Marlowe
Nova's bridal magazines sat scattered across my garage bay's workbench, untouched for three days straight, and I found myself staring at the same open page again — a photograph of some stranger's wedding, all soft light and easy smiles — without actually absorbing a single detail of it.
I should have been excited. I *was* excited, somewhere underneath whatever strange, heavy static had settled into my chest every time I actually tried to focus on planning specifics. Venue logistics. Guest lists. The particular, permanent weight of choosing a single day to mark the rest of my life.
King found me there, elbow propped on the bench, chin in hand, staring at nothing useful at all.
"You've been sitting like that for a while," he observed, settling onto the stool across from me.
"Hav
