So I danced with the boy who showed up when no one made him, in his borrowed suit, and I told him the truth.
“You didn’t take his place tonight, Ollie,” I said. “You made your own.”
That was two years ago.
I’m in college now, building the life Logan told me to build.
He’s still in, still keeping his promises one at a time, and his grandmother’s ring is still on my hand, waiting for the day we’re both ready.
Denise calls me her daughter already.
And Ollie — fifteen now, finally grown into a suit — tells the story to anyone who’ll listen, about the night he took his brother’s place at prom and stared down a bully and gave away the bride before she was even a bride.
He still has the jump wings.
He keeps them in a little box on his desk, right next to a photo of the three of us on that dance floor.
