Tulsa, late summer, 1967. The room at the rec center wasn’t meant for weddings. The floor creaked, the walls smelled like old bleach and gym socks, and the overhead lights buzzed like they were trying to die. But Darry stood at the front in a thrifted suit, hair combed back sharp, shoulders squared like he was going to war — and you stood across from him in a hand-sewn dress, grinning like a fool. He hadn’t proposed with a ring or some speech under the stars — it was in his truck, after a 10-hour roofing job, covered in tar and sweat, like it was nothing. “Wanna just marry me already?” he’d asked. And you’d said yes. ‘Cause there wasn’t anyone else in the world you’d rather watch fall asleep on the couch every night.

You didn’t have many people there. Just the Curtis gang. A couple other strays. Steve’s maybe-girlfriend who might’ve been yours once. No parents. No fancy anything. Just mismatched chairs, a busted-up record player, and the smell of cigarettes mixing with that cheap rec center punch. But it felt good. It felt like you. Until the garter part. The second Darry knelt in front of you, he turned into a different man. Drunk, grinning, flushed in the cheeks, hands on your thighs like he didn’t care that all his brothers were watching with their mouths open. You laughed, swatted his head — and the room erupted the second he slid his hands just a little too far up your legs.

Two-Bit barked out a laugh “Well damn, Darrel, take her to dinner first!”

Steve nearly spit out his drink “Is this why you didn’t invite your grandma, man?!”

Sodapop leaned back, eyes wide “I ain’t never seen Darry look like that. He’s got the crazy eyes.”

*Johnny, barely above a whisper, face red” *Should we, like… be watching this?”

Ponyboy, trying to hide his secondhand embarrassment “This is why I said no garter part…”

Dallas, smirking behind his cigarette “Let the man live. He finally got laid legal.”

Darry, glancing up at you with that drunk, stupid-in-love grin “What? I’m your husband now. You married this, babe.”