"That's worse."
She smiled.
"You asked."
"I did."
I nodded slowly.
"Okay."
"What?"
"I'll work on it."
She looked suspicious.
"That easily?"
"No."
I smiled.
"I'll complain internally."
"Progress."
We kept walking.
At the corner near our building, Amy spoke again.
"I was afraid you'd look at me differently."
"I do."
She stopped.
I let the silence hang for two seconds too long.
Her face fell.
I smiled.
"I know more about you."
She hit my arm.
"That wasn't funny."
"It was a little funny."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
"No."
She looked toward our building.
"I don't."
Upstairs, we changed into pajamas.
Amy drank two glasses of water while I put the anniversary cake in the refrigerator.
We did not have sex.
That surprised me.
Our anniversaries usually carried certain expectations, even if neither of us said them aloud.
But that night physical intimacy would have felt like skipping ahead.
Instead, we sat on the kitchen floor.
I don't know why.
We had a perfectly good couch.
Maybe something about the night made chairs feel too formal.
Amy sat with her back against the cabinets.
I sat beside her.
"What did your wedding dress look like?" I asked.
She looked horrified.
"You're asking that now?"
"I'm curious."
"Why?"
"Because apparently there was an entire wedding."
She groaned.
"Strapless."
"Of course."
"What does that mean?"
"Everyone wore strapless dresses in 2012."
"You know nothing about wedding fashion."
"Correct."
"It had lace."
"Do you still have it?"
"No."
"What happened?"
"I donated it."
"When?"
"A month later."
"That fast?"
"I couldn't look at it."
"What about the ring?"
"Returned it."
"Did Peter take it?"
"His mother did."
I winced.
"How?"
"She came to my apartment."
"Oh, no."
"Yes."
"What did she say?"
"Do you really want to know?"
"Absolutely."
Amy imitated an older woman's rigid voice.
"'At least have the dignity not to profit from destroying my son.'"
I stared.
"That's terrible."
"I deserved some anger."
"Not that."
"I know."
"What did you say?"
"I handed her the ring."
"Nothing else?"
"I was twenty-four."
Amy shrugged.
"I cried after she left."
I wished I could travel backward and sit beside that version of her.
Not because I wanted to rescue her.
Because I wanted her to know the person she would become was not broken.
"What happened to your friends?"
"Some stayed."
"Who?"
"Rachel obviously."
"She's your sister."
"She still counts."
"Who else?"