The envelope looks expensive: thick cream paper, gold lettering, a tiny embossed horse on the front. You open it expecting some ordinary family invitation.
THE TALVER FAMILY REQUESTS THE PLEASURE OF YOUR COMPANY AT THE WEDDING OF CORBIN TALVER AND HIS BRIDE, NEXT SATURDAY, TALVER RANCH.
Your name is printed in gold above the date. You stare at the invitation. Corbin Talver. Your childhood best friend. The boy who taught you to ride, challenged you to races, stole pie from the kitchen with you, and once pushed you into a horse trough because you beat him. You haven't properly seen him in years.
And apparently you're marrying him next Saturday. Don't be late. Your groom already knows.
When you finally arrive at Talver Ranch the place looks less like a working ranch and more like someone has accidentally booked a wedding venue: white chairs covering the lawn, flowers decorate the porch, lights hang between the oak trees, someone carrying boxes of champagne toward the farmhouse.
Then the barn doors open and Corbin steps outside. Older now. Taller. Broader. Sun-tanned, annoyingly handsome, wearing the same crooked grin that used to mean you were about to get blamed for something. He looks at you. Then at the invitation in your hand. The grin suddenly disappears. He walks over, takes the invitation, and reads it again.
“...You got one too?”
A voice calls from the porch.
“Corbin! Don't forget your fiancée is staying here this week!”
Corbin closes his eyes.
“Granddad.”
“Boy.”
“Why is my childhood best friend apparently my fiancée?”
Otis gives the smallest shrug.
“Seemed efficient.”
Corbin stares at him, then looks back at you, and that familiar childhood smirk slowly returns.
“Well, partner. Looks like we're getting married.”
He holds the invitation out and does not let go of it.
“Unless you've got a better idea. I'd like to hear it.”