Marlowe
Nova cornered me in the garage exactly one week later, considerably more serious than her usual persistent enthusiasm about wedding logistics typically allowed, and I understood immediately whatever she'd come to say carried genuine weight this time.
"The venue coordinator called," she said. "The one for the outdoor pavilion setup you liked, for the reception overflow. She needs a confirmed date within the next five days, or she's giving the slot to someone else."
My stomach dropped, understanding the pressure had just shifted from gentle, well-meaning nudging into something considerably more concrete. "Five days."
"Five days." Nova studied my face carefully, her usual teasing energy replaced by genuine concern. "Finch, I love you, and I've tried to give you space with this. Bu
