"They wanted us to join their church."
"You're not religious."
"I know."
"They knew?"
"Yes."
"What did Peter say?"
"That it mattered to his parents."
I shook my head.
"What else?"
"His father wanted Peter to join the family business."
"Did he?"
"Eventually."
"And you?"
"I had been offered a marketing position in Chicago."
I remembered this.
Amy had once told me she almost moved to Chicago in her twenties but declined because the timing was wrong.
I suddenly knew what "timing" meant.
"You turned it down because of him."
"Because we were getting married."
"Did you want the job?"
"Very much."
"Did he ask you to turn it down?"
"Not exactly."
There was that phrase again.
Not exactly.
She explained.
"He said long distance didn't make sense three months before a wedding. His mother said starting a marriage in different cities would be selfish."
"Selfish."
"I know."
"So you declined."
"Yes."
"What happened after that?"
Amy stared at the candle.
"I started getting angry."
"At Peter?"
"At everyone."
She looked at me.
"Mostly myself."
The server approached to ask whether we needed anything.
I told him no.
Amy waited until he left.
"I had this feeling that I was disappearing one compromise at a time."
That sentence stayed with me.
"Peter wasn't abusive," she said quickly.
"He wasn't cruel. He didn't threaten me. He never hit me. He wasn't some monster."
"You don't need him to be a monster to regret marrying him."
"I know that now."
"But you didn't then."
She shook her head.
"Everyone kept telling me how lucky I was."
"Because his family had money?"
"That was part of it."
She smiled without humor.
"Peter was handsome. Good job. Nice family if you only met them at dinner. He bought me flowers. Remembered birthdays. Never cheated. Never screamed."
She looked embarrassed.
"I couldn't point to one terrible thing and say, 'This is why I need to leave.'"
"So you felt like you needed permission."
"Exactly."
Her eyes filled again.
"Three weeks before the wedding, I woke up at four in the morning."
She stared past me now, seeing another bedroom in another year.
"My dress was hanging in the closet."
"You already had it?"
"Everything was ready."
"Venue?"
"Paid."
"Guests?"
"Invitations sent."
"Jesus."
"One hundred eighty people."
I exhaled.
"What happened that morning?"
"I looked at the dress."
Her voice grew quieter.
"And I couldn't breathe."
I said nothing.
"I walked into the bathroom because I thought I was going to throw up."
She pressed her hands together.
"I sat on the floor for almost an hour."
"What were you thinking?"
"That if I married him, I would spend the rest of my life trying to become someone everybody else found easier to love."
That was the first moment my anger softened.
Not disappeared.
Softened.
"What did you do?"
"I called my sister."
"Rachel."
Amy nodded.
"At five in the morning."
"What did she say?"
"She asked one question."
"What?"
"'If the wedding disappeared and nobody got hurt, would you still marry him?'"
I understood where this was going.
"What did you say?"
"No."
She cried harder.
"Immediately."
"Then you ended it?"
"That afternoon."
"How?"