"Dearly beloved..." Father Gables began, and the electric organ faded away. Rachel and Kyle clasped hands, the former beaming through a snowstorm of lace and satin, the latter tear-streaked and agog from the moment he had laid eyes on her. Robin took his hand and Shep noticed that his husband's eyes too were glistening; for him, what else would stir here but the memory of their wedding, still fresh like unmarked snow?

Shep sat up straighter, inhaling to make sure he was not mistaken. There it was, a woody smell, sweet and herbal. He spied the source in Rachel's bouquet, safeguarded by her maid-of-honor, Sumitra: several long stalks with purple leaves sprouting the length, coyly poking out between blue hydrangea globes and oxeye daisies. Automatically, he sought out Claire standing in the line of bridesmaids, tranquil-faced in a matronly mauve gown. She met his gaze without turning her head.

He inhaled again and held the scent in his lungs.

Do you know what I'm thinking? The breath burned, trapped close to his heart. How are we here again, together, and yet very much not together? My heart is more confused in this place than anywhere else—the chambers run together, every lub is also a dub, the blood pools and thickens, my brain and body flail. Remember when I helped you study for your mammalian physiology final, and you had flashcards for atrial fibrillation and arrhythmia?

Remember when that janky old carnival came through town and you and I got lost in the house of mirrors, everything reflecting back on itself, half of it distorted, half of it illusion, half of it just our own scared faces? That's too many halves, isn't it.

Remember when we were CITs at Bible camp and that visiting pastor said homosexuality was like murder because it's a perversion of love crafted by the Devil to keep God's soldiers from ever being born, and I asked, "What about bisexuality?" and he said it didn't exist, so you and I snuck away and went for a walk in the woods instead? And I asked you if you thought God loved me anyway—though I knew He did—and you said, "Not as much as I do" and kissed me. There's not really a question there. I know you remember.

Every time we prayed together and I closed my eyes, did you keep yours open and just watch?

When did it change, or were you always humoring me? Why would you wait so long to say anything—was that waiting for me, or for you? So many days, Claire. So many nights spent memorizing each other. So many little things I could never have faked, even if I'd wanted to.

Remember when Rachel got gum in her hair and you and I spent three hours smearing it with peanut butter, only to give up and chop it off? She looked like Andy Warhol for three months.

Remember that blizzard when you drove your dad's car into a ditch and we made up a story about a white pick-up swerving into our lane for the insurance claim? I prayed hard for that lie. Did you?

Remember what we did under the bleachers at homecoming, like some perfect American dream?

Why are all perfect things dreams?

Remember all those times we watched Lord of the Rings or Die Hard or Jurassic Park on my futon with the broken springs? All the nights of Velveeta, Hamburger Helper, spaghetti and Ragu, instant ramen, frozen peas?

Remember when you were training for the Athens marathon and you made me run that 10K with you the day after Jeremy's 21st birthday, and I puked on your favorite tennis shoes?

Remember the last time we were here, together, shrugging at all of Jacinda's bunting swatches? Remember—

"I now pronounce you husband and wife," Father Gables declared. All eyes were on the happy couple. They kissed, and all hands clapped.