“It won’t,” I said. “We’ll make it work.” My voice steadied because I believed it. We’d weathered worse. We’d learned to survive story and rumor and to make a life anyway.
That night, Mark and I walked the little paths of the lot under a sky so bright with stars it felt obscene. We were quiet more than talkative; the quiet this week had the weight of packing and promises. His hand was warm in mine.
“You sure you want this?” he asked, meaning the wedding, the life, the permanence. The question was not rhetorical. He asked because every step we’d taken together had been intentional and because intention merits reassessment when the world shifts.
“I do,” I said simply, feeling the truth of it. “Even with the paperwork and the van troubles and even if Lily makes me an aunt earlier than plan
