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1

Present

It’s my wedding day, and I can’t take a full breath. The tremble in my hands is visible.

“You don’t have to do this,” whispers my mom.

“Pre-wedding jitters,” soothes the pastor’s wife, fussing with my veil. “It happens to us all.”

I don’t think that’s really what this is.

Outside this bland room at the back of the church—the same oversized mirror my mother once stood before, the same frayed furniture—the chaos of guests taking their seats has begun to subside, replaced by the soloist’s warbling soprano.

Even my sisters, who’ve been making more than their fair share of noise all morning, turn quiet.

The pastor’s son pokes his head in the door. “It’s time,” he announces. “You should all take your seats.”

I’m far too young for what’s about to happen, but I guess I really have no choice.

My best friend departs first. “It’s going to be okay,” she says, squeezing my forearm.

I turn to hug my sisters. Faith, at age nine, is too young to pick up on the tension in the room, but Hope is not. She hugs me extra hard, for moral support.

“You can still change your mind,” my mother says. One last out.

I want to curl up against her and beg her to fix this, to help me. I shut my eyes until the impulse passes. “I’m not changing my mind.”

They’re all escorted into the church and I walk to where my father waits.

He gives my arm a quick squeeze. “We’ve had our differences, Grace, and this past year has been difficult for us both. I hope this can be a new start.”

“It will be,” I reply.

The music changes, the doors open, and expectant faces turn to view me, the young, lovely bride. Tommy meets my gaze from the altar. He’s as handsome as I am pretty—perhaps even more so. Since the moment our engagement was announced, everyone has gushed about what a beautiful couple we make, how gorgeous our offspring will be. There’s nothing like superficial beauty to make our church members throw their lip service about inner beauty to the wind.

But it doesn’t matter how lovely he is, how lovely we are together. All I can think of is Ford James.

My father takes my arm and we move down the aisle. To this crowd, in my voluminous white dress, I probably appear to be floating, but in truth, each of my steps lands with a thud.

And it’s his name I hear, again and again, with each of them.

Ford, Ford, Ford.

We reach the altar and my father places my clammy hands in Tommy’s.

The pastor smiles at us and clears his throat. “We are gathered today for one of the most sacred events this church holds,” he intones, “the joining of man and woman. Thomas and Grace, you are surrounded by those who love you, yes, but also your extended family—the church.”

Tommy and I look toward the crowd, and the world goes silent:

Ford is here, in the third row. More beautiful than ever.

And looking at me as if no time has passed at all.

2

One Year Prior

Istare in the mirror and tug at my swimsuit. It’s a one-piece, painfully modest by most standards.