Three months after I buried my fiancé, I pushed myself to work at another wedding. Then I noticed his mother trying to slip away from me, and nothing about her reaction made sense.
Adrian and I were meant to marry that summer.
By spring, nearly every detail had already been arranged. The venue was booked. I had picked out my dress.
We debated cake flavors and laughed at ourselves for taking the argument so seriously.
He wanted chocolate.
I wanted lemon.
“We’re seriously fighting over cake now?” Adrian asked one night, staring at me across our kitchen table.
“We’re not fighting,” I said. “I’m explaining why you’re wrong.”
He laughed so hard he nearly spilled his coffee.
Those were the memories my mind kept returning to afterward.
Not the elaborate plans. Not the flowers or the guest list.
I remembered his laughter, the way he rested against the kitchen counter, and how completely certain I had been that we still had years together.
Then, six weeks before our wedding, Adrian was killed in a car accident.
There had been no warning. No last conversation. No opportunity to say anything that mattered.
