Wedding Night
MIGUEL
Later, much later, in the little seaside room that Mom insisted on booking for us, I lie awake and watch him sleep.
He’s sprawled, naked, diagonally across the bed like a starfish, tie abandoned on the lamp, hair a disaster.
His hand is curled under his pillow, the ring catching the light from the streetlamp outside every time he shifts.
I think about the first time I walked into a therapist’s office for him, scared out of my mind, convinced it was my job to keep him alive.
I think about all the work we’ve done since then.
His. Mine. Ours.
He doesn’t need a life raft anymore.
No, the love of my life needed a team. A net. A partner.
Somehow, ridiculously, miraculously, that gets to be me.
I reach over and rest my hand on his back, feeling the steady thump of his heart under my palm.
“Color?” I whisper, even though he can’t hear me.
He snores softly in response.
I smile.
“Green,” I decide for both of us and close my eyes, the ring warm against my skin, breathing in time with his as the tide shushes the shore outside.
The End