The table was set with all my favorites. Chris came out of the kitchen in an apron and set a plate of sliced steak in front of me. I speared a piece and bit in—delicious, nothing like a first attempt.
"When did you learn to cook?"
Chris sat down across from me. "Those years you were with that guy."
My fork paused; my eyes stung for a second.
The two of us sat there face to face while the night deepened outside and the far-off neon came on, one sign at a time.
That evening, my mom called. "Anna, tomorrow's Monday—you two go get the license. The ceremony's done, what does it look like with no license? Strike while the iron's hot, don't drag it out."
I didn't quite catch the rest of what she said; I was too busy watching Chris smile at me from across the table.
"You're enjoying this."
