Max is fumbling with his necktie when I come out of the bathroom the next morning. “Want some help with that?” I ask, but start adjusting the silk into a wide knot before he can answer. I glance from the dark gray tie into his eyes, our chests almost touching as I straighten the fabric, trying to muster the confidence to ask him what I spent last night’s sleepless hours thinking about—a question I’m still not completely sure I want the answer to.
“Thanks,” he mumbles as he studies something on his phone. “I’m in a hurry . . . need to get into the office—it’s a big day.”
Because it’s Courtney’s first day?
I raise my eyebrow but let his mention pass. “Speaking of big days . . .” I pause, watching Max pull on his nicest navy-blue suit jacket, the one that changes the color of his eyes into a deeper shade of green. Had he selected that for her?
“Have you seen my keys?” Max rushes out of the bedroom to hunt for them, his eyes still glued to his phone.
“Max—before you go, I wanted to ask you something.” I take the stairs two at a time after him, my fuzzy pink slippers making a squeaking sound with each step.
“Yeah?” he yells back as I hear him sifting through a drawer in the kitchen, cursing under his breath.
“Where did you last see them?” I ask. It wasn’t like him to lose anything—ever.
“In the ignition when I was driving home last night,” he snaps, then stops his ransack of the junk drawer and gives me a sorrowful look. “Sorry—can you drop me off on your way out?” he says, his tone softer.
“Just take my car,” I answer without thinking and dangle my keys in front of him, watching the stress disappear from his face like the foam dissolving into a hot latte as he folds his hand around them.
“How are you going to get to work?”
“I’m sure your keys are around here somewhere. I’ll find them and take yours,” I assure him. “And I know you’re in a rush, but before you go, I have a quick question.”
“Shoot,” he says, but starts striding toward the front door and I trail behind like a puppy dog clamoring for a treat.
“You said today was a big day, which got me thinking about, you know, ours and those very big vows we need to write. I just wanted to check in and see how yours were coming—” I clasp my hands behind my back as I wait for his response.
“They’re done!” he says proudly. “Been finished for a while now.”
He has them written? He had something to write? Maybe I haven’t lost him yet.
“Wow, I’m impressed!” I break into an uncontrollable grin as the pendulum swings back toward hope again. I lightly kiss his lips, tasting his peppermint toothpaste.
“You seem surprised,” he remarks as he grabs his messenger bag and slings it over his chest.
I reach over and push a flop of hair away from his forehead. “No—well, yes—but only because I haven’t even started mine.”
“Have you met me? Have you met you?” He laughs, and for a moment, I feel like us again as we banter. “Of course I’m done and you’re not, Ms. Perfectionist!”
He was right. I was often paralyzed by projects. My overwhelming desire to make them perfect caused me to fall behind as I considered all the ways I could tackle them. And Max was always ahead of schedule—he was the guy who filed his taxes by February 1.
“I can’t wait to hear them!” I say quickly before I can pull the words back, watching his face for any signs that I might not ever get that opportunity. But his expression is unreadable.
“No peeking!” is all he says as he strides out the front door.
“Of course not,” I lie, heading straight for his journal the moment he’s gone.
I run my hands over the soft brown leather notebook that conceals Max’s inner thoughts, flipping it back and forth in my hand, debating whether I should open it, whether I should be reading the words he’s written. Even though they are intended for me, it feels wrong. But this could be my only chance to discover what is in Max’s heart leading up to the wedding—and that outweighs the guilt. I peel back the cover and my eyes fall on his familiar loopy handwriting. When I’d first seen his signature, the even shape of his letters reminded me of the words I’d traced in the fourth grade when trying to achieve my cursive license. “You write like a girl!” I’d exclaimed, letting out a cackle, then throwing my hand over my mouth. He’d smiled, his eyes laughing with me as he’d grabbed a Sharpie off his desk, a piece of paper out of his printer tray, and wrote I love you, Katie in his big, curvy scrawl. I still have it.