His gaze traveled slowly: windows, wardrobe, bed, lamp, framed photograph turned facedown on my former bedside table.
I had forgotten that one.
He noticed.
“What’s that?”
I stepped around him and picked it up.
The photograph showed us on a dock at sunset, my forehead against his, his hand curled into the collar of my jacket.
I had turned it down because waking beside our happiness seemed unfair when he did not remember it.
“Why was it facedown?” Noah asked.
“I thought you might want to choose whether you saw it.”
He took the frame.
His thumb moved across the glass.
“We look married.”
“We weren’t.”
“Why not?”
The question came so naturally that my chest hurt.
“We talked about it.”
“And?”
“You wanted a small ceremony. I wanted none.”
His eyebrows rose.
“I wanted to marry you, but I didn’t want a ceremony,” I clarified.
“What did we decide?”
“To wait until the yard’s expansion loan was paid.”
“That’s romantic.”
“You designed a budget spreadsheet.”
“Even more romantic.”
He looked at the photograph again.
“Were we engaged?”
“No.”
“Did you ask?”
“Once.”
