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I add a few things to the list. “Buy a gun and learn to use it,” I tell him.

“That’s better,” Zach says.

“Be careful.” I take the list from him, filch his lighter from his coat pocket, borrow his bathrobe, pad to the kitchen on my bare feet and burn the paper in the sink. “Don’t mention this to anyone,” I insist.

“I know. Thank you. I feel a little better.”

“It’s going to be a wild ride.”

“Okay.”

The sun is barely up. It’s a cloudy, dreary day. We dress in silence, let ourselves out. There’s no one in sight, the streets are empty. There’s a faint rumble of traffic, but no birdsong. We walk across the park, holding hands, into the mourning city, into the relentless future.

No Place Like Home

Saturday, August 2, 2025 (Alba is 23, Zach is 24)

Alba: Zach and I are married on a warm, hazy summer day at the beginning of the conflict. His family isn’t coming to our wedding; Zach hasn’t told them he’s getting married. Also, he hasn’t mentioned to them that he’s dating anyone. Or that I exist.

A few weeks before the wedding I asked him, “Do you think you’ll ever contact your family again? Not that I think you should, but maybe if you’re going to, now would be the time?”

“I let them know I’m alive every now and then. Anything more than that would just encourage them.”

“Okay.” I am fine with this; it makes life easier for me. But Zach seemed to feel that he needed to explain.

“I mean, I’m not ashamed of you. Quite the opposite. I’ve screwed this up. Here’s how it went: I couldn’t figure out if I should introduce you to my mother or my dad first—whoever met you first would lord it over the other one. Then there was another wave of Covid, and no one could travel, so that put off having to think about it. And as you know, my dad and his new wife are on the other side, and we couldn’t be in the same room without wanting to kill each other. And my mom gets sad when anyone gets married because she’s divorced. I didn’t want to tell Suellen and RaeAnn because then they’d have to keep it secret. I wish they could come, though. I just can’t figure out how we’d get them up here from Tulsa safely, so I gave up on that idea. Anyway. I mean, my parents don’t even know I changed my name. Or anything that I’ve done since my sophomore year of college.”

“Zach, it’s totally fine,” I said. He looked worried, and I was sorry that I mentioned it. Zach is a champion worrier. I just worry that I’ll give him something more to worry about.

We are getting married at The Hideout, our favorite place to hear music. It’s a former boardinghouse/speakeasy/unmarked bar in an industrial corridor of semidefunct factories, next to a parking lot for snowplows and police cars. It’s funky and tiny, with the ambiance of a 1950s rec room. My dad was enough of a regular that the owners kept a stash of clothes for him behind the bar, and now they do the same for me.

Caralora has gotten herself ordained online, and Gomez is bringing a friend of his who’s a judge to sign the paperwork. Zach bought a new suit, dove-gray linen, and a white shirt and pale yellow tie. I let my mother and Beck take me shopping; the end result was a shimmery, green-gray-blue dress that reminds me of shadows in water.

We arrive at The Hideout early and chat with the owners as the caterers unload trays of food onto tables on the patio. We are all wearing masks because the pandemic is surging again. The cake has been delivered, The Fat Babies load in their instruments and begin to tune up, and soon our friends and family arrive: Mama and Beck; Charisse and Gomez; Rosa, Max and Joe; Caralora and her date, Miriam; Celia and Lucinda; friends of ours from some of the mutual aid groups Zach works with; David and Nancy Kendrick, with their son, Colin. How I miss Nadia today, and Nick, too. I wish Kimy and my grandfather could be here. Most of all, I wish my dad was here.

Last night I was in bed, unable to sleep, and it occurred to me: What if Dad shows up at the wedding? I know it’s wishful thinking, but it’s impossible to unthink it.

Everyone is here, everything is ready. The musicians are on the small stage. Caralora and Zach stand in the center of the dance floor, surrounded by Mama and all our friends. I am in the next room with Beck and Gomez, near the bar. It’s strange to be here in daylight. The music begins: “A Kiss to Build a Dream On.” The short distance from bar to dance floor suddenly seems impossible. Beck takes my left arm, Gomez my right; I let them propel me forward. When we come to the door to the dance hall, they let me go first. In a few steps, I am at Zach’s side.

I look up at him, and he holds my gaze. My Zach. This moment stamps itself on me: here we are, together, perfect. I feel unworthy, grateful, eager. Zach looks confident, and I know we are choosing wisely.

Caralora takes us through our vows: to have and to hold, come what may; to love each other in good times and bad; to be kind to each other; to comfort, protect and shelter each other. Zach slides a wedding band onto my finger, then I slip his ring onto his finger. He will wear his; mine will be kept in a drawer, since I’d lose it the first time I time traveled. Caralora pronounces us married, and everyone embraces us. Mama cries and gives Zach a kiss on his cheek that leaves a coral lipstick print. There aren’t very many of us, but we make a lot of noise. The band launches into “You’re the Cream in My Coffee,” and we go outside to eat on the patio.

All afternoon, as I listen to speeches, cut the cake, dance, throw my bouquet and garter, and dance some more, I wait. I watch Mama; we don’t say anything about it, but I sense that she is waiting, too. But the afternoon passes, the band packs up, our guests kiss us goodbye and filter out, Mama settles up with the caterers, the bar owners, the band, tips everyone; finally it’s time for us to go home. We load the presents and some leftover cake into Zach’s car, a Jetta that is charmless but inconspicuous. We drive north on Ashland, in the golden hour, under enormous trees. I put Pet Sounds on the car stereo, and Zach rolls down the windows, and we sing along to “Wouldn’t It Be Nice,” and I think, It was a beautiful day, and I wanted him there, but it was too much to expect. Zach reaches over and clasps my hand, briefly, and continues driving. He looks content. That’s why I love you, I think. I can’t put it into words. Zach isn’t shadowed by regret, the way I am. He meets his demons head-on, cheerfully. What if I put grief aside? Maybe I could just be in the moment, instead of always living ahead and behind. I could be here, and now.

Wouldn’t it be nice?

Zach: We closed on the house last week; it was a wedding present from Clare and Beck. Beatrice, the previous owner, had died in her bed, at the age of ninety-six. Her family took what they wanted and gave us a discount on the house if we would accept it as is. We spent the week cleaning, sorting, hauling things to the alley, to the thrift shop, putting names on boxes of stuff to give to various friends in need. Beatrice is becoming real to us as we sift through her life. We can’t imagine what is missing—what did her family take? They left us photo albums, several old family Bibles, children’s toys from the ’60s and ’70s, recipes, handmade quilts, a few small paintings. All her furniture seems to be here. It’s as though Beatrice vaporized, and we appeared.

Luckily, Alba and I don’t own much. We have no furniture, no pots and pans, nothing to move to this house except our books and our clothes. Yesterday, I walked by the living room and saw Alba standing in a trapezoidal band of sunlight, her eyes closed, arms outstretched, her violin in one hand, bow in the other. I thought she might play something, but she just turned to me with a smile. For the first time, Alba seemed to belong in the house; it’s ours, but now we belong to it, too.

Our wedding today was sweet, an outpouring of kindness; a new family, to almost take the place of the one I can’t be part of anymore. Alba held my hand almost continuously, as though she were using me as ballast. She kept glancing at the back door, behind the stage, and at first I couldn’t figure out why, since everyone we’d invited was there. Then I understood, and I hoped he would show up, for her sake. Maybe it was for the best that he didn’t.

We arrive at our house as the sun is setting. Alba gets out of the car and starts to gather packages from the back seat, as though we’ve been out shopping, not getting married. I say, “Never mind that for a minute. C’mere.” I unlock the front door, open it, pick Alba up and step over the threshold. Alba is startled. “Why’d you do that?”

“For good luck. Thresholds are always perilous, in stories. There’s a superstition that the new bride’s feet shouldn’t touch the threshold, for fear of demons getting in.”

“Into the home, or the bride?”