Eugene stepped neatly aside, and Brent stumbled past him, grabbing at empty air. My grandfather is eighty-four, but he spent forty years running a cattle ranch, and he still moves like it. He held the document up so everyone on the patio could see the county seal. It was our marriage license, signed only an hour earlier by Brent, me, the officiant, and my grandfather as our witness.

“The officiant asked me to drop this at the county clerk’s office Monday morning,” Grandpa said evenly. “Until then, it’s just paper.” Brent’s face went white. His friends stopped laughing entirely. Grandpa walked to the edge of the pool, where I was still clinging to the side, and knelt down slowly. He held the license out to me. “Sweetheart,” he said, “you decide whether this ever gets filed.”