I opened the door.
He was already walking toward the porch.
I followed him, but he said he needed air.
After that, the comments became harder to ignore.
One cousin asked whether we had considered “all the practical issues.”
A former friend joked that our wedding photographs would be confusing.
Someone told Noah he was lucky to find a woman “willing to look past everything.”
Each remark carved something out of him.
He stopped talking about the wedding.
He avoided mirrors during suit fittings.
When I asked what was wrong, he said he was tired.
On our wedding day, he disappeared.
Zahara, my maid of honor, found me while my hair was being pinned.
“Noah locked himself in the dressing room.”
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I stood so fast the stylist nearly dropped the curling iron.
At the dressing-room door, I knocked.
“Noah?”
There was no answer.
I tried the handle.
It was locked.
“Open the door.”
“I need a minute.”
“You have had several.”
Zahara found the venue manager, who brought a key.
When the door opened, Noah sat on the floor in his wedding suit.
The old purple-crayon pact rested in his hands.
He looked up at me with red eyes.
“I am releasing you from it,” he said.
My heart cracked.
“What?”
“You do not have to carry me as your burden anymore.”
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I knelt in front of him.
“You are not a burden.”
“You have spent your whole life protecting me.”
“I spent my childhood punching boys who deserved it.”
“I am serious.”
“So am I.”
He looked toward the door.
“Your mother is right about one thing. You will always have to explain us.”
“Noah.”
“People will stare. They will insult you. They will question your motives.”
“They already do.”
“I can stop it.”
“By humiliating me at our wedding?”
His face crumpled.
“I am trying to save you.”
“From what? Loving you?”
“From waking up in 10 years and realizing pity became your whole life.”
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I took the pact from his hands.
“There is something I never told you.”
He went still.
“I knew I loved you before I walked across that therapy room.”
“Christine.”
“I knew the night I fell in the bathroom.”
He frowned.
“That was a terrible night.”
“It was. I was half dressed, furious, and crying on the tile. You did not rescue me. You sat beside me until I decided what help I wanted.”
His eyes filled again.
“Evan saw my body change and decided my life was too difficult. You saw me at my worst and never once made me feel smaller.”
I touched his face.
“You did not carry me until I could walk. You stood beside me until I remembered I was still myself.”
He looked down.
“I still do not want gratitude.”
“Good. Because gratitude is not why I get jealous when some women flirt with you.”
A laugh escaped him.
“Gratitude is not why I know how you take your coffee, why I miss you after one night apart, or why I want to argue with you when we are 80.”
I stood and held out my hand.
Then I led him into the ceremony room before the guests had taken their seats.
My mother looked startled.
I faced everyone.
