We sat on the dock at the marina, right next to an old bait shack that would one day become The Gull’s Nest. The sun went down orange and red and purple behind the pines. And Mark turned to me with his heart in his eyes and said, “I’m going to marry you, you know.”
“You’ve known me eight days.”
“I know,” he said. “I’m going to marry you anyway.”
He did. Fourteen months later. We had a small wedding in my parents’ backyard and drove straight up to Loon Lake for our honeymoon. Four nights at the Lakeview Inn. Room 12, with the window that looked out over the water.
I thought about all of it.
The tiny apartment over the laundromat where we started out. The day Sophie was born, and Mark holding her in the hospital chair, crying so hard the nurse brought him tissues. The year his company almost went under and we ate spaghetti four nights a week. The broken finger. The night he put his ring in my hand and said, I’m sorry, Lee. I just can’t.
