The last couple of days had been wonderful. It was as if Lydia and I had called a truce. Every time she asked me a question about the wedding, I answered honestly. Sometimes, she didn’t look very happy with my response, and then she’d start defending her ideas more passionately, but other times, I could see the way an idea lit up her entire face, knowing I had chosen well. It was a great feeling, one that made my chest expand and filled me with a deep sense of pride.
I had been surprised when she told me that the main course would be roast beef, simply because it had been the dish I’d claimed as my favorite on our first night together. She had remembered. Slowly, I started to recognize it: I was beginning to care. It was the small things, like ensuring the sugar and cream were placed clos
