In the weeks that followed, the romance between Mark and me deepened in quiet, private ways. We took to stealing weekday mornings—an hour at the old hardware store, a walk through the shaded part of the park, a kiss behind a row of tomato plants. The world hummed louder at the edges as wedding plans moved forward: dress fittings, a caterer who promised to make the best lemon tart, a small list of people from town who’d been invited for the sake of community.
One night, after the rehearsal and after the diner had been swept and the leftover lasagna boxed for some poor soul who needed dinner, Mark and I walked home under a sky slashed by distant lightning. He stopped on the bridge over the creek, where the water moved like silver thread, and took my face in his hands.
“You doing okay?” he
