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Mrs. Winslow’s brows draw together as she lifts her coffee mug and looks out the window above the kitchen sink. The cold November day stares back at her. The snow we got two days ago has completely melted away now, leaving little more than a clump here and there in some gutters, but no one could argue that winter is approaching. “I’m afraid that your mother’s desperate, December,” Mrs. Winslow murmurs. “She feels like you’ve been stolen from her. This—” She taps the wedding invite. “—is not going to go over well. No matter what you do.”

Weight settles in the pit of my chest. “What should I do then? I don’t want them to think I’m just doing this out of rebellion. I don’t want them to see it as a childish tantrum. I just—” I gulp air into tight lungs. “I just…”

Wynnter’s mother’s eyes soften, and there’s a distinct edge of him in the expression when she says, “You just want to marry the man you love.”

Holding back tears, I bite my tongue and nod.

Mrs. Winslow smiles. “I think coming to us shows your maturity, honey. I think, perhaps, your parents’ doubts mixed with the fact you did run away from home to be with someone like Wynn, who ticks all the bad boy boxes is fogging your self-perception. Are you marrying our son out of spite? Or to prove a point? Is this fueled by rebellion?”

Flushing, I fidget while my mind slips over the past two nights, which I’ve spent in Wynn’s arms. Yesterday, the way he held my gaze as he took off his shirt and murmured, Time for bed, baby? has had me in a chokehold.

Wynnter is a wonderful man. Patient, respectful, and…yet…

My fingers travel to my neck and the bite marks I know are presently hidden beneath my capelet, because the story last night involved werewolves and claims.

…he’s anything but the gentleman a good, smart girl might gravitate toward.

He is exactly what I want. But he is nothing like what I’ve been taught to consider a wise choice in a life partner.

This’d sooner be hormonal desperation than rebellion, because I can pretty well promise that whenever Wynnter’s near me like he was last night, spiting my parents is the furthest thing from my mind.

Arming myself with the frightful truth, I say, “I love him, and I fear my self-control won’t last more than a few weeks. I’ve wanted him for years. Now that he’s so close, yet so far, yet so imminent, I’m not sure how much longer I’ll hold on before wondering why waiting for an official commitment matters—even though that’s what he wants. He’s stronger than I am, in a lot of ways, but I am positive that despite his very, very good grasp on his own restraint, I could get him to break. Easily. If I really wanted to. And, trust me…I really want to.”

Mrs. Winslow laughs. “Yes, I’m sure it’d take very little to convince him of anything if you’re serious about wanting something. He’s been in love with you for as long as I can remember. After so long for the both of you, I understand why waiting to make it official, especially when you’re only waiting in an effort to appease people who have struggled to respect you your entire life, seems like a waste of time.”

Mr. Winslow muses, “I remember his first trip to Florida for Biketober. It was a few months after you transferred into the freshman class at our kids’ school. He told us he had senioritis and just needed a few days to not be anywhere near education, so we let him head to Daytona Beach. We didn’t know what he was actually running from until later.” The man shakes his head and sighs. “Honestly, that boy…”

“Ahh, yes. I remember that. He called us in tears.” Mrs. Winslow smiles into her mug of coffee.

“What happened?” I whisper.

Mr. Winslow explains, “He befriended a girl. She invited him back to her room. She got a bit too comfortable, and he blurted that he was already in love with someone else. That was the moment he realized it wasn’t gonna go away. When he called us, he told us he knew what the girl wanted from the start. He knew the whole way to her room. He was planning to go through with it. He knew it was stupid and a mistake and could lead to a number of other big problems, but he said he wanted proof that it could be anyone; he said he needed proof that he wasn’t head-over-heels in love with something impossible. Instead, he got proof that it couldn’t be just anyone and he was too far gone to let impossible stop him. He’s not even tried to look at another girl since, and when he came back from his trip early, he got to work.” Mr. Winslow meets his wife’s eyes. “I asked him about it once. Why he was suddenly throwing himself into a business at the end of his hardest year of high school. He said he needed the funds and the skills to build you a castle if that’s what you wanted.”

My heart trips.

“Wynn is genuine, December,” Mrs. Winslow says. “He’s faithful and loyal, and he will treat you well. He’ll give you the world if you ask for it.”

Frail breath fills me. “I know.”

Reaching across the table, Mr. Winslow touches my shoulder. “You’re not marrying that boy because you’re trying to be disrespectful to your parents. You’re marrying him because you know you’ve found a man worth marrying and it’s about—” He swears. “—time.”

Tears fill my eyes as Mrs. Winslow murmurs, “It’s hard for us to tell you how we’d respond if our half-estranged child sent us a wedding invitation like this, because we’ve been blessed with kids we can trust to call us after they almost make a mistake. We’ve been blessed, by some miracle, to have been given the strength to raise kids even when we don’t know whether or not they’ll be safe out there in the big, open world. It takes a lot of strength to let our babies go like that. Not everyone has that amount of peace. We can’t tell you it’ll go over well, and we can’t even tell you what to do so it’ll go over the best it can. All we can tell you is that we don’t think you’re acting out. Your parents may not share that opinion, but so long as you know the truth, we’re happy to support this decision, and we will hope that they might see it for what it is—an invitation for them to continue to be a part of your life, even though it’s scary.”

Throat closing, I whisper, “Thank you.”

She nods. “Now…is there anything else we need to help you plan?”

Teary, I laugh. “As a matter of fact…there is.”

So we spend the rest of the morning and the afternoon coordinating what needs to be done for my Christmas wedding.

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“Nervous?” Wynnter rumbles, standing beside me as we head up the steps to my parents’ front door.

Heart in my throat, I do everything I possibly can to pretend I am not, in fact, nervous. After the conversation I was able to have with his parents this morning, I decided that mailing mine an invitation would come off colder than I’d like it to.

So. Here I am. Being scared and strong and recognizing that what Mr. and Mrs. Winslow said is true. It’s hard to raise a child. It’s hard to do it right. It’s a blessing to have kids who you can trust to make intelligent choices, even if they aren’t the ones you would make.