“You signed it, ‘Love forever, Your (probably) future wife,’” Jamie said, zooming in on the screen. “You also wrote that it was a binding contract and even if he tossed his yearbook off a pier, you’d always have proof.” I held out my hands. “Yes, to answer your question, I have always been excessively dramatic.” “You know that sort of thing isn’t binding unless a witch blessed the bargain,” Jamie said. I laughed. “I didn’t know that, but he agreed to the deal.” I reached for my phone and swiped to the next photo, the one Ryan had texted to me all those years ago as his proof. It simply read,
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