fully embarrass myself in front of thirty people.