The excitement around a wedding was contagious. Everyone wanting to know the details. Plenty of congratulations, slaps on the back, and unwarranted advice. While I was basking in the happiness of it all, my future wife was looking more wilted by the day.

“What is it, Yara?” I asked. “Do you not want to do this?”

She looked shocked by my question. “No, no,” she assured me. “I’m just not this person…who plans a wedding, you know?”

I did know and I liked that about her.

“I’ll make all of the arrangements,” I promised, kissing her on the forehead. “It will be small. Tiny. Just close friends and a handful of my family. Is there anyone you want to invite from back home?” She was shaking her head before I’d finished the question.

“I was a bridesmaid once, right out of uni—I mean college,” she said. “A girl I’d gone to high school with, pretty and popular back then. Her name was Angie. She was out of my league in high school, and I was out of hers when I moved to London. I didn’t realize we were friends until she asked me to wear a high-waisted mint dress and hold a handful of wildflowers.”

“You’d never hung out?” I asked.

“No. And I was about to turn her down. I felt awkward about being her bridesmaid when we weren’t even real friends, and then she told me that she’d always admired me, and while the rest of them cared about stupid things I did my own thing. Truly, I think her real friends had all moved away and abandoned her in a way. They saw her early marriage as something that could be viral. Anyway, I did it. I was her bridesmaid. I remember feeling panic for her as she walked down the aisle, even though she didn’t feel it for herself. How did she know everything would be okay, that he would take care of her, that she’d remain herself? I know now that she didn’t, that love was a leap of faith, and that love was just a word until someone gave it a definition.”

I nodded slowly, not wanting her to stop speaking. It was so rare that she shared things from her past like this.

“I don’t know if John, the man she married, fulfilled her in the way she was hoping, if he was a good husband and father. We never spoke again after her wedding. But sometimes I have these sharp moments of realization that this is my wedding, and that I am to be married. I think of Angie and wonder how much I can trust all of this.”

I couldn’t relate, though I did my best to understand her. I came from married people, hard and unwavering Catholic dedication to family. It was what you did, and it was what I’d always wanted.

“Do you worry that I’ll disappoint you in some way?” I asked.

She smiled. “No, I’m worried that I’ll disappoint you in some way,” she answered. “That I won’t be enough.”

I pulled her into my arms and held her so tight. “Impossible, Yara,” I said. “You don’t have to be enough for me or anyone. I love you as you are. I don’t want you to ever feel pressured to be something for me. That takes the ease out of real love.”

She’d looked at me hard, like I’d said something outrageous.

“That isn’t the deal we made, is it?” she asked.

“Deal? What deal?” The ferry docked and I shifted my car into drive to follow the line of cars off the boat.

“The one where I date you to inspire you,” she said quietly. “Be your muse.”

I’d forgotten about it. How long ago had that been? How much had happened since then?”

I looked over at her and she was staring out the window, her fist pressed to her mouth.

“Yara, I never was part of that deal,” I said. I reached out and squeezed her knee. “I only played along to get you. If you recall, I was talking marriage before I knew your name.”

“Oh, I recall,” she said.

I was worried. I didn’t like when she locked me out. I decided to change the subject, away from weddings, and my family, and her anxiety over both.

“We should go away for a few days,” I said. “Go somewhere to relax and just be together.”

Her hand dropped back to her lap and she turned to look at me.

“Really?” she said. “Where?”

“Somewhere where it’s just you and me.”

She nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

We were walking through the front door of our condo when my phone buzzed in my pocket. A text. I didn’t recognize the number.

Hey, hope you don’t mind—Brick gave me your number. It’s Petra.

I glanced up at Yara, who was walking toward the bathroom. Yara didn’t like Petra, she’d made that abundantly clear. Despite my better judgment I typed: Hey! That’s cool. What’s up?

The bubble appeared to let me know she was typing, but then I heard the bathroom door open and I jammed my phone into my back pocket.

I don’t know why I did it. Why I didn’t tell Yara right then and there that Petra had texted me. A stupid choice.

“What’s wrong?” Yara asked when she saw my face.

“Nothing,” I said. “I’m just tired.”

She nodded like she understood, and it occurred to me what a long day it had been for her. I walked up behind her and rubbed her shoulders as she stood in her favorite spot staring out of the window that overlooked Elliott Bay.

“Take your clothes off and get into bed,” I said. “I’ll give you a massage.”

“With your tongue or hands?” she asked.

“Both.”

She raised her eyebrows at me and then walked toward the bedroom.

Before I followed her I pulled out my phone. Petra hadn’t sent a follow up text after all. She must have changed her mind about whatever she was going to say. I deleted her text and put my phone on the charger before following Yara into the bedroom.