For the first time since I’d known him, Victor had no immediate response.
I gently closed the jewelry box.
Then I placed it back into his hands.
“You should go.”
His voice dropped.
“When reality catches up with you, don’t expect me to still be waiting.”
“I never asked you to.”
I opened the apartment door.
He hesitated for only a second before walking past me.
Just before leaving, he looked over his shoulder.
“You’ll regret homemade cider when everyone else is drinking champagne.”
I smiled.
“I don’t even like champagne.”
The door clicked shut.
I leaned against it, listening to his footsteps disappear down the hallway.
Instead of feeling uncertain…
I felt lighter than I had in months.
Three weeks later, I married Ethan.
There were no crystal chandeliers.
No luxury hotel.
No orchestra dressed in black tuxedos.
Instead, the ceremony took place beneath towering oak trees overlooking fields that had belonged to Ethan’s family for generations.
The reception was held inside the old red barn where he’d spent half his childhood helping his grandfather stack hay.
Neighbors arrived carrying casseroles, fresh bread, roasted vegetables, homemade pies, and enough potato salad to feed an army.
Everyone argued cheerfully over whose recipe tasted best.
Children chased each other between hay bales while dogs wandered happily through the crowd hoping someone would drop food.
Someone hung strings of warm white lights across the wooden beams overhead.
As evening settled over the farm, the entire barn glowed with soft golden light.
It wasn’t perfect.
It was better.
Se sentía vivo.
Nuestra tarta de boda no la hizo una pastelera famosa.
Había sido horneado con cariño por Eleanor, la mujer que había sido la amiga más cercana de la abuela de Ethan, Rose, durante casi cincuenta años.
"Le prometí a Rose que algún día le hornearía la tarta de bodas", susurró Eleanor mientras se secaba las lágrimas.
"Solo desearía que hubiera vivido lo suficiente para verla hoy."
Ethan apretó mi mano.
"Sé que estaría aquí si pudiera."
En lugar de champán, todos criaron tarros de cristal llenos de sidra casera prensada del huerto detrás de la granja.
Alguien gritó un brindis.
Las risas resonaban por el granero.
Por primera vez en años, no me preocupaba decir lo correcto ni impresionar a las personas adecuadas.
Simplemente existía.
Y eso fue suficiente.
Aun así...
Algo en Ethan se sentía diferente.
No distante.
No infeliz.
Solo...
Distraído.
Sonrió.
Se rió.
Bailó.
Sin embargo, cada pocos minutos le pillaba mirándome con una expresión que no terminaba de entender.
No era miedo.
No era duda.
Parecía casi anticipación.
Durante nuestro primer baile, apoyé la cabeza en su hombro.
"Eres muy callado."
Se rió suavemente.
"Siempre he sido callado."
"No así."
Dudó.
"No dejo de pensar en mi abuela."
Sonreí.
"¿Rose?"
