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I stood at the kitchen counter, watching Mac move around the living room like she was looking for something but had forgotten what it was. This had been going on for days now—these little moments of distraction, followed by a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes when she caught me watching her. Something was up with my wife. My wife. Two weeks of marriage, and those words still hit me like a double shot of whiskey, warming me from the inside out. We hadn’t waited long after she recovered. Couldn’t. Life had shown us how fucking fragile it could be, how quickly everything could change. So when I told her she had a month to plan whatever kind of wedding she wanted, I’d meant it. I would’ve married her in the hospital room if she’d let me.

“Baby,” I called out, breaking her from whatever trance she was in. “You lose something?”