How to Say I Do

by Tal Bauer

my eyes peeled on the two figures discussing matters beneath the melted-butter glow of our porch light.

sweetheart. They’ve been together since they were fifteen, and you’ve never seen two people more in love than

I'd won the “Most Talkative” paper-plate award, always presented to me by an exasperated teacher before summer break. Even today, I could talk a gate off its hinges and keep up with Jason and all his little-kid babble.

Texan men come in two shapes and sizes: big and bulky, like me, or rangy and gangly, all knees and elbows, like Liam. I was built like a bull. Liam was built like a frog that stood up.

I was in love. Heartbreakingly and profoundly in love. I loved him, I did, even in such a short time.

Wyatt and I walked hand in hand through the breeze-tossed vines. We cooked together—he was teaching me how to boil pasta—and

Connie brought us hush puppies and sweet tea with enough sugar to slap you across the face.

Liam was long-limbed and loose, like all of his joints had more joints and he was made up of Slinkies.