I said, “I’m going to marry you.”
He said, “I know.”
We stayedin bed until 8:15 a.m. Then we stayed for another thirty minutes because he did not want to let me go and I did not want to be let go. We were in a state of constant touching, constantly reconnecting, constantly remembering what the other person felt like. When we finally got up, it was 8:47 a.m.and we were running late but neither of us cared because being late was worth it.
I showered while he made breakfast—toast and scrambled eggs and bacon from his tiny refrigerator. The bacon popped and sizzled in the pan and I could hear him from the shower, the sound of him cooking for me making my chest tight. We ate standing at his kitchen counter with coffee and the morning light making everything golden. The kitchen was small and warm and full of the smell of butter and coffee and bacon grease. The windows were steamed from the shower and the cooking. It felt like the beginning of our life. It felt like the beginning of everything.
He said, “Ready?”
I said, “For what?”
He said, “To walk down Birch Street. With me. Where everyone can see us.”
I said, “Are you nervous?”
He said, “No.Are you?”
I said, “No.”
I was lying. I was terrified. I was about to walk down the main street of Frostbite Falls with the man I loved, wearing his ring, and every single person in this town was going to stop and stare and whisper and celebrate and judge and love us and we were going to have to let them do all of it.
We walked out of his apartment and down the outside staircase together. The morning air was cold and clean. The snow had mostly melted but the grass was still frozen, still white with frost at the edges.
He took my hand.
His hand was warm and his grip was confident. I could feel his heartbeat through our joined hands—steady, certain, not afraid. He did not flinch when we turned the corner onto Birch Street and the first person looked up from their car and gasped—actually gasped, like it was a physical reaction to seeing what he was claiming—when they saw the ring.
We walked.
We did not stop for anyone. We did not explain anything. We just walked down Birch Street holding hands like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like we had been doing this for years instead of for just this morning.
By the time we got to the diner, three people had already texted Mira with the news, and Mira was standing behind the counter with her hands on her hips like she was about to commit a murder, and she said, “You are lucky I love you both or I would kill you. But I don’t, so instead I’m going to make the most beautiful wedding this town has ever seen and you’re going to let me.”
I said, “Okay.”
Knox said, “Thank you.”
I sat down at my counter and started my day—pulling espresso shots, calling out orders, taking care of the people who came in with coffee and pie and all their stories. And Knox sat in the booth nearest the door, drinking his black coffee, eating his pie, and every person who came in saw him watching me like I was the only important thing that had ever happened to him. Like I was the reason he had stayed in this town.
The whole town was watching. The whole town was celebrating. The whole town was bearing witness to the fact that I had been chosen by a man who could have chosen anyone.
I did not care.
FIVE DAYS LATER
The thing I noticed first was that the coffee was wrong.
It had been wrong for two mornings now. I would pull the shot the way I always pulled it, watch the crema bloom the way italways bloomed, hand the cup to Knox the way I always handed it to Knox, and then I would lift the cup to my own mouth and the smell would arrive in my brain like a slap. Burnt. Sour. Like the espresso machine had been making coffee out of metal instead of beans.
I had cleaned the machine twice. I had run vinegar through the lines on Tuesday. I had recalibrated the grinder Wednesday. The coffee did not get better.
Knox said his coffee tasted exactly the same.
That was when I started counting.
Mira was on a hike with her sister and her phone was off, which was the only thing that kept me from telling her at 6:14 a.m. on a Friday morning when I sat on the back step of the diner with a cup of espresso in my hand and the cold March wind on my face and I counted the days the way Knox would have counted the days—precise, in order, with the math working backward from the present moment to the last time I had bled.
Forty-six days.
