To be back here in the dark, private tail of the car suddenly feels wrong, so Ben and I each scoot off to our separate sides.

“Boys don’t marry other boys. Only boys and girls get married to each other.”

“Will you marry me?”

My father didn’t think I should be watching them—boys should be outside, playing—but he was rarely home early enough to know the difference, and according to my mother, I was too young to really understand what was going on anyway.

Years from this evening, I won’t actually be sure that this boy sitting beside me is named Ben.

This is our joy—his and mine—to sit turned away from our moms and dads in this place that feels like a secret, as though they are not even in the car with us.