Grandpa Eugene stepped neatly aside, and Brent stumbled past him, grabbing nothing but air. My grandfather was eighty-four, but after forty years running a cattle ranch, his reflexes were still sharper than anyone expected. He raised a document so everyone gathered around the patio could see the county seal. It was our marriage license, signed barely an hour earlier by Brent, me, the officiant, and Grandpa as our witness.

“The officiant asked me to deliver this to the county clerk Monday morning,” Grandpa said calmly. Brent’s friends suddenly stopped laughing. His face turned white. Grandpa walked toward the swimming pool, where I was still clinging to the edge in my soaked wedding gown, and slowly knelt beside me. He held the marriage license toward me. “Sweetheart,” he said, “you decide whether this ever gets filed.” Brent immediately dropped to his knees on the wet tile and began begging. Then one of his friends lowered his phone and revealed why Brent had pushed me into the pool.

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