Reed sometimes did that when he was nervous. He would say something completely serious with a tiny smile at the corner of his mouth, wait until I reacted, and then laugh.
But he wasn’t smiling.
We were standing under two old maple trees at a county park outside Madison, Wisconsin. My hands were wrapped around his. Behind him, our friend Paul held the little leather book he had bought after we asked him to officiate.
Eighty-something people were watching us.
My parents were in the first row. My sister Dana was crying even though nothing emotional had happened yet. Reed’s best friend was standing beside him, already sweating through the collar of his shirt.
Reed wore a pale summer suit that I had teased him about for months and an old gray hat that he refused to replace even though the inside band was coming apart.
The entire scene looked exactly the way we had planned it.
Except for the people in the back.
