“About Mary, yes. About the dress, no.”
By the time we reached the auditorium, I could barely breathe.
People noticed Aaron immediately.
Students stared.
A few laughed.
One mother looked at him, whispered something to the woman beside her, and both turned toward us.
Aaron stood with his graduating class as if none of it bothered him.
But I knew him too well.
His shoulders were stiff.
His jaw was clenched.
He heard everything.
I wanted to take him home.
I wanted to stand between him and every phone pointed in his direction.
Instead, I sat in the third row because he had asked me to.
“Whatever happens,” he had said before joining his class, “stay where I can see you.”
So I stayed.
Name after name was called.
The whispering intensified whenever Aaron appeared in someone’s camera.
Then the principal finally announced him.
My heart seemed to stop.
Aaron walked across the stage.
The laughter followed him.
He accepted his diploma.
Then he turned.
But instead of moving toward his classmates or the photographers near the side of the stage, Aaron walked down the steps.
And started up the center aisle.
Toward me.
The room became louder.
Someone laughed again.
A girl nearby whispered,
“Is he seriously doing this?”
Aaron kept walking.
When he reached the third row, he stopped directly in front of me.
For the first time that day, his composure cracked.
His eyes filled with tears.
“This is FOR YOU,” he said quietly.
Then he swallowed.
“Both of them.”
My breath caught.
