chocolate cake.”
Our teacher smiled.
“Excellent choice.”
“And no slow songs.”
“Why not?”
“They’re boring.”
A boy across the table laughed.
“You’re not getting married.”
Noah looked at him.
“Yes, I am.”
“To who?”
“I don’t know yet.”
The boy smirked.
“Nobody’s going to marry you.”
I still remember the exact moment Noah stopped smiling.
He looked down at his hands.
Something hot rose in my chest.
“That’s mean, Roger.”
The boy turned toward me.
“What?”
“Somebody will love Noah.”
“Then you marry him.”
Several kids giggled.
Our teacher immediately shut it down.
But Noah had already heard enough.
After class, he found me near the cubbies.
“Chrissy?”
“What?”
“Would you love me?”
I remember thinking very seriously about the question.
“Maybe.”
His face brightened.
“Really?”
That was when I realized I had accidentally entered what felt like a legally binding agreement.
So I added the only thing my six-year-old
