She insisted on glittery eyeshadow “like the big girls.” I did my best and tried not to poke her in the eye.
“You look beautiful,” I told her.
“I know,” she said, checking herself in the mirror like a tiny Beyoncé.
We drove to the school.
The parking lot was filling up.
Dads in ties, shirts tucked in. Little girls in tulle and taffeta, clutching bouquets, twirling in the cold air.
My stomach twisted.
I’d been preparing myself all week for the possibility that only three bikers would actually show.
That Robert’s big promise would melt under real-life logistics.
At six-oh-five, I heard it.
A low rumble.
Engines.
Except… not what you’re thinking.
No roaring Harleys.
Just car engines.
A line of sedans, pickup trucks, and one minivan pulled into the lot, headlights cutting through the dusk.
The doors opened.
Fifty-three men stepped out.
Every one of them in a suit.
Some fit like they’d been tailored. Some were clearly borrowed—shoulders too wide or sleeves too short. One guy still had the plastic tag from the sleeve dangling near his wrist.
But they were trying. Hard.
And every single one was carrying a corsage.
The crowd went very still.