Page 640 of End Game

Oh.

Right.

Griffin did this.

After our one-month anniversary—or montheversary, as I called it while mercilessly making fun of him—he put a recurring reminder in our shared calendar.

I forgot about it.

Apparently nine-month anniversaries are not culturally significant.

I look at him.

He's crouched beside the wall now, holding the level against a shelf bracket while Ronan informs him he is off by approximately one-sixteenth of an inch.

Nine months.

Not even a year ago, I moved into this house because my life had come apart and I needed somewhere to land.

Not long after, Griffin offered to marry me because health insurance in America is a dystopian fucking nightmare.

We signed paperwork.

I made jokes.

He panicked quietly.

Everyone else panicked less quietly.

And now… I look around the room.

Dex has stopped arguing long enough to replay a section of music for Micah.

Micah listens with the concentration he gives everything he cares about.

Ronan takes the level from Griffin because apparently this shelf has become a matter of personal honor.

Griffin notices me watching and smiles. “What?”

I hold up my phone. “Happy nine months of health insurance.”

His face softens immediately. “Oh.”

Dex's head snaps around. “IS IT YOUR INSURANCEVERSARY?”

“No,” Griffin says.

“Yes,” I say.

Dex slaps the table. “We need cake.”

“We do not need cake,” Micah says.

“We absolutely need cake.”

Austin speaks through the laptop. “I don't know what's happening, but congratulations.”

“Thank you,” I tell him.