One day before the wedding, my fiancé laid a neat stack of documents on my kitchen table and said, ‘Add my name to your apartment, or there won’t be a wedding.’ For a second, I thought it had to be some awful, badly timed joke. Then I looked at his face and understood he had not spent the past few months preparing to become my husband. He had been preparing a move. So I let him believe I was willing to listen, smiled just enough to keep him comfortable, and waited for the moment when every plan he had hidden would finally come into the light.

Or at least I thought I did. I loved my spreadsheet tabs and fabric swatches and tastings and the little stack of save-the-dates on the counter. I loved how future-oriented everything felt.

We were choosing a future together. That’s how I understood it. Three months before the wedding, on a Thursday evening in early March, we were sitting on the couch after dinner.

It had snowed that afternoon, the wet slushy kind that turns New York sidewalks into filthy gray soup. We had kicked our shoes off at the door. My laptop was open on my knees while I compared catering options, because even after two tastings I still couldn’t commit between salmon and roast chicken.

Mark had his arm around me, lazy and warm. “You know,” he said, kissing the top of my head, “I’ve been thinking about something.”

“Oh yeah?” I said, still scrolling. “If this is about cousin Tim refusing to wear a tie, I’m done discussing that man.”

He laughed.

“No. Not Tim. Something more permanent.

More us.”