I smirk, and soon after, the kettle whistles. Diane pours tea into our cups and offers sugar cubes. Her mom looks between us and laughs. “When are you two getting married?” “Please,” Autumn whispers. “We’re trying each other on. That’s it. Don’t rush us.” “I predict we’ll be married within a year,” I say, and Autumn’s cheeks heat. “If you allow it, of course.”
WTF
