If only Marcus knew the truth about me.

I’ve almost told him so many times because I tell him everything. Just not that. Yet.

Maybe tonight.

People stream past me, carrying blankets and pillows, lawn chairs and wine bottles. I scan the faces of the couples holding hands and laughing as they disappear down the grassy hill toward the movie screen. Two guys in glow-in-the-dark footie pajamas dart through the crowd holding hands as a group of old ladies flutters past in Audrey Hepburn hats, robes, and slippers. Marcus texted saying he was on his way and my nerves are swirling in gusts of excitement and a bit of adrenaline, sparky and jittery.

I scan the park and spot him coming down the steps in straight-leg jeans rolled at the ankle, a black hoodie, backwards baseball cap, and his gray Adidas. I swallow and clench my fists at my side, digging my nails into my palm because it’s Marcus Miller and he’s here with me.

When he sees me, his smile bursts in the dim backdrop and he jogs toward me where I stand by the Mexican Liberty Bell. All thoughts of dimming that smile with my reality flutter into the cloudy sky.

“Hey.” He bends and wraps his arms around me, picking me off my feet. Which is perfect since he makes my legs wobbly every time I see him. I wrap my arms around his neck and breathe in spearmint, his cheek warm against mine.