The call comes in around noon. Maybe it’s a sign of some kind—or just a coincidence—that it happens on my three-and-a-half year anniversary.

“Hang on,” I tell Freddie, who’s helping me install a new sink, heavy as hell. We set it down, and I step out while Freddie takes a seat at the new island. He’s grateful for a break.

“Hello?”

“Hey. I got it.”

Instantly, my heart rate spikes. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” The guy coughs, sounding even grosser than the last time I talked to him. “You still want it, right?”

God help me, my palms are actually sweaty, here. “Uh, yeah, yeah—I definitely want it. I can’t get the money to you until five-thirty, though. I’m at work.”

The guy sighs to himself, a breeze across the receiver. “All right, man, but you better have it.”

“Had the first half, didn’t I?”

He sighs again, hanging up with a cough.

* * *

“Do you miss it, ever?”

I look at Hunter, one of the younger kids. He’s sixteen, but small. I know he gets picked on a lot. You can just tell.

“Sometimes,” I admit. I think back to what Frieda said in NA, the night I took Lila. The night I almost lost her.

“The urges get less frequent, the longer you’re clean,” I tell the group. We’re stretched on the grass outside the rec room, enjoying the tail end of spring. It almost feels like summer, if you ignore the breeze occasionally crashing down, a chill that hops clear over the building.

“But when it does hit,” I add, “it can be strong. Like, the temptation is almost no different now than it was when I first got clean.” I pause, watching the kids shift on the lawn, hiding their worry. “But we get stronger, too.”

Beside me, Hunter peels a blade of grass down the middle. He’s newly clean, court-ordered, and always fidgeting. When I look his way, though, he goes still.

“You can’t dwell on how much you miss that life. Mine wasn’t as good as I remember—in my head, it’s all parties and fun, no responsibilities...but that was only the first couple months, at best.”

For just a second, I think of Jess, the last time I ever saw her: slipping the needle out of Donnie’s arm, surrounded by garbage, fragile as a bird.

“After the fun wore off, I had nothing left. Just the drugs. I didn’t even have the high anymore—they just got me to normal. I’d lost basically everything.”

I get quiet. Hunter rips another piece of grass. Kayla, who spends most meetings painting her nails like she isn’t listening, stares at me, waiting for the rest.

“So I do miss it,” I finish, “but not for long, anymore. The good times were just a blip. The rest was...pretty much hell.” I look around the circle at each of them. Nicole picks at some electrical tape on her headphones, hanging around her neck; Eli brushes a spot of dirt off his sneakers, which always look brand-new. Stephanie, four months pregnant and two months clean, rests her hands on her stomach and stares at the back of the building, thoughtful.

“Any more questions?” I ask.

“Yeah, I got one.” Candice, who chews four sticks of peppermint gum at a time, smiles. “You proposing to Lila tonight, or what?”

The group gets rowdy, bouncing and laughing, everyone teasing me at once. I scratch my neck and blush. “Not tonight, no.”

A collective “aw” sounds. “You said as soon as it got warm outside for your little plan thing, you’d ask her.” Nicole gives a smug smile and motions around us. “Warm enough to have group out here, warm enough to propose.”

“Not tonight,” I repeat, smiling but firm, before their agreement can turn into full-on heckling. “I’ve still got to set some stuff up.”

Eli rolls his eyes. Hunter throws some torn-up grass my way.

“All right,” I say, checking my watch. “That’s it for today. Who needs their slip signed?”

Everyone lines up, their hours sheets in hand. I sign each with a rapid-fire squiggle. Most of these kids are in this program because they have to be, judge’s orders, but a few just need to prove attendance to their parents.

“Did I miss anyone?” I call out over the noise, because they’re already packing up and leaving in a rush of backpacks and laughter and cursing. I spot Stephanie, just now getting to her feet. “Need your form signed?”

“I don’t have one. Last week was it.”

I tilt my head. “So you didn’t have to be here today?” I’m impressed: I’ve only been leading this teen addiction group at Dad’s church a couple months, but not once has a kid attended because they wanted to.

“Guess not,” she says, blushing, tugging her shirt down over her stomach. You can hardly tell she’s pregnant, but she’s self-conscious.

“Do you know what you’re having yet?” I fall into step beside her, keeping my steps shorter than usual.

“Not yet. I find out next month.”

“Any names?”

“I kind of like Draven, for a boy.” Stephanie snorts when I make a face. “What, not as cool as ‘Shepherd?’”

My laugh echoes across the field. “Fair enough.”

“The dad,” she continues, “wants me to name it after him, if it’s a boy, and after his mom if it’s a girl. He hasn’t come to a single appointment with me, but he’s got the nerve to tell me what to name it?”

“You still with him? I remember you saying he got a scholarship out of state.”

“Turns out he was lying,” she scoffs, more entertained than angry. “But...yeah, I guess we’re still together. We kind of have to be, don’t we?”

“No,” I say, my voice sharper than I mean it to be. “You don’t.”

Stephanie looks down at her stomach, smoothing her shirt over the bump. “He’s using again. I know he is. I tried to get him to come out here today, just to sit in and see what it’s about?” She shakes her head. “He wouldn’t even listen. It made me think about that girl. The one you told us about.”

“Jess?”

“Yeah. I kind of wonder, like, if he got arrested, like she did? Maybe that would finally get him clean.”

“It might.” Last summer, Jess’s armed robbery warrant caught up with her when Donnie was busted for dealing. As far as I know, they’re both still incarcerated, which means they’re clean. For now. “But it might not,” I add. “If someone isn’t ready to change, getting clean isn’t enough.”

She nods, reciting: “‘Getting clean is Chapter One. Not the whole story.’”

Collin and I came up with that one together. It really seems to help, even if most kids who come through don’t stay clean after their hours are done. Who knows? Maybe it’ll stick with them—something they’ll remember later, right when they need it most.

“So,” she says, while we wait at the curb for her ride, “you aren’t proposing to Lila tonight?”

“No, I’ve got one last thing to set up. And I want to wait until her mom leaves—you know, have it be just us.”

“Are you nervous?”

Until she asked it, I didn’t think I was. “Maybe a little.”

“If it helps, I’m about ninety-nine percent sure she’ll say yes.”

“What’s the other one percent?”

“You waiting too damn long to ask her.”

I burst out laughing again. Stephanie lets her deadpan facade crack, too. By the time her ride shows up, we’ve barely gotten it together, the driver looking at us like we’re insane.

When I’m in my truck, though, I feel the nerves again. I am worried Lila could say no. We’ve talked about marriage, but always in a distant “someday” way.

I slip my hand into my pocket. Past my three-year chip, the loose bolts I carried during work, until my fingers touch the tissue paper. I pull the little packet out and unwrap it.

In the sunset, her locket has a deep rose color to it. I trace my fingers over the initials on the front, KD, and thank God I found it again. It took years, but it was worth it.

And it’s the perfect way to ask her. Looking at this, I don’t feel so nervous, anymore. She still could say no, of course: that’s the risk. But I’ve got to take it.

There’s too much we don’t know about our lives to spend them being afraid. Things we can’t know, until they’ve already happened. The good, the bad; who we’ll meet and when, or why. Who we’ll lose, or who we’ll get back.

Tillie’s gone again.

I knew she would be, but I’m still surprised at the silence that greets me when I get home from work. Her visits, two to three weeks at a time, are filled with music and pots clanging, the house feeling bigger, just to accommodate the noise.

We said goodbye this morning, outside her RV. As always, she cried, which made me tear up while Shepherd teased us.

“I’ll call when I get there,” she promised, and I knew she would: no matter where she went, how long a drive it was, or how hard she had to hunt for a cell phone signal, she made sure to call me the second she arrived at her destination. Last time was New Mexico, where she stayed for over a month and got a healthy bit of sun. This time, it’s Toronto.

“You two could come with me, you know,” she offered. She always did.

We gave our steadfast response of thanks, but no thanks. Freelancing on the road is perfect for her (she only has to do it part-time, thanks to the sale of her house to Shepherd), but we’re both still building our lives here, first.

I’m now General Manager at Hampton’s, a job I never thought I’d get, much less love. Shepherd is a licensed contractor, with the same company that gave him his first real chance. He has a team of his own assistants, all of them former felons. He’s helping one become a contractor himself, this summer.

After Tillie left, I did what I always did: stood on the lawn and watched until I couldn’t see the RV anymore, even through the trees.

“You okay?” Shepherd asked. He handed me my travel mug.

“Yeah,” I sniffed. “It’s just weird, when she leaves. The house feels different.”

He nodded. “True.” I heard a playful smirk come into his voice, and felt his hand slip into my back pocket. This, too, was a bit of a tradition.

“The house is empty,” he reminded me. His breath was so hot against my neck, it made me shiver.

“That is a plus.” I turned in his arms as he eased them around me. “But,” I added sternly, pushing up my sleeve and showing him my watch, “we have to go to work.”

“We could play hooky.” Shepherd kissed the tip of my nose, then let his mouth hover near mine. Our lips were so close I could feel his energy buzzing, little sparks passing back and forth.

“If we did stay home...what would we do?”

He smiled. “Guess we’ll have to find out later.”

“Yeah.” I closed my eyes as he kissed me, my worries about getting to work on time gone, just like that. “Guess so.”

* * *

“Shepherd?” I call. No answer.

I check the garage. His truck is here, the hood already cool.

“Hey, I’m upstairs,” he shouts. I hear water running. “Care to join me?”

“You got the bathtub working again, huh?” I shed my clothes as I climb the stairs and tiptoe down the hall. We’ve been doing renovations ever since I moved in. Tillie’s room is untouched, reserved for her visits, but the rest of the upstairs is in a constant state of transition. Buckets of paint, scrap wood, and carpet samples are just a few of the things I’ve gotten used to stepping over every morning.

Now, though, I notice the hall is clean. Shepherd’s old bedroom—one wall knocked out, so it flows into the other guest room—has been cleaned up, too.

“Wow, it looks great up here! You did all this after work?”

When I push open the bathroom door, my jaw drops. The last time I saw it was only eight hours ago, but somehow, in that short time, he’s transformed the place from a barely-functioning mishmash of hardware and broken tile, to a miniature spa. Everything is new and sparkling, including the tub he’s sitting in, holding a plate of strawberries.

“I had some help,” he admits. “Remember that big bathroom reno I told you I had today?”

I shake my head, grinning with a mix of disbelief and “should have known” that only Shepherd brings out in me. I peel off the last of my clothes and sink into the water, twisting my ponytail into a bun. “It looks amazing.”

“You deserve it,” he says, already running his hands along my legs under the water’s surface. “At least one room in this place should work right.”

“This is incredible.” He feeds me a strawberry. We laugh when half falls into the bubbles. “And very romantic. What’s the occasion?”

I swear, I see him blush. He leans over to kiss me just as I finish the strawberry, so I don’t know for sure.

“Just ’cause I love you,” he says, and brushes his mouth down to my neck. The bubbles are so thick, I can’t see where his hands—or anything else—are going, until they’re already there: the feather-light touch of his fingertips on my breasts, the caress of his other hand against my inner thigh. When his erection touches my knee, barely a graze, I reach out and wrap my fingers around him.

“You love me? Hmm...I think I just like you as a friend.” I start to move my wrist, silent and slow under the water. “Hope you understand.”

He gives a breathless laugh and lets his eyes slide shut. “That’s a shame. I think we’re pretty cute together.”

My back arches out of the water when he pushes two fingers into me. The wetness adds a strange friction, everything rougher than usual. Instead of hurting, it feels even better.

“I can’t begin to tell you,” he says, his voice low, “how excited I was for this.” Flexing his fingers faster, Shepherd uses his free hand to pull mine off him. “You first.”

“I’m always first. It makes me feel selfish.”

“Oh, no,” he assures me, “I’m the selfish one. It’s my favorite thing to watch.”

The rough swirl of his fingers beckons a storm inside me. My eyes close and I see the colors he paints for me, every time.

Something clicks on under the water. I look down and see him holding a detachable shower head, built into the tub beside the faucet.

“A shower head in a tub?”

“What? It’s practical.” He lifts it from the water and shows me. “I can rinse off my work boots, it makes cleaning the tub easier…” We watch it disappear under the surface again. “…and I can do this.”

The jets make contact with my sex, ultra-sensitive in the hot water already.

“Whoa,” I breathe, unable to say anything else as he guides me against him. He sits back into a chaise-shaped groove of the tub and has me straddle him. Not once do his fingers, or the shower head, stop.

“Shepherd,” I warn him, my voice just a wisp, lost in the steam rising around us.

“Go ahead,” he smiles. I can hardly keep my eyes open, but I make myself stare at his, half-closed, as though he’s in a daze just from watching me.

My moan echoes against the pristine tile. The pleasure hits like a bomb, shuddering through my core, sending vibrations through every part of me.

Distantly, through the fog of my orgasm, I’m aware that Shepherd has taken his fingers out. He puts the shower head into my hand, then puts both of his on my hips.

“Tell me when it’s winding down,” he says. I feel his thumbs slide back and forth on my skin, gentle and easy.

“O-okay,” I stammer, when I’m finally able, “I think it’s—”

Before I can finish my sentence, Shepherd lifts me onto him. He fills me without hesitation, immediately setting the rhythm, hands cradling my hips.

“Oh, my God,” I whimper. I fall against him. The shower head is trapped between us. The water rocks around us, tiny waves lapping at our skin, as an even bigger wave builds inside me all over again.

I wrap my arms around his neck and put my mouth by his ear, knowing the noises spilling out will drive him crazy.

“Lila,” he whispers, “baby, I’m gonna….”

The strain in his voice is what sets me off the most. I lift my head and kiss him, running my hand along his jaw, as we finish together.

After all this time, it’s still just like that first night. Easy, like being with a friend—but intense, too, the kind of high that leaves you stranded. Just the two of you, lost inside it.

The water’s lukewarm, bubbles fizzled away, when we summon the strength to get out. Shepherd hands me a fluffy white towel, then nods to the new bathrobes on the back of the door.

“This is like a hotel!” I put mine on and shake out my hair. “Seriously, I can’t believe you did this. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He puts his robe on, then wraps his arms around my waist from behind. “Like I said, you deserve it.”

I turn in his arms, just like this morning, and kiss him. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” He glances at the window, thumbing his lips. “But there’s one more surprise.”

“What?” I look around.

“Not in here,” he says. “It’s out back.”

“Should I get dressed?”

He gives me the once-over, then winks. “Nah. It’s our backyard. We can wear whatever we want.”

The air’s a little chilly as we venture out in our robes and slippers, but warm enough. I smile when I see the table and two chairs, sprinkled with rose petals, a bottle of sparkling cider on ice.

He pulls my seat out for me and pours us each a glass. “To us,” he says. We clink them together and sip.

“So what’s in here?” I pull the lid off the serving tray. It’s a pyramid of chocolate, all my favorites. “This,” I say, marveling at his attention to detail, “is an awesome surprise.”

“Oh, that’s not the surprise.” He sets down his cider and reaches under the table again, producing a small rectangular box. My brow furrows as he slides it to me.

“Did I forget an anniversary, or something?”

“Just open it.”

I wiggle the bottom out of the lid. When I move the tissue paper and see what it is, tears hit my eyes, instant.

Inside is my locket. The real one, with KD engraved on the outside. As if by instinct, I touch the replica around my neck, like I have to make sure they aren’t one in the same.

“How did you get this?”

“Basically,” he says, sipping his cider again, “I had to harass the pawnshop owner with a million calls, bribe him for info with a little money…and offer him a hugely discounted kitchen reno. No big deal.”

I shake my head and laugh in disbelief. After two years without a word, I’d assumed the locket was gone forever. By all accounts, it should be. But miracles happen. “Do you know who had it?”

“No,” he says, “but I think they left something inside.”

“Did they?” I raise my eyebrow. “Or did you?”

“Would it kill you to humor me, for once?”

“Fine, fine.” I pry my nail into the side and open it. The scrap of paper inside is tiny, but I can still read what he’s written:

“Shepherd?” I whisper. I look up and notice tears in his eyes when the sun flashes from behind the tree line, branches swept back in the wind. He pulls the ring box from his bathrobe.

“Lila,” he smiles, the words shaking just a little, “will you marry me?”

I’m looking at him, not the ring, when I cover my mouth, laughing and crying all at once, and nod.

* * *

“You ask a lot of questions. You know that?”

Aunt Betty smiles and snaps her handkerchief at me before dabbing her eyes again. “I only asked because I was an absolute wreck on my wedding day.”

“No,” I answer firmly. “I’m not nervous.”

“Not even a little?”

“Oh, my God,” I mutter, turning away. Bluntness aside, I’m glad Aunt Betty is here: Shepherd and I chose a date just a month from our engagement, opting for little more than some nice clothes, a justice of the peace, our families, and a potluck reception. Some kids from his teen group are here, too. I can hear them out in Betty’s garden, cracking jokes. Collin strums “Pachelbel’s Canon” on a guitar. Everyone’s waiting.

“Okay,” I blurt, sucking in a breath, “I’m a little nervous.”

Betty smiles to herself as she completes the final touch. It’s a blue heart, sewn into the inner hem of my dress, made of three sections: a patch of denim from Dad’s jeans, a piece from Mom’s favorite sweater, and a sliver of the hospital blanket Tillie kept in her dresser drawer, all these years.

I don’t have anything from Jimmy, my birth father. My latest lead, a James Chester whose profile picture seemed promising, was a bust. It makes me sad to see these three pieces and know there could have been four, but I don’t linger on it. If and when I’m meant to find him, I will.

“This was a lovely way to honor your parents,” Betty sniffs, running her fingers along the stitching she’s just finished. “I wish your father were here to walk you down the aisle, though.”

“Me, too. But I’ve got Uncle Wayne. It’s okay.”

“Here.” She helps me put in the pearl earrings I’m borrowing from her, also my Something Old: she wore them on her wedding day. I count the locket as my Something New. After all, it’s new to me.

My stomach feels a little queasy as I stride to the mirror in the corner of the den. I close my eyes before I approach, then open them quick, like ripping off a bandage.

“You look beautiful,” a voice says, before I can even react to my own reflection. I see Tillie step up behind me, an entire box of tissues in her arm.

I squeeze her hand as she puts it on my shoulder. “Thank you.” I turn around and look at her, then Aunt Betty. “I’m glad you’re both here. It means a lot.”

“Oh, we wouldn’t miss this for anything,” Tillie says. Betty nods. They reach for more tissues.

“She says she’s not nervous,” Betty whispers to her, and they roll their eyes.

“I admitted I was a little nervous,” I protest. I hear Collin start another song, something I don’t know. “And it’s not real nerves. It’s more like, I can’t believe this is really happening, so I’m not sure how to feel.” I look at myself again, just a glance. Even with the big white dress, I feel more like a kid playing dress-up than a bride.

“No matter how many times I tell myself, ‘You’re getting married,’” I add, “it still feels like a dream or something. Like my brain just...can’t accept it.”

“I’ve never been a bride,” Tillie says, pulling my veil down over my face as Uncle Wayne knocks twice, the signal that everything is about to begin, “but I imagine that’s normal.” She kisses my cheek lightly, minding my makeup, and steps back to grab another handful of tissues from her supply. “Maybe this is just one of those things you can’t make yourself accept, until it’s in the moment.”

“Maybe,” I offer, doubtful.

I think she’s onto something, though. Because when the music pauses and starts again, and the French doors of the kitchen open, I find myself blind to the runner of flower petals at my feet, or the small crowd around us, all eyes on me, packets of tissues crinkling as I take that first step.

All I see is Shepherd, waiting for me. He’s about to be your husband, I think.

And suddenly, right in this moment, I believe it.