“Marry me.”
Celeste turned.
“What?”
He kept driving.
“I said marry me.”
She stared.
“You are proposing on Interstate 70?”
“Apparently.”
“No ring?”
“It’s in the glove box.”
Her mouth fell open.
“You planned this?”
“Not this location.”
“Then why now?”
Owen looked toward sleeping Ellie in the mirror.
Then Celeste.
“Because I kept waiting for the right moment.”
“And then I watched her airplane crash.”
Celeste blinked.
“That inspired marriage?”
“No.”
“It reminded me that waiting until something is guaranteed to work is how you never build anything.”
Celeste covered her mouth.
Half laughing.
Half crying.
Owen continued:
“I don’t want your money.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want you saving us.”
“I know.”
“I want you complaining about my coffee.”
“Coming to school things.”
“Arguing about whether a twelve-hundred-dollar sweater can be called normal clothes.”
“It can.”
“It cannot.”
She laughed through tears.
“I want Christmas dinners where nothing gets foreclosed.”
“That seems reasonable.”
“I want hard things we choose instead of hard things that happen to us.”
His voice softened.
“And I love you.”
Celeste opened the glove box.
The ring sat inside a small cardboard box.
Not luxury packaging.
She looked at him.
“You bought this yourself?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Owen.”
“Celeste.”
She laughed.
Then put the ring on.
“Yes.”
He smiled.
“That was easier than expected.”
“Pull over.”
“What?”
“So I can kiss you without killing all three of us.”
He took the next exit.
They married the following Christmas Eve.
Not because symbolism was subtle.
Because Ellie insisted.
The ceremony took place inside the finished aviation workshop.
Model aircraft hung from the ceiling.
Tool benches lined the walls.
An old aircraft engine sat on a teaching stand.
Hannah’s photograph stood near the entrance.
Not hidden.
Not transformed into a threat.
Part of the family.
Ellie walked Owen down the aisle.
Celeste entered with her mother.
Mara Kim officiated after claiming years of corporate law had already prepared her for disputes.
At the reception, the garage lights remained on.
Snow began outside.
Someone joked that Celeste’s car should break again for tradition.
She threatened to remove them from the guest list retroactively.
Owen looked around.
Mechanics.
Neighbors.
Vale employees.
Families whose businesses had been wrongfully targeted.
Some accepted restitution.
Some sued anyway.
Celeste had invited them regardless.
Ruthless, one magazine called her.
Too apologetic, another said.
Anti-shareholder.
Reformist.
Privileged.
Naive.
Brave.
Vindictive.
Every label existed.
Celeste stopped reading most of them.
At midnight, she and Owen stood alone beside the original workbench.